Last night I was invited to a ‘moustache party’, this is what I wore to it:
Isn’t it horrible? I looked like a member of the British National Party. Four weeks that had been congealing on my upper-lip, but last night immediately on returning from the party it was shaved off.
I am a very charming loony, supremely well-endowed with epidemiology and wine qualifications, who has finally found that severe PTSD, Generalised Anxiety Disorder and chronic psychosis are, on one of my all too rare good days, only a moderate impediment to having crazy fun with wine and food. Fifth top red trouser wearer in the international wine trade.
Yes, you did look like a twat. But I think it is an opportunity missed. With time, patience and preening, I think you could have developed an outlandish twirly moustache worthy of the colourful outfits you sport with such aplomb.
Yes, why did you give up so soon? It is hideous, but could have grown into something that made more of a statement. Did you wear a policeman uniform with that?
I would have thought tight little black leather shorts and a beige shirt would have been more fitting. But certainly some sort of truncheon would be necessary.
I wore my red cord suit, of course. I felt the shield of exquisite tailoring would protect me from the harm that having a moustache would pull my way. Growing it for longer would clearly be a pointless exercise as I had my face lasered a couple of years ago and those are the few remaining hairs I have left on my face.
Why would a chap need his face lasered (sp?!)? Oh vanitas, vanitas! As Ecclesiastes probably has it. The only book of the bible that repays study. Except for the Songs. Even then “my lover’s breasts are nodding gazelles” is more disturbing than erotic.
I think a paper bag over your head would have been a better shield than a red cord suit. I doubt red cord suits will catch on among the BNP crowd – shame really.