Pull my head

Having guests has highlighted just how disgracefully - well, pedantic is possibly the kindest word – I am. You might describe me otherwise (freakishly obsessive/compulsive). I know that this is more a reflection on me than on our houseguests, and have trained myself never to utter the following:-

 

“You missed a crumb.”

 

“Please can you line up the toaster in parallel with the sink?”

 

“Does that look like the cupboard for peanuts? I thought not.”

 

However, I did make an exception when I caught Raff wiping his gob on the tea towel, when I shrieked: “Are you KIDDING me?” I was unable to say any more, because I suffered a weak spell and had to sit down.

 

Now Raff makes sure I’m not around before snogging the tea towels.

 

Raff and Carol are both enthusiastic gym attendees – or semi-enthusiastic at least. Me, I’m still exercising every second day.  For a period of a week I had to skip the gym due to a dishwasher unloading incident; I was worried I’d slipped my disk again so took myself off to the osteo who put me on Brufen for a couple of days. I love going to the osteo; he likes to pull on my head - actually, both of us like it, him more because I pay US$ 70 for the experience. I’m worried that I am developing a head pulling fetish - I could quite happily have him tug on my ears for the entire hour. AND I can get BUPA to pay for the thrill, which is even more exciting.

 

In retrospect, the break from the gym was necessary to cure me of an unhealthy Melody TV addiction. But now I’m back bigger and better than before

Reward offered for return of muse

I think Róisín kidnapped my muse, because there hasn’t been a cheep for days. It doesn’t help that I read over old work and consider it a pile of crap; alternatively, I think, “Wow, that’s terrific!” followed swiftly by, “How can I ever write like this again? Pass the razor.”

 

I’ve been here before and know I’ll come out the other side eventually – however, it feels like I’ll never be able to write again. I have spent the slack time reviewing my notes, and keep coming across things like: ‘The crow flies thrice around the scorched holly tree’ and ‘Snails. Withered balloons’ or ‘Karmic tantra as applicable to cayopses. Can make something out of this? Investigate’.

 

I have no idea what I was trying to tell myself (any suggestions welcome). This state of affairs is particularly distressing for two reasons: (1) it’s not often that I have an idea inspiring enough to write down, so these lines of gibberish represent the best that my brain has to offer and (2) I’ve never fully realized how twisted my mind actually is.

 

On the bright side, I now have a sleek new laptop with full size keyboard, glowing blue lights and shiny silver casing. It is about five times faster than my Compaq Evo – I don’t know what to do with myself now that I don’t have to wait three minutes for web pages to load.

 

The great laptop hunt was ferocious and poor Andrew spent hours prowling around the computer shops with me.

 

“How about this one? Is this a good one?”

 

“You’ve already asked me that. Five times.”

 

“What was the answer again?”

 

“Same as last time.”

 

 

In the end I went for a Dell XPS M1210. Much to Husband’s disgust, it was the very first laptop I’d picked out over three weeks ago. To his even greater horror, it was Dhs 500 more than a HP laptop with slightly more features. He was bitterly resentful that I chose a computer for form rather than functionality. Regretfully the HP computer was quite revolting; every time I looked at it, I wanted to gouge out my eyeballs with stale nachos, which I didn’t feel was conducive to creativity. In addition to which, I’m sure nacho crumbs are bad for a keyboard.

 

At the same time, I don’t want to give you the impression that I simply picked out the prettiest laptop. Oh no. After viciously paring the shortlist down to two – the Dell and HP – I looked up some reviews on the internet. The Dell is geared more towards gamers, so all the reviews were written by geeky kids. They may have no idea how to get to first base with a girl or use multi-syllabic words, but by gum they know their computers and acne gel. The Dell consistently scored higher reviews than the HP.

 

I am delighted with my new computer, and my fingers are already starting to revert back to hand rather than claw formation.

 

Better go and see if I can torture some creativity out of myself. At the least I’ll spend a couple of hours caressing my new laptop - I’m quite shallow that way

Satan’s School of Upper Management

The other day I got reacquainted with my bitching skills. Over the years the disintegration of my cells has been accompanied by a general mellowing. I haven’t started to wear slippers regularly but it’s probably only a matter of time - and a short matter at that.

 

Well, the other day I was really REALLY bitchy. A friend of mine said, “You mean more bitchy than usual?” But bless him, he’s just being kind.

