Underpants

It’s been a few weeks since I last posted – we’ve had a recent brilliantly relaxing holiday in the Vendee region of France with all my beautiful daughters, fine sons-in-law and, of course our fab grandsons (minus footballer S who was in the middle of his pre-season training programme, sadly). Apart from that I’ve been really, really busy on writing stuff. Tonight I’ve got a bit of a break on a big piece of web-building stuff whilst I await a go-ahead or otherwise. So time to do some blogging again. And the theme is underpants. Yes ladies I’m going to share some manly insight with you about how a real brutal hunk of a man chooses his briefs. Steady girls.

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underpants; it’s pants

Is it just me or has the media world got its knickers in a right old twist over men’s underpants recently? It’s impossible to move through the pages, flick across the channels or tune across the stations without coming upon (I could have phrased that better) men’s undies. I’ve got to blame David Beckham for the recent spurt (I’ll try and stop sounding like Julian Clary in a minute) in interest in the last taboo of the male wardrobe. He had to go and pose like an Italian stallion in his Armani underpants displaying his six pack and his sex pack. Can you think of any other bloke who’d go and do that other than an image-obsessed model….and Freddie Lundberg, which is more or less the same thing.

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