Getting Shirty

Getting Shirty

Thanks to the demise of the summer season and its entourage of evening sporting activities, my social programme has recently relocated to the pubs and bars of the Auckland region. And being no stranger to the brewer’s craft, this is a situation that sits very comfortably with both me and my rapidly expanding waistline. Given that my circle of friends consists largely of drunks – they would be alcoholics if they could be bothered to go to meetings – I usually have to make little more effort than to sit back and wait for the text message or e-mail that informs me of the time and location of the next bacchanalian extravaganza.

But every so often I find myself facing a slightly perplexing social conundrum. Rather than simply diving into the nearest dive for the purposes of inspecting the bottom of several pint glasses, someone will get delusions of grandeur and insist we visit a flash restaurant or some other achingly fashionable venue where one is compelled to wear a collared shirt.

And being a man in his 30’s, I have absolutely no idea how I should do this.

Untucked I suspect

Not so many years ago, there was only one way to wear a shirt – untucked and with only as many buttons done up as it took to stop my dad beating me into tidying myself up. But now, on the few occasions where pre-social preening is necessary, I sometimes find myself standing in front of a mirror wondering if it wouldn’t look a darn sight more presentable if I stuffed all the excess material into the waistband of my Levi’s.

I accept that this has the potential to be a slippery slope and before too long I won’t be seen in public wearing anything except tweed trousers with a waistband at approximately nipple height, but even this would be better than turning into one of those social retards who desperately cling onto their youth despite it clearly being left behind in years that began with ‘nineteen ninety’.

And because the current Mrs Grimley has started one of her regular pining sessions for a Subaru Impreza WRX, this puts me on difficult ground.

As a petite, attractive, blonde lady-creature, this choice of vehicle holds absolutely no problems for her – pretty women in fast cars are essentially wheeled Viagra – but for me it’s the stuff of nightmares. The WRX Impreza should have been one of the great working man’s heroes; it has a devastating combination of power, pace and handling all of which comes wrapped up in a package that won’t give your bank manager angina. But thanks to a good proportion of the owners being people who are unsure how to operate a baseball cap and still follow their mothers’ edict of buying clothes to grow in to, it is essentially a car for tossers.

Clearly if you’re young you can get away with this – if you aren’t dressing or acting in some way like a victim of an overenthusiastic lobotomy then there is something wrong with you – but by what stage does this get out of jail expire? I’d love to have a WRX as a plaything and weekend driving tool, but ideally I don’t want to end up looking like a tool as well.

If anyone has an answer to this dilemma, I’d love to hear from you. The only solution I’ve come up with so far is to simply sell up and relocate to west Auckland where the culture is much more accepting of gentlemen with a penchant for performance. Although on the plus side it should sort out the shirt issue too. ‘In’ or ‘out’ really doesn’t matter; anything goes as long as it appears to have been stolen from a lumberjack.

Thanks to the demise of the summer season and its entourage of evening sporting activities, my social programme has recently relocated to the pubs and bars of the Auckland region. And being no stranger to the brewer’s craft, this is a situation that sits very comfortably with both me and my rapidly expanding waistline. Given that my circle of friends consists largely of drunks – they would be alcoholics if they could be bothered to go to meetings – I usually have to make little more effort than to sit back and wait for the text message or e-mail that informs me of the time and location of the next bacchanalian extravaganza.

But every so often I find myself facing a slightly perplexing social conundrum. Rather than simply diving into the nearest dive for the purposes of inspecting the bottom of several pint glasses, someone will get delusions of grandeur and insist we visit a flash restaurant or some other achingly fashionable venue where one is compelled to wear a collared shirt.

And being a man in his 30’s, I have absolutely no idea how I should do this.

Untucked I suspect

Not so many years ago, there was only one way to wear a shirt – untucked and with only as many buttons done up as it took to stop my dad beating me into tidying myself up. But now, on the few occasions where pre-social preening is necessary, I sometimes find myself standing in front of a mirror wondering if it wouldn’t look a darn sight more presentable if I stuffed all the excess material into the waistband of my Levi’s.

I accept that this has the potential to be a slippery slope and before too long I won’t be seen in public wearing anything except tweed trousers with a waistband at approximately nipple height, but even this would be better than turning into one of those social retards who desperately cling onto their youth despite it clearly being left behind in years that began with ‘nineteen ninety’.

And because the current Mrs Grimley has started one of her regular pining sessions for a Subaru Impreza WRX, this puts me on difficult ground.

As a petite, attractive, blonde lady-creature, this choice of vehicle holds absolutely no problems for her – pretty women in fast cars are essentially wheeled Viagra – but for me it’s the stuff of nightmares. The WRX Impreza should have been one of the great working man’s heroes; it has a devastating combination of power, pace and handling all of which comes wrapped up in a package that won’t give your bank manager angina. But thanks to a good proportion of the owners being people who are unsure how to operate a baseball cap and still follow their mothers’ edict of buying clothes to grow in to, it is essentially a car for tossers.

Clearly if you’re young you can get away with this – if you aren’t dressing or acting in some way like a victim of an overenthusiastic lobotomy then there is something wrong with you – but by what stage does this get out of jail expire? I’d love to have a WRX as a plaything and weekend driving tool, but ideally I don’t want to end up looking like a tool as well.

If anyone has an answer to this dilemma, I’d love to hear from you. The only solution I’ve come up with so far is to simply sell up and relocate to west Auckland where the culture is much more accepting of gentlemen with a penchant for performance. Although on the plus side it should sort out the shirt issue too. ‘In’ or ‘out’ really doesn’t matter; anything goes as long as it appears to have been stolen from a lumberjack.

« | »

Let us know what you think

Loading Facebook Comments ...

Road Tests

Silver Sponsors

Car and SUV Team

Richard-Edwards-2016Richard Edwards

Managing editor

linkedinphotoDarren Cottingham

Motoring writer

robertbarry-headRobert Barry

Chief reporter

Ian-Ferguson-6Ian Ferguson

Advertising Consultant

debDeborah Baxter

Operations Manager

RSS Latest News from Autotalk

RSS Latest News from Dieseltalk

Read previous post:
Eyesight by Subaru
Eyesight Wins Technology Award

Subaru’s EyeSight driver assist system has won a prestigious Japanese government science and technology award. The five Fuji Heavy Industries...

Close