 

So ANYWAY, I was at the tailor’s in Satwa to collect a shirt, when behind me I heard someone say, “Is that Niamh?”

 

It was Dom, an old boss of mine. Before I joined Ex-Employer I used to work for a small publishing company that always did everything on the cheap – no corner went uncut, no vendor escaped unscrewed. I lasted about three months.

 

Normally I have more sticking power – witness five point five years with Ex-Employer – but the main reason I left was Dom’s business partner Eileen. This fascist witch, a graduate of Satan’s School of Upper Management and Psychological Torture, transformed my life into a living hell. Really, she didn’t take to me at all even when exposed to the face-melting force of my full charm offensive. (This involves lashings of sycophancy and gurning. To date, Eileen is the only human on record as having failed to succumb to it.) She undermined me wherever possible and once described me as a ‘half wit’ in front of my colleagues. Since I’m at least two-thirds wit, I bitterly resented her shortchanging me by one sixth. Another time she stole my stapler and blamed it on Tim.

 

To be fair, Eileen is a tortured individual with Problems, some of them likely psychopathic. She’s an alcoholic and her husband left her. I only mention this in the interests of full disclosure, so that you have some basis for sympathy if you feel so disposed or wish to save her soul via religious prayer.

 

Personally I am simply not that big a person. In fact, I would seriously consider murdering the woman if I knew for sure I’d get away with it, but I’m not keen on jail time and lesbians. No sorry, I don’t wish to discriminate against lesbians - more generally women with beer bellies for whom the definition of ‘exfoliation’ is limited to their cranial region.

 

(I’m hoping that she doesn’t cark it from sudden liver failure, or being pushed in front of a speeding car by someone completely unknown to me, because this email rather incriminates me. But I’m not too worried about it – I’m not generally that lucky.)

 

In short, I have no sympathy for the woman; in fact, I hope she has a miserable life accompanied by pubic lice.

 

So, I was chatting away to Dom, and he mentioned that Eileen was in the changing rooms. I wondered whether he was referring to the same rancid slagheap, since when I resigned I cited Eileen as the main reason. Also, Dom and Eileen had acrimoniously parted ways a year after I left.

 

Next thing Dom exclaims: “Eileen, there you are! You remember Niamh?” with a vague flourish in my direction.

 

“Hello Eileen,” I said politely if not entirely enthusiastically.

 

Eileen, for indeed it was she, looked me up and down like I had just slid out from under the sole of her shoe. Then she emitted a blood-curdling sneer and, with what can only be described as a sniff/snort hybrid lubricated with excess mucous dredged from the far reaches of her nose, she turned and goose-stepped off.

 

“Er, Dom, you know Eileen and I are not that fond of each other,” I said in an undertone, demonstrating what you have to acknowledge might be a world-class talent for understatement.

 

“Oh god!” breathed Dom. “I forgot you two don’t get on.”

 

A talent almost matched by Dominic De Souza.

 

“I see you two are still friends though.”

 

“Well, life’s too short innit?” said Dom.

 

“Certainly too short to be bumping into that mouldy old slapper. HA HA!” I responded, whereupon next to me there emanated a noise akin to a vulture choking on a piece of gristle. Yes, I hadn’t noticed Eileen standing right next to me polluting my personal space.

 

You know when someone is so angry they can’t speak? She was making little skreaking noises, veins standing out on her neck, big bright red face featuring throbbing, bulging eyes. I stepped back fairly sharpish because there was a distinct possibility her eyeballs were going to pop right out of the sockets:

 

“Watch out, they’re gonna blow!”

 

It was terrifying.

 

“WELL, it was LOVELY to see you again Eileen,” said I in a rush. “We MUST have COFFEE some time, BYEEEEEEEE!” And then I charged out the door.

 

It’s been so long since I was last incisively bitchy that I nearly lacerated myself sheathing my claws. I feel very proud of myself. Such a sense of achievement and fulfillment. I have resolved to be snide to pure evil (it’ll be a sliding scale) to at least one person a day, although I do want to make sure they deserve it - perhaps I’ll goad them a bit before unleashing my inner bitch

Willpower

When Róisín left, the writing limped along for a while. I’m happy to report that it’s roughly back on track, and I only have the Grand Denouement, The Twist and The Epilogue to write. Andrew has procured me a pair of Tiffany earrings which are proving more effective than any willpower I’ve ever managed to dredge up. He refuses to even let me sniff them until the book is finished

 

Melody TV

Sadly, in five weeks of dedicated gym attendance I have gained on average a kilo a week. At this rate, I will weigh 20 stone by the end of 2007.

