3 Nov 2013
(For the uninitiated, it’s a moustache growing charity event held in the month formerly known as November, to raise funds and awareness for prostate and testicular cancer). It’s a good cause, and I’m happy that he wants to do something charitable.
So far so good, you might think. But you would be wrong.
The trouble is I do not like moustaches. And by: “do not like” I mean: “am utterly repulsed by” and by: “utterly repulsed by” I mean: “get away from me and stay away from me until every last remnant of that face fungus is obliterated.”
My loathing of the lip foliage comes from reading Roald Dahl’s “The Twits” at far too young an age, and developing a shuddering disgust for anyone looming over me with a snot mop. I’m convinced that in the throes of passion a sardine tail will dislodge and splat into my eyeball. Sexy it ain’t, and whilst I accept the argument that there is no documented evidence of this ever actually happening to anyone, least of all Mrs Twit, this is a long-held phobia from childhood. It is unlikely to be argued away with logic and a pair of big pleading puppy eyes; though god knows Fireman has tried.
In fact the poor man feels particularly hard done by, since it’s my birthday during Movember, and he’s organised a cosy cottage by the sea, just the two of us, for the weekend. Unfortunately for him my birthday is towards the end of the month, by which time he will look like a strategically shaved Brian Blessed. It follows that despite his best efforts: open log fire, sea view, fabulous presents, the idea that I might get jiggy with some upper lipholstery is inconceivable. Even on the face of my beloved. Nope. Can’t be done. There’ll be no fanny dusters in my bedroom.
We have yet to see whether my phobia will indeed loom larger than his mouth merkin, but early indications are not good. It’s only day three and I’m already being smooched by a brillo pad.
