Wednesday, 11 March 2009

Friar Tuck

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 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.

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