 

I’d better stop soon, because Andrew says he wouldn’t love me if I weighed 20 stone. I’m not sure where the cutoff point is - you know, would he still love me at 19.9 stone but after that it’s game over? And what if one day I tip the scales at 20.1 stone and then revert to 19.9 - would all the Love come flooding back?

 

I don’t think he’s really thought it through.

 

Andrew maintains that the personality he fell for - the charm, the humor, the caring, the giving (I’m paraphrasing, but he’d totally say all that because if he didn’t I’d get abusive) - wouldn’t be the same if I weighed 20 stone.

 

I think that’s a very shallow attitude. I’d still love HIM if he weighed 20 stone. Although probably not as much. There’d be less love per square inch, you know?

 

ANYWAY when I point out the extra 5kg of Me, everyone keeps saying: “Well, muscle weighs more than fat,” but I’m like: “Where”? If two hundred sit-ups a week has given me a six-pack, it’s hidden under a layer of what I like to kindly call ‘flobber’.

 

Another side effect of the gym - apart from pulled muscles and a hobbling gait (whoever says exercise is good for you is working for Nike’s marketing department) - is a chronic addiction to the Arabic music channel, Melody TV.

 

There are about five plasma screens mounted on the gym wall, and I have been known to push people off the cross trainer to go hot turkey in front of Melody TV. It is an education, and I have learned more about the Arabic (popular) culture than eight and a half years living in the Middle East.

 

Because I’m feeling generous, I will share what I have learned. Men and women crooners have vastly different ways of presenting their particular, er, talents, so I’ll commence with what you should bear in mind if you are contemplating becoming an Arabic Diva:-

 

« You should be of generous Body Mass Index

 

« You will need to perfect the art of glancing coyly from beneath fat batting eyelashes

 

« Always wear tight bodices

 

« Hire a JCB to apply your makeup. Don’t get too close to the camera; if you get stuck to the lens with your lip gloss you will have to be chiseled off

 

« Your music video should feature fruit. Especially popular are pairs of over-ripe mangoes, which you should fondle and occasionally indecently assault (I find this quite disturbing, being fundamentally right wing when it comes to fruit)

 

« Finger your cleavage, as in: “Well, I have to rest my hand somewhere. Oh! How did that get there? It appears to have fallen down my cleavage.”

 

« Exhibit plenty of flesh while stopping short of the money shot. Plunging necklines are acceptable; also skirts cut so close to the crotch you can see the shadow cast by fanny flaps at five o’clock

 

« Get into the habit of doing laundry outdoors

 

« Squeeze your bosoms together over ye olde clothes mangle

 

« Run aimlessly through woods with bouncing bosoms burgeoning out of your bodice

 

« Hire a European hero to get all heavy over your hand. He may be swarthy, but he should be undeniably European rather than Arabic (think the type of dodgy Grease Lizards you would find lurking in the corners of the New Yorker on a Saturday night who look like they’ve bathed in Brylcreem spiked with deadly levels of aftershave)

 

Alternatively, if you are interested in a career as an Arabic Rock God, then the following guidelines apply:-

 

« You should be fond of a doughnut, or several hundred

 

« Your music videos should never feature slap-happy western harlots. Instead, you will be moved to express yourself in song by shy yet saucy Arabic women

 

« Look soulful, as if wondering whether you left the car running

 

« Wear your shirt slashed to the waist with chest hair exploding out the top. If you have a sparse patch, use a chest wig

 

« Hair oil should play an abundant role in your toilette

 

« Get used to swimming in the sea fully clothed

 

« At some point you should ride a horse through a forest and accidentally catch sight of Bouncing Bosoms frolicking through the trees

 

« You should be comfortable singing to a flower, with your hand pressed movingly to your breast

 

« Never, ever, ever sit on a seat or chair. If you have to sit, always use a staircase, preferably outdoors. Under a tree

 

« NB: Always sit with your legs at a 180° angle

 

« Use sign language for your deaf music loving fans

 

« The rousing climax should feature marriage, or at the very least a grand proposal. If you are too fat/unfit to get up off the floor, it is acceptable to end the video on bended knee. Close up of face twisted with emotion. Fade out

 

I have two personal favorite music videos, and I always step faster on the cross trainer when they come on. The first features our hero who appears to be crippled. Three quarters way through the video he meets a woman and casts away his crutches. Who needs religion! I am cured by love! Or lust! Who cares! I can WALK! I CAN WALK!

