A quick note - when it comes to proof reading, I have an eye lazier than Forest Whitaker's. I apologise for any glaring mistakes. I'll pick up on them in about a week, I promise.

This is the story of my recent sojourn into the unique and terrifying world of the moustached. I've split the article into 2 parts, as it got a little lengthy. In this first section, I will attempt to give you a bit of back story to my life as a balding, bearded, ginger man-beast.

I am an exceptionally hairy man. I hit puberty at such an early age that I’ve often wondered if I was not born, but knitted. Over the course of my short and this far insignificant life, this has proven to be an impractically hirsute double-edged sword.

On the plus side, I was able to grow a set of respectable sideburns long before any of my friends – making me (at least by appearance) the manly member of the group. Not so much for my own personal brand of lanate beefcakery, but because I was the one who was never asked for ID, subsequently, I was the one who bought booze for parties. It’s amazing how a tiny amount of weak, spattered stubble can distract the average shop-keeper from the obvious warning signs of:

• 25 children peering through the shop windows, leaning on bins, lamp posts and cars in an awkward attempt to look nonchalant
• The purchase of 50 cans of Fosters, 2 bottles of Lambrini and “The cheapest 1 litre bottle of vodka you have, please Landlord"
  
• The quivering, sweaty palms of the be-stubbled “18 year old” handing over payment for the above, in the form of an assortment of £5 notes and loose change.
  

In fact, as I remember, the only time I’ve ever been asked for proof of age was when, as a 12 year old, I unsuccessfully attempted to purchase tickets for a friend and I to see ‘Extreme Measures’ at the cinema, based on the misconception that we would bear witness to Elizabeth Hurley’s tits. To this day, this event confuses me; not because my wispy, half-burns couldn't fool the eagle-eyed popcorn-jockey that declined to serve me; but because Elizabeth Hurley wasn’t even in ‘Extreme Measures’. Regardless, it was almost completely positive to be a beast as an under-age teen. (1)

On the reverse, as the years pass and arse-hair develops into it’s fully-thatched, wicker-like form, taking a poo can often be likened to pushing a lump of plasticine through a play-dough fun factory; and the subsequent wipe can be a time-consuming, physically demanding and thoroughly harrowing exercise (particularly if the preceding act was less-than-solid, in which case, one would need an assortment of wet-wipes, a strong comb and a hair dryer at the ready).

As I begin my 25th year, I can proudly report that, after 13 years of cultivation, my facial hair is thick, strong...and...ginger. I have no idea how this happened. When I was younger – and before a regrettable incident with a bottle of blue hair-dye accelerated my descent into baldness - my hair was a very dark brown. It's as if God has punished me for years of teasing those of a ginger disposition by removing my Samson-like, bully-boy dark curls and replacing them with a face full of orange wire-wool.

MY FACE LOOKS LIKE IT SMELLS OF CHEESE.

To make matters worse (and to further the case for divine penance) any attempt to completely remove these filthy-looking monstrosities result in my face swelling to twice its average size and breaking out into a rash of unparalleled agony, so I end up looking somewhat like a balding, herpes ridden version of Eric Stoltz in “Mask”. (2)

The point I'm attempting to illustrate is that I've been forced to wear facial hair for a long time (at least in comparison to most my age). Forced to sport facial hair - can you imagine that kind of pain? The horrific afflictions listed above are but a small demonstration of the struggles that overwhelm my life as a hairy-end-of-moderately-hairy, hairy-man. In fact, many have told me they believe adversity on my level has not been reached since the American Civil Rights Movement - and I'd be inclined to agree with them. It's testament to my inner strength, my indomitable spirit, my will to just keep on going, that I've managed to hold the tattered threads of my so-called life together, with just a series of beards, stubbles, sideburns and one ill-informed goatee.

But I have never sported a 'tache.

I've always been tempted to grow one, but I've never had balls hairy enough to go for it. This is probably because, for the last 20 years or so, the moustache has been unfairly ridiculed; it has moved away from the raw, steely realm of sex, inhabited by the likes of Tom Selleck and Carl Weathers; and moved towards the raw, steely realm of sex offences, inhabited by the likes of the Lotto rapist, Iorworth Hoare and the Chuckle Brothers.

It's also because of the recent trend of "cool" people to sport an "ironic" moustache. This grates on me – the moustache used to be sexy, it was once a sign of virility - now it's a sign of a being a bit of a prick. Or a paedophile. Or both. I just can't figure out where the irony is, exactly. If we consult the definition of 'Ironic Moustache' in the Oxford New Shoreditch-Twat Dictionary, we find:

Ironic Moustache

i⋅ron⋅ic mous⋅tache

–verb

1. To make one's face look as god-awful as possible, because it is proper mental!!!!!!!!! Lolz!

No, friend - the irony would be that you grew a 'tache in a desperate “PLEASE LIKE ME!” attempt to show your friends how “crazy” and “out there” you could be - but, in fact, all you actually achieved was revealing to them what a complete and utter wanker you really are.(3)

However, I make no qualms that if it hadn't been for my own crippling insecurities, I would have grown one a long time ago (Is this ironic? No, it is not.). (4)

But, who am I kidding? The exercise of grooming is one of intense vanity; sculpting a line of scraggly fur on my upper lip, in order to 'look sexy' is just as self-involved (and only marginally less moronic) than doing so to look like a cunt intentionally. But, for reasons to be explained in Part II - now was the time. Could it be done without drowning in the great sea of "irony"? Would I become the epitome of masculinity? (5)

To be continued in..Experiments in ‘Tache Part II: The Mangina Incident and Other Tales of the Misinformed.

Notes

1. As I’ve gotten older, I've found that wolf-like 13 year old boys are actually quite terrifying. Not so much older looking as you-look-like-how I-imagine-Fred-West-looked-as-a-six-year-old looking

2: To my 'strawberry blonde' brothers and sisters: I take this opportunity to say that despite my moaning and, while we do smell of Wotsits and our genitalia almost certainly resemble baby carrots - I stand proudly beside you in our Pathetic Army of the Genetically Weak (tm).

3. I would like to point out that growing facial hair for http://www.tacheback.com/ or the like does not constitute a cry for acceptance, it's just a bit of fun for a good cause. And any cause that has, no doubt, stripped the wallets of those who are absolutely 100% ironically mental, is fine by me.

4. Bollocks. Forget everything you've just read. Rather embarrassingly, I seem to remember that I *may* have sported an 'ironic' handlebar moustache for a single day in my late teens. However, I was quite genuine in my attempt to sculpt it – I actually believed it would look good. It did not, so I played it out as a joke. Surely that doesn't count? lol?

5. If you don't come back in the coming days for Part II - I'll put it this way - I was described as "The newest, campest member of 'Bear Force One'". But do come back - there's a delightful, moustache-related story that involves my right bollock falling out of my trousers. Publicly.