As the glint of the morning sun caught the balding pate of the chap in front of me at London Bridge station this morning my heart sunk a little knowing that I too look like this from behind.
Despite a full and abundant showing from the front, age, stress and time have caught up with AngryBritain.com and we are losing the battle against baldness. Not in a swish front to back Dracula style, but from back to front like a ringpull on a can of sardines, slowly exposing my age.
A Friar Tuck, if you will.
Trouble is, in AngryBritain's respectable daytime job, a skinhead won't quite cut the mustard. Particularly when there is no apparant or obvious excuse for sporting the 'I-wanna-be-your-drill-instructor' look. So I'm stuck in a Friar Tuck limbo while the circular patch of skin spreads like a bushfire across my scalp and until I can lop it all off and go all Harry Hill.
Despite kind words of support from Twitterers this morning this vasectomy of my outer manhood is neither a sign of my virility, a sunroof for a sex-machine nor my intelligence pushing the follicles out of my head.
I am old, balding and fat.
It's time to buy a sportscar.