The Nonchalance of Yuletide Lingerie


Here’s the story of bras, thongs, and festive madness.

I saw an elderly man purchasing a couple frilly bras and some skimpy thongs before Christmas. I wonder if I’ll ever reach the age when I can, nonchalantly, buy lingerie. In front of a queue of around, ooh, let’s say, 40 people. You see, if a young man sets out on a voyage to purchase women’s delicates, he’s all clandestine about it. He’ll take a day off work. Probably a dull day like Wednesday. He’ll wait until the shop is about to shut, so there’s fewer people around and the people on the tills will be really young teenage girls, because they wouldn’t do the morning shift because they’re teenagers. And they’ll understand. ‘Aww, he’s buying his girlfriend some underwear – what a guy!’ Whereas all the old dears in the morning will be like, ‘Oh, you disgust me – men didn’t do this in my day and it should still be that way!’ But when you get older, you’ve lived your life. You don’t give a shit what anyone thinks. And some of that freedom can manifest itself as an offensive comment, but elsewhere, it manifests itself as the freedom to purchase lingerie. Although, now I think about it, I wonder what person that elderly man was buying frilly bras and skimpy thongs for…

I was buying a gift card, by the way. I don’t have anyone to buy underwear for, and even if I did, she can get it herself. What? I’m a man. Would you rather I buy it or would you rather I got you a gift card and you got it yourself? Men don’t know anything about bras. I mean, there are bra shops out there that tailor make bras and to measure you, you have some older woman cupping your boobs and fondling them for a bit. And that’s not weird at all for a woman. But to a man like myself, that is, quite literally, the creepiest thing I can think of happening in a shop. Imagine if I went to get some tailor made underpants. “Ah, now, sir, to get an accurate measurement, I need to have a feel of –“ “No you don’t…”

Have I imagined that boob cupping thing? I’m sure I read that somewhere. But why would you buy tailor made clothes? They are more expensive! Truth is, most people buy them to get a ‘unique look’. But no one really cares about what you wear. It’s what’s on the inside. If the people you know care about what you wear, you’re hanging out with the wrong people…

Now, women might say, “Ah, but when you men go and get some new shoes, you get your feet measured.” Ever since when? Nobody has done that since the days of cobblers, and I don’t know if you’ve heard the news, but there aren’t that many of them left these days. Trust me, ladies, when a man, any man, walks into a shoe shop, starts looking at a nice pair, and a shop worker comes over, every man always says the same thing.

“I’m a 10.”

We don’t like people measuring us. Well, our feet at least…

Did you have a nice Christmas, readers? I’m sure this is exactly what you were expecting me to write about first thing after Christmas, wasn’t it?

I hate shopping. Having to go to the bank to ask the teller for some money because they won’t let me have a bank, credit or debit card. Twits. Pardon my fruity language. They had a dinner on in my bank. For the older people. There was a lot of cheese. Do older people like huge varieties of cheese? Seemed that way. There was somebody sat at the table eating away, with a nice cup of tea. I felt sorry for her. She was all by herself. Very old, too. I wonder where her husband was.

Probably over the road buying frilly bras and skimpy thongs…

I got some vouchers easily enough. The cards were a bit of a nightmare, though. I mean, my favourite card shop (id est, the cheapest) is tiny. It can only hold about 10 people and when I went in, there were at least 30. It was awful, readers. I was sandwiched in the middle of several young women.

And when I say ‘awful’, I mean ‘absolutely wonderful’.

So I got my card and I got out. Well, not before I gave the lady the wrong money. I mean, I knew the card was £1.50, but I’d forgotten that the bureaucrats who run Britain thought it would be funny to start charging us for plastic bags recently. It won’t save the planet. We’re British and I can assure you, as your ‘plastic bag reporter’ on the ground, the British aren’t paying a great deal of attention to the charge. We’re just paying it. We probably care least about the planet of any country. Our attitude is thus: the planet is already screwed, I’m in a severely overcrowded shop and I want to get home. I don’t have the time to go fishing around for a spare bag! Just give me one of your own bags and charge me whatever you want, because I want to get the hell outta here!

There’s no point in bringing your own bags. This is Britain. If someone next to me had forgotten to bring their own bags, they would’ve stolen mine. We are awful at Christmas. I’m sure a fight broke out over one last specific card design.


I left that card shop slightly worse for wear and slightly horny, greatly saddened by the fact that my sausage shack had gone. I mentioned it a couple weeks ago. We had a genuine temporary German sausage shack in my town centre but every time I went by, I never had enough money. I did on my Christmas shopping day! But the shack was gone, readers.


I wonder if I’m ever going to experience the sweet taste of Bratwurst meat in my mouth. Oh, hang on, that sounded better in my head.

Now, as for wrapping up my gifts, how the hell are you supposed to do that? Chocolate boxes are all kinds of weird shapes these days. All inverse bumps and curvy lines and God knows what else. And as for booze bottles? One is now in the shape of a triangle! What company thought that was a good idea! Three Blind Mice Limited? In the olden days, everything was square or rectangular. Nowadays, all your presents look like there were wrapped by a drunken three-year-old. Honestly, who buys bottles for their aesthetics? Well done, booze companies, for cornering the triangle lovers market…

And what’s the bloody point? Have you seen people on Christmas Day? They tear away at the wrapping. Oh, sure, they try to be polite. “Oh, isn’t that wrapping lovely?” And then they rip away at it! We spend hour after hour wrapping and it’s annihilated in seconds! Blood, sweat and tears went into wrapping that. Literally. I cut myself on the metallic tape cutting thing. Sigh.

Of course, when the big day comes, we seem to forget all the heartache. We enjoy the day with our families. Church and Christmas dinner. The slightly racist grandparent and Christmas television. Plus those delicious Christmas chocolates and equally as wonderful Christmas sex. Does that happen? I hope it does. Maybe I’ll find out one day. And maybe one day I’ll figure out why, as children, we believe Santa not only visits every house on Earth, but also has a drink in each one, too, and, somehow, hasn’t crashed his sleigh yet…

All that said, I suppose Christmas isn’t really about the presents. It’s about spending time with one’s family and friends, chatting away and sharing peace and love. Feelings of goodwill and merriment. Pleasure caused by the comfort of the company of others. And truly awful charades. This is what makes the human race so utterly, utterly brilliant. Things we often forget in this dark world of ours, but things, especially now, that we should remember no amount of darkness will ever take from us.

I hope you have a very happy and prosperous twenty sixteen, readers.

Merry Christmas.

American actor, producer, director, screenwriter, playwright, author and songwriter, Tyler Perry (b. 1969), once said: “I put a thong on a few months ago trying to be sexy. I’ve been looking for it but aint seen it since.”

Peace Out :|:

I’d love to hear your thoughts on this post. You can leave a comment and/or like this post below, or by clicking the title on the top of this post if you are on the ‘Archives’ page. Likes and follows greatly appreciated. Thanks.

Please feel free check out the latest posts from my other two blogs:

To Contrive & Jive
New Posts Every Sunday, Tuesday and Thursday
Click Here to Read the Latest Post

Hark Around the Words
New Post Every Sunday
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