Summer time in Ireland is normally exactly like the winter, except the rain warms up. This year has been a fantastic departure from the norm, with nearly three weeks of unbroken sunshine so far and the promise of even more to come.
I think that the good weather brings out the best in nearly all women. They swish by in flowing dresses, lots of sun kissed skin, long bronzed legs and miniskirts. It makes driving a car near impossible. Well done girls! I know what you'r going to say, they can't all look like that. True, true, but girls are more in touch what brings out their best side, it's a skill that should be applauded. We've all seen the mistakes, laughed behind cupped hands, wearing that dress from five years ago but it seemed to have shrunk, or bedraggled cardigans over dresses made of discarded nuns' habits. These examples only help to prove the rule.
With that said, the Irish men of summer are a different breed. Mother of divine heaven, what happened to the men? At the first glimpse of sunshine, any guy who thinks he's got a half decent body whip's off the top, parading about with his t-shirt draped over a shoulder, or tied around his waist. I wish I could tell them how huge a mistake this is. Firstly, that skin hasn't seen ten minutes of sunshine in its entire time on the planet, it's whiter than the arctic snow. The sight of this, topped off with tufts of bum-fluff-chest-hair, will not make a woman go weak at the knees, or at least not with desire.
Another thing. What's with the walk? Yesterday all these lads could manage make it down the road like normal people. Today the council are out widening footpaths to make room for the swinging shoulders, puffed out chests and held in tummies. A beer belly is a beer belly whether you hold it in or not. Take a hint from the fairer sex on this one. Less is more.
Grand, get a bit of sun on that alabaster skin, but do it in your own backyard or at the beach. I must admit I've fallen victim to this in younger days but I hope I've learned from my mistakes. When you see a beautiful woman in a flowing skirt and crisp linen shirt, you have a fair idea what is underneath. Like in a good book, the hint of something lets the imagination take hold. A wistful picture more alluring than reality can achieve.
This brings me to my next bone of contention. WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU WEARING!!!! On a particularly warm evening my bar looked like a team of blind drag queens had gone riot in TK Max. Mad colours, bold patterns, nothing matching. Every pair of shorts look like they were made for someone either two feet taller or in some cases two stone lighter. One abomination had surpassed himself, he was kitted out from head to knee like Michael Jordan's midget albino cousin, then to finish it off he was wearing black leather shoes, and SOX! I wanted to poke my eyes out with a sharp stick.
Don't generalise, Squid, I hear you say. Guilty I'm afraid. There are some very stylish men out there and I am super jealous of them. They have the eye, and confidence, to know what looks good. They brave the jibes of the ignorant of multi-coloured buffoons. Sadly I don't live in their camp either. I've had my fashion disasters, time to hang my head.
So, who am I to give advice? No one, but it seems everyone has an opinion these days, I like to stay with the crowd. In general I'd say I'm a tad dull. My resolution is to watch the best dressers and take a few hints, to learn from my betters and I encourage the bare chested out there to do the same. In the end its all a bit of fun. People should be happy in their skin, or clothes, whatever guise they take, but draw a line at the sox, for the love of God.