Oh, no. Oh, hell, no! Sat in a restaurant. Dinner. Thursday night. Probably about forty diners. Roughly a 50/50 split between men and women. I count 10 men wearing some form of plaid shirting. Enough! E basta, as the Italians say. This. Has. Got. To. Stop. If I see one more BLOODY PLAID SHIRT AGAIN I THINK I WILL EXPLODE. But I wont, of course. I will just have to grit my teeth as yet another too-cool-for-school twat saunters by, a kick in his step, a twinkle in his eye and a bloody plaid shirt on his back. It ain’t clever. No, you’re not cool. You’re just another “numty” who harbours a lumberjack fantasy and dreams of Desperate Dan showing him some man-love over a Cow Pie. Get over it. Plaid. Is. Dead. Chuck out the f*cking plaid!
I think I’ll go to bed now.