 

The second - and I’ve left the best for last - has our hero experiencing relationship issues with his chaste lover. There’s plenty of storming around slamming doors, agonized gazing at each other, lots of coordinated eye/fist clenching and wondering did he leave the car running.

 

Halfway through, our hero grabs a chainsaw and sets off into the woods. (At this point you’re really looking forward to some gory amputation, because his sulky girlfriend is really irritating. Unfortunately, the video fails to realize its potential in that direction, but it’s a small criticism.)

 

So off he trots into the forest (sorry, another minor point: he does not seize the opportunity to ride a horse. But I suppose it might have been awkward with the chainsaw).

 

He fires up the chainsaw and sets to sawing, although you’re not sure what he’s at. Then the camera pans back and you see he has made an ice sculpture of his lover. (He’s quite talented at the sculpting; if record sales ever drop he might be able to turn it into a profitable career.)

 

Then he sings to his sculpture; it’s very touching. Unfortunately, he obviously feels it’s not touching enough, because he starts to fondle his creation and then he SNOGS it. You’re just waiting for his lips to freeze to the ice, but the director was sadly incapable of seizing the numerous opportunities to turn a good music video into a great one.

 

And I suppose our Rock Star might have had difficulty lip-synching with his gob glued to a giant ice cube

Boycotting Sony products

When Andrew and I first met (ah! Those halcyon days when Andrew didn’t maim me), all our friends were getting engaged. Then we went through a wearing wedding phase and now there’s a bumper crop of babies. It was therefore refreshing to attend Mark and Sarah’s wedding on Thursday.

 

It was held in Jebel Ali – the same church where Miles and Sharon practiced their knot tying in June. I love weddings - the ceremony always grabs me by the gut and gives it a vigorous massage. I find it very moving, even with Andrew hissing, ‘Are you crying yet?’ at intervals. Mark and Sarah had opted for the reading from 1 Corinthians 13, and the signing of the registry was accompanied by Bob Marley’s ‘Let’s Get Together and Feel All Right’.

 

When Miles and Sharon married, their minister exhibited a set of frankly scandalous toenails in a pair of sandals. Sharon later reported that she had never encountered anyone so in need of a caustic acid pedicure. The last thing you need when you’re making that ultimate decision as to whether to spend the rest of your life with someone are great horny toes with wedges of cheese on the side.

 

In Mark and Sarah’s case, although the Reverend’s wife later confirmed that his toes are perky and free of mould (one assumes you can trust these people), we were all thankful that he did not feel compelled to air his little piggies. Having a vocation is no excuse to neglect personal hygiene. My dad has lovely feet of a light, fruity fragrance and always keeps his nails well clipped – he’s a shining example to the ministry.

 

After the service everyone piled off to the Royal Mirage for lunch on the beach. Although lunch was fabulously nouveau – a veritable treat to look at – the meal was half a casserole short of substantial. But there was plenty of booze on offer . . . and this is where the rot set in.

 

By the time we went back to Mark and Sarah’s house for some serious celebration, we’d been fairly chugging it back. Mark and Sarah had hired The Fairmont Hotel to do the catering. In other words, there was always someone unobtrusively on hand to top up the drink.

 

It was CARNAGE. I sang. I vaguely remember drunkenly discussing Darina Allen’s sex appeal and the minxy way she mixes up a cake. Andrew evicted the Barman and concocted tumblers of B52s, spending an hour pouring liqueur over a teaspoon with his tongue clenched between his teeth. Then he fell asleep on the sofa, whereupon I took over and treated guests to the ‘Shaw Shooter’: 1 measure each of Sambuca, Tia Maria, Watermelon Liqueur, Jack Daniels and Gin mixed with 2 measures of Amaretto. Or whatever else is at hand – the beauty of the Shaw Shooter is that it is a constantly evolving phenomenon. Everyone pronounced it ‘outstanding’ – everyone left standing that is, bipedals being fairly thin on the ground at this stage.

 

Being too drunk to take a hint, we were still present if not correct long after the remaining guests had left. Sarah eventually had to kick Mark (Fitz, not her new husband), Andrew and I out. Luckily Mark lives just up the road so we crashed at his place.

