As well as writing my own blog over the past few months I’ve also been following others who blog around this small planet of ours too, and frankly it’s terrifying. The worrying common denominator caused by these astonishing bloggers is that they all seem to have far more interesting and rewarding lives than I do. Then they blog about it. It makes gripping reading. Honestly, when it comes to comparing what I get up to, I think I’ll need to start creating a work of fiction just to keep people interested.
The dizzying highlights on my own blog have involved having sex whilst wearing armour, the state of the stuffing in my sofa, Guido’s feet, and, cabbage soup. I was about to say those are the kinds of examples of the sad depths my life routinely sinks to but I can now report it’s plunged even lower. And when I say lower, I’m talking right down to the nether regions and underwear. And specifically, pants. That’s “pants” for British readers and “shorts” for North American. It may just be “knickers” to everyone else around the globe. Guido has had a very worrying crisis over the last couple of days involving stretched elastic.
“I don’t want to worry you unnecessarily but…,” he stopped stirring a cauldron of fish stew as I passed by the kitchen yesterday. He started motioning with a wooden spatula, pointing in the general direction of his groin area, “the soldiers are unexpectedly leaving the platoon.”
I should explain why he was doing that and what it meant. Earlier this week Guido washed 95% of his underwear all in one go on a wash as hot as a desert and followed it with a fast spin as violent as a tornado. I am surprised he didn’t hear the noise of seventeen sets of underwear making the collective TWANG! of self destruct as the machine cycle hit full throttle. The result was that what came out of the dryer unfortunately bore no resemblance to what had originally gone in. What had once happily supported its contents, now sagged irrevocably. This reinforces the reasons why I never let Guido anywhere near my dirty laundry. Unfortunately he buys his nondescript underwear from the street market so it doesn’t have a brand name like the kind of underwear normal men wear. Nor are they an easily recognisable shape like, say, briefs or boxers or hipsters. Guido’s underwear has always resembled a cross between a jock strap and the undercarriage of a B52 with bomber doors fitted. Ready to crank open at a moment’s notice and launch an indiscriminate explosion just when you least expect it.
The upshot of this tale of woe is that I am to be despatched to source replacement items. To be able to illustrate to stall vendors in the South London area what these garments had once looked like, I have been left with no option but to take a photograph of a pair to show anyone with a strong enough constitution and who might be willing to take look. Now I know how the cops feel pulling back a sheet on the slab at the morgue.
There is, however, one thing I am completely confident about. I can guarantee you there will be no bloggers anywhere posting content like this today. And you read that here first folks.