Men & the big tearjerkers, like Toy Story 3 in 3D.

I don’t mind a good cry. 

There I said it. I’ll probably regret saying it but who cares. It’s 2012 and metrosexual is the word of the moment. 

I don’t mind a jolly good cry.

Having made this shocking confession I have to admit that I do tend to cry at very odd moments. I didn’t cry at that magical moment that Pearl popped into the world. I’ve got no idea why I didn’t. I’d been fully expecting to burst into tears as soon as Picky started pushing and to continue through most of the action. 

But nope, it wasn’t to be. I even checked in the mirror in the delivery room to see if I might actually be crying without realising it. Nothing. Nada. The peepers were dry as a bone.

And they stayed that way until the nurse had swaddled Pearl in a hospital towel and passed the pink, blue and yellow-striped bundle of newborn baby to Eileen who was lying, exhausted, in bed. I sat on the edge of the bed next to my two girls and promptly started to blubber. 

Sitting there on that bed in that delivery room next to Picky and my swaddled daughter (aged five minutes), who was sleeping soundly in my girlfriend’s arms, I was suddenly overcome with the emotion - and the enormity - of what had just happened. 

Bursting into tears in a delivery room is not a topic that had been covered during nights out with the lads. We had talked about cutting the cord, but there’s something profoundly masculine and primitively ritualistic about cutting a baby’s umbilical cord with a tool (or with a pair of nicely sterilised surgical scissors). Detaching a baby from sole dependence on its mother, and thrusting it into the world to fend for itself is something that men can really be men about. It’s something to talk about with a beer in one hand and with your chest - the hairier the better - puffed out as far as possible. 

Sitting on the edge of a hospital bed and sobbing whilst a nurse passes you a tissue is a different kettle of fish entirely. There’s little scope for a bunch of blokes in a trendy bar to beat the evolutionary drum - and their metaphorical (or real) hairy chests - about a big box of Kleenex being passed to a blubbing 40-year old. 

Whilst my waterworks in the delivery suite weren’t a total surprise they were just a little too public for my liking. A self-confessed cry-baby I might be, but I do try for the most part to keep my sobbing out of the public domain. 

My last proper cry (before the delivery suite) was during the final scene of Toy Story 3 in 3D. 


It was showing on the giant IMAX Cinema screen in Sydney’s Darling Harbour. Whilst I’ve never been remotely sentimental where movies are concerned, animated movies are different. Over the years every classic tear-jerker has washed over me. I spent most of the Bridges of Madison County looking at my watch and dreaming of the post-movie beer, and Ghost left me completely cold. And completely dry-eyed. 

On the other hand, I was a gibbering wreck through most of Finding Nemo, and I didn’t get too far into Cars before I was reaching for the tissues I'd stuffed into the pocket of my jeans. 

Animated movies. The buggers get me every time. 

I lay the blame for this squarely at the feet (hoofs?!) of Bambi. 

During the famous forest scene when Bambi’s mummy is shot dead and destined to end up covered in gravy on the dinner plates of the nasty hunters, I was a blubbering mess. 

I was 8 when Bambi’s mum hit the forest floor, and whilst Bambi went on to save the forest and do a whole heap of other very noble stuff, I barely recovered. I was scarred for life. From that momentous moment on I was left barely able to get to the end of an animated movie without, at the very least, welling up. 

The main problem with my tendency to go to pieces during what are essentially feature length cartoons is that, more often than not, I find myself watching them in the company of kids. In the case of Toy Story 3 in 3D, I was with five of them. Me and Picky had taken our friends' little ones to see the movie as a pre-Christmas treat. 

Miraculously I managed to maintain my manhood for the entire movie. Almost. Until the very last scene. Until Andy’s grand gesture of generosity. As he dropped off his old toys for his neighbour’s baby I could feel the odd tear dropping onto my cheeks. As he left his neighbour’s house through the 'Oh-so-homely' white picket-fence they were in free-fall. 

And they were still falling freely as the credits rolled and the funny out-takes started, when they finished, and when the lights in the cinema came on. 

As IMAX was gradually illuminated I was mightily relieved. I was surrounded on all sides by kids. I was in good company. Remembering my own reaction as an innocent 8 year-old to a semi-orphaned deer in the forest, I was confident that the cinema would be overflowing with sobbing kids. The poor little mites would be inconsolable. I would be handing out tissues - my tissues - til late in the night.

It wasn’t to be. Modern kids are obviously made of tougher stuff than we once were. 

There wasn’t a single tear to be seen. Anywhere. Except for mine. Little Tommy P, the eight year-old boy who was sitting next to me, simply looked up at me, asked me why I was crying, and whether me and Picky were planning on taking them all to MacDonald’s for a post-movie McFlurry. We were, of course. But only after Picky had passed me a tissue.


Animated movies. I'm a sucker for them. And I'm a real sook when I'm at them. Pirates! Band of Misfits opens in Oz this week. I can't wait. It's in 3D too. Woo-hoo. Tissues are highly recommended, if not essential.


Pip pip. Hope you had a great weekend.