 

The next day was pretty grim, I can tell you. Andrew and I clambered back into our wedding kit. My formerly elegant frock was stained with half a pint of Shaw Shooter, and my heels – so sexy for a mid-day wedding – were frankly sluttish at nine o’clock the morning after. Mark, Andrew and I sat in Mark’s living room balefully glaring at each other, wafting furry tongue breath and swallowing stomach acid-laced burps. Mark was kind enough to drive us back to our place where we crashed for a few hours, then lay around moaning for the rest of the day.

 

I am now harboring a range of bruises coloured peppered mustard to mouldy aubergine; still feeling sore and crotchety and rather old.

 

Speaking of which, I’ve noticed that people no longer ask my age and on the rare occasions they do I can never remember whether I am 33, 34 or 35. I have to mentally subtract 1972 from the current year. Another thing: these days the calculation is much harder to perform - it really wears out my aging synapses. If someone asked me to perform some on the spot calculus I’d probably wipe out half my brain.

 

While I’m on the subject, another adjustment I’m finding hard is the filling out of forms where they thoughtfully provide tick-boxes next to the age brackets, in case you are too ancient to remember your date of birth. Up until relatively recently, I always happily ticked the first box. It was a tragic day when I went to the Sony site to register my MP3 player, and the form read:-

 

What is your age?

Under 10 c

10-14 c

15-19 c

20-24 c

25-29 c

Over 30* c

 

* This site is geriatric friendly. If you do not have the energy to tick the box we will understand if you leave it free

 

I’m THE LAST BOX!! I’m thinking of boycotting Sony. At the very least, it is now a matter of principle not to recommend Sony products

Close up of a snowdrift

Danny returned from holiday two weeks ago and promptly disappeared offshore. We managed to catch up with him for the NZ vs England rugby the other night and talked him into coming snowboarding with us on Wednesday.

 

Yes, my pre-pre-midlife crisis persists; however, although we pledged to go snowboarding every fortnight, we haven’t been for a while what with all the guests. I was really looking forward to Ski Dubai on Wednesday, because Danny had never snowboarded before. Finally – someone who was worse than me!

 

On the chairlift, I thoughtfully tutored Danny on the finer points of snowboarding:- “Now, you should keep your knees bent – gives you more control - also there’s less distance to fall if you stack it in a yardsale. And you swivel your hips to turn, like this.” [Cue wild swinging of chairlift and glares from the Operator.] “Use the leading edge of the board to control your speed. Do you want to get off at the halfway point, Newbie? Surfie word. Newbie. Other expressions it is useful to know are ‘Dude’, ‘sweet’ and ‘Get out of my way, Dufus’.”

 

On his first run, Danny proceeded to dazzle everyone with 360° turns and pike flip jumps. Please forgive me if I sound like I’m whinging, but IT’S SO UNFAIR! He looked like he surfed out of his mother’s womb high-fiving the pediatrician. Apart from his second run, where he splatted into the fire escape door halfway up the slope and squeaked down it like a cartoon dog, he was better than most of the Ski Dubai instructors (although that’s not saying much).

 

Half an hour in, Danny careered down the expert slope, although it is still questionable as to whether it was intentional or he took a wrong turn. Once Danny went all ‘expert’, Husband had to do it too; and then they talked me into it.

 

“Come on Niamhie, it’s easy,” said Andrew, demonstrating a willful disregard for his wife’s wellbeing.

 

“Actually easier than the beginners’ slope,” said Danny.

 

“I was surprised how easy it was,” said Andrew. “Were you surprised at how easy it was, Dan? I was surprised at how easy it was.”

 

“Almost insulting,” agreed his partner in crime.

 

I thought I had more sense, but there is irrefutable evidence to the contrary. And so, I found myself launching off the top of the expert slope. To my surprise and despite myself, I was doing fine: crouched low cutting a swathe down the slope with natty little swivels.

 

Now, you may recall that the last time I wrote about my snowboarding career, I mentioned the kamikaze speed freaks that like to utilize my person as a landing pad. Well, I was about three quarters way down the slope and probably feeling a little too smug – you know? Because next thing, a blurred figure in black came streaking by precariously close. As he went, he put a hand in my face rugby tackle-style. So I was already halfway towards getting a zoomed-in view of a snowdrift, when another boarder crashed into me from behind and took my legs out.

