Greetings, dear reader. Pull up a chair, what I have to say may shock you.
There is no easy way to tell you this, so I will come straight out and tell you. Tache Club is over. The CK top lip has been shorn and shaved, I am once again a fresh-faced late-twenties cove.
There, there, my pretties, do not get upset. Of course, you will want to know what lead to the downfall of such a thriving, successful enterprise. Well, as with any tragedy, the contributory factors are numerous.
Firstly, January being traditionally a time of austerity and abstinence, not enough quality time was being spent in the local pub, the hub, some say focal point for the group. The loss of the support network provided by one's hairy-faced colleagues lead to a fatal weakening on the part of the members with females in tow.
Secondly, as mentioned above several participants proved to be, how do you say, Pussy Whipped!
Whipped, I tells yer. A week or so of not unmanly growth and the distaff half of the sketch is fussin' and a-cussin' and threatening a cessation of carnival relations. And what is our brave boys' response? Why, they belly up like cowardly weasels and shave off their taches. Disappointing.
Finally, we come to the last group of no-nonsense he-men who lasted almost two whole weeks of intensive beard-culture. What could cow these heroes into submission?
The realisation that taches are shit, actually. They look rubbish, they are itchy, they frighten small children and they get in your pint.
Also, if one goes about the place sporting a restrained, finely trimmed effort such as the one pictured in the preceding post on here, one is roundly choi-oiked and upbraided by all manner of half-wits and impudent fellows. Honestly, the nerve of some of these loutish wiseacres, it beggars belief.
As well as being the subject of impertinences in public saloons, there was also virtual interweb bullying to take into account. The picture below was sent to me mere hours before I took up my razor and ended it all.
Honestly, this country, eh?
However, before I had taken the final, drastic measure I received a telephonic textual message informing me that with the surrender of the last remaining competitor I was the last man standing. An unbeaten, unbowed, bloodied warrior, if you will.
Ladies and gentlemen, my dear, dear little moustache, the subject of finger-pointing and ridicule, had triumphed over bigger, bushier, more luxuriant foes. If this isn't a metaphor for the struggle of the good and righteous man in this babylonian world of ours, then I don't know a metaphor when I see one.
The best a man can get? I've shit 'em!
Keep it smooth, I'm outta here.