That’s it. I’ve had it with this lot. What lot might that be? The sun-glasses parked on the head lot - that lot. I’ve looked at, and lived with, this shower for far too long now. In silence. Never opened my mouth. Not a word, not a syllable did I ever utter. Though the rain was sleeting down outside and these gents are sitting in my local slugging pints of black porter with dark glasses on their heads – I held my whist. Although autumnal fog was wafting, around the legs of our barstools, these gents still parked their polaroids on their pates. And I spoke not. There could well be a hurricane (Ophelia for instance) howling outside and these same gents (not many mind, two at most) would sit on those same barstools, wearing those same dark glasses on their heads. But did I say anything? I did not. Did I cast aspersions on this peculiar (to say the least) behaviour or rather fashion statement? I did not. Did I want to? I take the fifth on that. Then again, I suppose a man could be doing a lot worse than wearing sun-glasses on his head in his local while the rain is doing a ‘cats & dogs’ number outside. I mean he could be….he could be scratching himself…in a private place….a place way too private for a public house. With an umbrella! Then again, on mature reflection, what are locals for if you can’t wear a woolly scarf around your neck in July while sipping a craft beer or sport a pair of shades on your skull in the depth of winter over a pint of porter?
And besides, the two sun-glasses-on-the-head guys in my local are sound. One has the personality, the charm, the charisma, I guess, to carry it off. I mean he’s been wearing them for so long now I don’t think I’d recognise him if he wasn’t sporting those shades on his skull. As for the other guy – he’s a showman. He could war anything on his head. Tiara. Turban. Turtle dove. Nothing would surprise me. Plus, he, and we, get mileage of the sun-glasses not least when he decides to wear the damn things and do a Stevie Wonder number like ‘I Just Called to Say I Love You’. Brilliant. Wholesale hilarious. Nights like that you’d be wishing more fellows wore sun-glasses on their heads. Other sun-glasses on the head merchants, I notice, are prone to wearing bright coloured jumpers – lemon or lime for instance or vivid lilac. What’s that all about? Or is it the case that they keep the sun-glasses to hand, or should I say to head, to counteract the glare from the jumpers? Regardless of what it’s all about – I’ve had it now with the shades-on-skulls species.
My tolerance of them is over, done and dusted. Why? Because of a quiet Wednesday in October as I sat in the back pew of a church at a funeral. A funeral, note. I’m sitting there thinking about the man in the box, wondering if he’d had a happy life and wondering if the man died happy when in this guy walked, waltzed almost, a tall, macho looking guy with…wait for it…with sun-glasses on his head! It’s October for Christ sake, the clouds are cavorting with the grass outside and the rain is between two minds whether to piddle or pour down on us. Plus, we’re all in mourning. In mourning for Godsake. And down he sits, not a bother on him; possibly unaware of the fact that he has sun-glasses on his head – though I doubt it. I mean has the man no cop on? No respect for the dead? Now I’m all for freedom of speech and freedom of dress – but holy God, sun-glasses! At a funeral! In October! And on top of your bloody head! Bloody hell! I saw red. And I’m still seeing it. And that, dear readers, fairly put the tin hat on the sun-glasses on the head brigade for me. At least for now. Or until my man in the local gives us another Stevie Wonder rendition!
Shades of grey!
Well I could have done with shades myself last week when I scanned the red-tops and saw tops hat left Dolly Parton in the shade. Whew! Fair dues to the ‘boys’ – my only issue is with the ‘latchyco’ who leaked all to the papers. Some things after all are private. Or are they?