This is Somerset --
My father always wore a tie. Hot or cold, winter or summer and on occasions formal or relaxed, he always had that band of material knotted firmly around his neck. Even when he went to bed, there was always the suspicion that he had one neatly placed under the collar of his winceyette jim-jams.
Thing is, whether he was digging the garden, elbowing his way through the crowds at the races or helping us chase some unruly bullocks up the lane, he seldom looked flustered, he never looked sweaty.
It always seemed to defy logic – how could the addition of an item of superfluous clothing help you stay so fresh? But in later years I learned to see the wisdom of his ways. Visiting some of the warmest places on the planet I've noticed how the locals stay smart, covered up and cool while the tourists look scruffy, half-naked and on the verge of collapse from heat stroke. As you can imagine, the British are the worst. It makes one so proud.
Dad sprang to mind during the recent bout of warm weather when, confronted by a gaggle of largish ladies who should have known better, I was reminded of one of his favourite sayings: "Look at her – legs like a Mullingar heifer!"
Whether the limbs involved did indeed resemble those of well-fed Irish livestock I can't say, but they were ample and blotchy and mostly white but with an attractive tracery of fine blue lines. I almost dropped my Mivvi.
Should have known what to expect, really. The Met Office had predicted cold, wet and cloudy weather so hot, dry and bright conditions were clearly on the cards and it's at times like these that folk like to get out there dressed like freaks.
Out goes the dull, old winter wardrobe and in come the summer clothes. The shorts, the dresses and those tops that give plenty of exposure to bra straps and bingo wings and hastily topped-off armpit hair. And as for flip-flops. Ugandan president Idi Amin had the right idea when he made their use an offence punishable by death.
French film starlets may get away with the look as they stroll sulkily along the prom at Juan les Pins but it always seems to fail to work for a gaggle of folk on a coach trip from Burton-upon-Trent as they queue for the burger van at Dawlish Warren.
For a red-blooded male there are compensations in all this. In among the thorns there will always be the odd rose. Some pretty little vision in a wafting and flowery summer frock who has the ability to make a happy man suddenly feel very old.
It would be nice to think this works the other way round and that women sometimes have the thrill of getting an eye full of bronzed and athletic-looking hunks wandering about the place stripped down for summer. But it seldom seems to happen. The British male in his seasonal finery invariably looks like a slob.
The smelly, hairy toes peeping from the sandals. Those awful trousers that stop half way down the shins in an array of pointless toggles. And never forget the T-shirt with the witty slogan, the sleeves ripped off to expose all those lovely tattoos, and left untucked to disguise – so they think – that horrible great beer gut.
With sunglasses pushed up over their foreheads they are convinced they have the air of a playboy who is used to resting upon the deck of a super yacht but actually have the look of a long-term job seeker who has just gambled and lost the last of the Child Allowance down at Betfred.
This is an annual gripe for me – as soon as the sun comes out so do the acres of unwelcome flesh – and I suppose it is merely punishment for having the temerity to live in the West Country, the nation's favourite holiday spot. If there is anywhere in the UK that is likely to attract exposed pale skin it is here. And if the orgy of undressing make the participants happy, so be it. But it doesn't seem to.
Discomfort appears to be the rule. Despite the skimpy mode of dress, when the heat is at its height they perspire like pigs on a spit and because of it the moment a cloud passes over they are reduced to shivers. Days are too hot and nights are too cold.
Perhaps they would be happier if they went back to my old man's code of wearing a decent coat, shirt and tie for any and every event.
At the very least it would cheer me up. Reported by This is 13 hours ago.
My father always wore a tie. Hot or cold, winter or summer and on occasions formal or relaxed, he always had that band of material knotted firmly around his neck. Even when he went to bed, there was always the suspicion that he had one neatly placed under the collar of his winceyette jim-jams.
Thing is, whether he was digging the garden, elbowing his way through the crowds at the races or helping us chase some unruly bullocks up the lane, he seldom looked flustered, he never looked sweaty.
It always seemed to defy logic – how could the addition of an item of superfluous clothing help you stay so fresh? But in later years I learned to see the wisdom of his ways. Visiting some of the warmest places on the planet I've noticed how the locals stay smart, covered up and cool while the tourists look scruffy, half-naked and on the verge of collapse from heat stroke. As you can imagine, the British are the worst. It makes one so proud.
Dad sprang to mind during the recent bout of warm weather when, confronted by a gaggle of largish ladies who should have known better, I was reminded of one of his favourite sayings: "Look at her – legs like a Mullingar heifer!"
Whether the limbs involved did indeed resemble those of well-fed Irish livestock I can't say, but they were ample and blotchy and mostly white but with an attractive tracery of fine blue lines. I almost dropped my Mivvi.
Should have known what to expect, really. The Met Office had predicted cold, wet and cloudy weather so hot, dry and bright conditions were clearly on the cards and it's at times like these that folk like to get out there dressed like freaks.
Out goes the dull, old winter wardrobe and in come the summer clothes. The shorts, the dresses and those tops that give plenty of exposure to bra straps and bingo wings and hastily topped-off armpit hair. And as for flip-flops. Ugandan president Idi Amin had the right idea when he made their use an offence punishable by death.
French film starlets may get away with the look as they stroll sulkily along the prom at Juan les Pins but it always seems to fail to work for a gaggle of folk on a coach trip from Burton-upon-Trent as they queue for the burger van at Dawlish Warren.
For a red-blooded male there are compensations in all this. In among the thorns there will always be the odd rose. Some pretty little vision in a wafting and flowery summer frock who has the ability to make a happy man suddenly feel very old.
It would be nice to think this works the other way round and that women sometimes have the thrill of getting an eye full of bronzed and athletic-looking hunks wandering about the place stripped down for summer. But it seldom seems to happen. The British male in his seasonal finery invariably looks like a slob.
The smelly, hairy toes peeping from the sandals. Those awful trousers that stop half way down the shins in an array of pointless toggles. And never forget the T-shirt with the witty slogan, the sleeves ripped off to expose all those lovely tattoos, and left untucked to disguise – so they think – that horrible great beer gut.
With sunglasses pushed up over their foreheads they are convinced they have the air of a playboy who is used to resting upon the deck of a super yacht but actually have the look of a long-term job seeker who has just gambled and lost the last of the Child Allowance down at Betfred.
This is an annual gripe for me – as soon as the sun comes out so do the acres of unwelcome flesh – and I suppose it is merely punishment for having the temerity to live in the West Country, the nation's favourite holiday spot. If there is anywhere in the UK that is likely to attract exposed pale skin it is here. And if the orgy of undressing make the participants happy, so be it. But it doesn't seem to.
Discomfort appears to be the rule. Despite the skimpy mode of dress, when the heat is at its height they perspire like pigs on a spit and because of it the moment a cloud passes over they are reduced to shivers. Days are too hot and nights are too cold.
Perhaps they would be happier if they went back to my old man's code of wearing a decent coat, shirt and tie for any and every event.
At the very least it would cheer me up. Reported by This is 13 hours ago.