Setting off for Dorset, I had a disastrous wardrobe malfunction
It has been my distasteful duty these past several years to chronicle the self-inflicted humiliations that define whatever it is that passes for my life. I have mentioned the adolescent New Year’s Eve party at which I hoicked a garden spade over a shoulder, with a view to repotting a plant, and sang, ‘Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to work we go’ to a dwarf. I have also recounted the more recent occasion on which, while living with my ailing parents, I rushed out of the shower to deposit a final black bag in a departing rubbish truck. The bath towel that was my only garment slipped off, exposing the ravaged remnants of my genitals to a wildly appreciative brace of binmen. In its way, this humiliation was worse. For where the above were momentary disasters, this one not only endured for six hours, but appended a layer of...
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