 

I went soaring through the air and landed on my face. For a few long seconds, I thought my lungs had been knocked clean out of me; I couldn’t breathe. One of the Instructors called from the lift: “Are you ok? Ok?” but I didn’t have puff for any more than a weak thumbs-up.

 

I looked around to give a sizeable portion of my mind to the reckless halfwits . . . and it was my bloody husband and his best mate! Andrew had perpetrated the hand in the face with Danny finishing off the job.

 

“Baby,” crooned Andrew, inching back up the slope rather more slowly than he’d descended it. “Are you all right?”

 

“Get away from me, you Mentaller!” I snarled (once I had relocated my voice).

 

I’m actually astounded I haven’t more damage than a badly bruised calf and strained neck. The latter injury is now rather more pronounced since in a surfeit of drunken enthusiasm last Thursday, Andrew grabbed me by the ears and threw my head around in the manner of a major league basketball player.

 

At the moment I’m finding my husband very hazardous

Dead crow

Subsequent to my last post Andrew registered a complaint, claiming that I misrepresented him and his underwear.

 

Upon returning from work today, he spontaneously dropped his trousers and demanded a review of underpant quality. The subject of this random spot-check was free of spots, firm of elastic and vibrant of colour. Andrew also pointed out the presence of only three holes: that which you step into and one for each leg. In brief, the results of the first Underpant Inspection would not have caused me any embarrassment or undue mortification had Andrew gone trick or treating in them.

 

To be truly scientific about it, I will have to conduct some more controlled QS before retracting my previous email and issuing a public apology.

 

[In the interests of complete disclosure, I should mention that when hanging out the clothes the other day, I found myself pegging up what appeared to be a dead crow. Biting back a scream, I looked closer and it turned out to be a pair of Andrew’s boxer shorts.

 

The fact that they were in the wash indicates a high probability that Andrew wore them in the recent past.

 

Either that or he cleaned his car’s oil filter with them.]

The Pat strikes again

Róisín spent a lot of time giving out to me for my Expat attitude. We were in Spinneys one day, and the woman in front of me had brought her maid along to pack her bags (all two of them, but in fairness there was a pack of heavy cotton balls in one). When presented with the bill she flipped open her wallet. It was brimming with credit cards.

 

“Drat,” says she. “I’ll just pop to the cesh mechine and get some money. Just a moment.”

 

And off she goose-stepped for rather more than a moment.

 

After a dramatic beat wherein he examined his cuticles, the cashier started blipping my groceries through. I had handed over my card when M’Lady returned, elbowing me out of the way and flapping around wads of dirhams.

 

We were walking out to the car when I said to Róisín:

 

“Look at that poor maid,” I nodded in her direction. “Lugging around that mouldy oul slapper’s groceries. It’s outrageous.”

 

“Outrageous,” agreed Róisín. “Er . . . would you mind helping me with the bags?”

 

According to Róisín, I am a crusty old Expat who clicks her fingers to attract waiters and addresses them as ‘Boy’. (I would like to emphasize that I have never called anyone ‘Boy’, but Róisín says it’s present in the tone of voice.)

 

I dropped Róisín to the airport yesterday morning and miss her already. We are now expecting our friends Raff and Carol around the middle of November for an indefinite stay. They are returning from a six month sabbatical in the UK and US, and expected to move into their new apartment on the Palm Island Jumeirah at the end of November. However, Nakheel recently announced that the properties would not be ready until April (they didn’t specify which year).

 

Andrew has thus far stoically borne the intense socializing, but has started muttering darkly about the unprovoked invasion of privacy and lamenting the fact that he can’t wander around the house in his underpants.

 

This came as some surprise to me, since I had never really noticed that much Y-frontage down the living room. Andrew maintains that it’s The Principle of the Thing.

 

As far as I am concerned, if my hub wants to express himself in his knickers, he should feel free. However, I’d have to buy him some decent scants before a social outing - I am disgraced by the state of his boxers. He argues that they are vintage; to which I can only respond that while an aged quality is desirable in teapots, hardback books and certain items of clothing, it does not usually extend to under garments - ESPECIALLY crotchless boxer shorts.

 

[I should stress that his boxers don’t start out that way, in case you get the impression he's a bit kinky. Yesterday Andrew told me that he prefers being robustly lampooned in my posts - he finds any form of mild to gushing praise embarrassing. So he should LOVE this public airing of his underpants.]