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I realised at about 3pm that I had been wearing my pants (underwear to my many American readers) back to front all day. I confess that I had been woken early by my daughter and just grabbed yesterday's boxers and put them on asap and it turned out they were back to front. Parents will know that you don't always get time for personal hygiene when you have to look after demanding small humans and aside from the school run I wasn't going anywhere. I still had yesterday's T-shirt on too, which was splattered with last night's dinner. The best thing about being an older dad is that although you will lose the ability to get your food in your mouth, you can blame any stains on your children.
I changed my T shirt (only after realising how disgusting I looked recording yesterday's video blog- pay to subscribe to see the state of me) but although my pants were a bit uncomfortable I couldn't be bothered to take off my jogging bottoms and pants and put on new pants. That's too much to ask anyone, let alone a 57 year old man for whom putting on underwear is essentially an Olympic event. Or at least you'd think so from the noises I make as I strain to get into them. Is Daddy weight-lifting? Nope, just putting on his boxers.
The pants were bunching up in a weird way and I had to keep readjusting. Again something you don't want to do on a school run. Did you see that weird old man with food all down his front and his hand in his jogging bottoms? Is he actually someone's dad or grandad? Does anyone know who he is?
Yes I think he works in showbiz.
Call the police.
It was a relief to realise why they felt weird, but I'd come so far through the day like this that I felt I should see it through. But things did feel more weird than they should do, just by having pants on the wrong way round and a little feel around (in the privacy of my office) led me to the discover that I was not only wearing my pants back to front but there was also a huge hole in the gusset. Fucking Hell, the state of this man.
Going to the wrong seats in the theatre, locking himself out of bureaus, wearing yesterday's T-shirt telling yesterday's dinner (so how can you tell me you're lonely) and wearing dirty pants, back to front with his one remaining bollock hanging out of them.
Why would you say you're not on TV much these days Mr Herring?
Certainly my desire to confess my many embarrassments removes any vestige of showbiz mystique.
I don't know if it was wearing the pants back to front that caused them to rip (they weren't noticeably holey when I put them on), but I wear posh Paul Smith pants (see I am showbiz) and their gussets do tend to perish at spectacular speed.
I reluctantly changed my pants before interviewing Richard Ayoade for the Book Club. It seemed inappropriate to talk to him with dangling genitals even if they were betrousered and beneath the desk. I am not a monster.
Although all of this is very funny/tragic, one of the things I associate with rapidly decaying Paul Smith pants is the weeks before I found out about my cancer. I had noticed that a lot of my pants were failing. Even now I don't really believe that was due to the fact that they couldn't cope with my heavy bulbous bollock and it was probably due to pants bought at the same time, failing at the same time. But it's a possibility.
And recently a few pants have given up the ghost just as suddenly. Does that herald the return of bollock cancer? I mean, almost certainly not, but one of the horrible extra gifts that cancer gives you is the constant fear of return. And due to my remaining testicle having decided to grow another testicle (
you can read about that here or see a scan of it if you come to any future Can I Have My Ball Back? shows), it has become a bit difficult to ascertain if there's anything weird going on with my bollock, becuase it has a huge pseudo cyst bollock growing out of it.
It would be terrible indeed if such a funny story of underwear incompetence had the tragic punchline of being down to cancer. But God has a weird sense of humour and I think He feels he owes me for all that I've said about Him.
Frankly I think I am just a bit of a mess and should buy new pants more regularly (
did my post-op RHLSTP with Jeremy Paxman teach me nothing? - that was recorded one week after my operation - I am a fucking machine. By which I mean I am a machine. I am no longer a fucking machine or if I am, I am one that requires an awful lot of warm up before I can be put to use. Once. And then wait a day or so for the next usage. Probably just easier to do the fucking yourself or with somebody else).
Thanks to Craig at Niche Locks in Walsall, (best rim locks in the business) who specialises in niche locks (worrying now he might be a hairdresser) and said he'll send me a couple of keys that he think might open my bureau. Most of my fans work in IT so I did not anticipate that my email would go out to someone whose speciality was locks for bureaus. Is this a sign that my career is on the up?
Anyway we should find out tomorrow if this works. It's exciting isn't it? They should make a Netflix drama about this: The Locksmith.
I wonder how many times people do the "Who are you and how did you get in here?" joke to Craig. I was going to, but I didn't want to put him off sending me a bureau key.
