The Beard

As you can witness from the photo to the left, I am currently sporting a manly beard. To my dismay it has grown, with more than a cameo appearance of, ginger. I feel that each man, and occasionally woman, must go through this period of life called affectionately “the Beard Years”. It doesn’t have to last for a year but as long as you have a good thatch, and more importantly, that people notice it immediately. It brings a whole new dimension to your image and one that forces you to defend your new look continuously.

I assume in the 1970’s, when beards were more commonplace, there was more tolerance to your common all-garden beard, but now the popularity has waned. People have been quite rude about my growth, and at times I have heard it crying to itself on my chin.

Fortunately, others have enforced my voyage into the land of facial hair, and so I have had a fall back when people publicly ridicule me. Also, with a reason backing you up, it can get you through the many days of doubt, and give you the endurance to last the distance.

My reason has come from a stupid idea generated from the Ian Scott School of stupid ideas. The stag party that I am going on next weekend to Valencia will be the climax of this hairy experiment. 16 lads travelling to Spain with beards would be one thing, a collective of professors, but we are not going with beards. No, no, we are going with long “Porn Star” moustaches. The beard is one thing, people in 2008 still have beards occasionally, but no one since 1977 has ever sported a long moustache except The Edge. 16 of us will stand out like a bunch of gay Germans. Not the best way of entering a new country.

In order to pass this joke off as best as possible, I think that to do it properly is the best strategy. This is why I have given myself a 5-week run up, so that by Showtime I should have a moustache to rival Merv Hughes, and Hulk Hogan. At least this way, if at anytime I am found on my own through the weekend, it will look like a fashion statement rather than a joke. Of course, if I am with the group then it will look like a joke, and if I am with one other then I will look like I am holidaying in Spain with my Partner. But these unfortunate scenarios are unavoidable because, one rule for any group of lads travelling together is that, to be an outcast in the group is social suicide. It will open the door for a weekend of abuse from the rest of the group. The same thing happened in medieval times when the Friar’s went in to their first monastery. One of them thought it would be funny to get them all to shave the tops of their heads, leaving a circle of hair like a halo. It was only meant to be a one-off joke but it then caught on and the rest is history.

The other worry that I have, apart from being adopted by a particularly friendly local named Pedro, is the amount of alcohol that undoubtedly gets consumed on these types of visits. Like the moustache, you have to find a balance between keeping in with the group and not having your stomach pumped in Valencia General. I have some experience in this field, certainly more than the moustache, and I hope for this to get me through. With age has come a certain amount of wisdom, even if this is not obvious to the onlooker. As long as you’re there at the beginning, then as the day draws on you will all begin to find your own pace. As the younger members trail blaze in front, you can keep up the rear with a bottle of San Miguel that has been in your hand so long that your hand has grown new skin around it.

This isn’t a real problem and I have complete faith in myself being mature enough to bring the sun down each day without waiting for the whistle. The one concern that is niggling in the recesses somewhere is my roommate. Now if I was rooming with a nice, quiet lad who read a book before bed with a cup of cocoa, then happy days. But I am with Damien who, whilst I am accounting for the Pharmaceutical industry, is playing with a band all day every day. The monotony of normal life is but a distant dream for this young man, who being 4 years my junior, is well versed in drinking for breakfast, dinner and tea. It will not surprise me to envision a situation where I am getting into bed, and he then bundles through the door carrying a bottle of something that he is pleased to punch with because he has managed to nick it from the hotel bar. We shall see.

So the next instalment will inform you of the incidents of particular note that happened during the weekend, obviously censored for decency. Will a group known as the Moustachio Hunterios violate us all in a Spanish prison? Or will we get to the Valencia vs. Racing Santander game on the Sunday unscathed? Please tune in, same time next week for another thrilling episode.