Dan Morris: Who wants to be Mitch Buchannon when you can be Magnum PI?

You may think I’m joking, though I assure you that in this matter, I am at my most serious and matter-of-fact.

From November through to the end of January, the pale calves of ‘Milk Bottle Morris’ are cruelly concealed from the public and denied their natural habitat of reflecting the sun in all their ivory glory. Hidden by denim, tweed and leather (Fridays only of course), my knobbly pins spend the winter in hibernation. But my winter is a short winter, and alas, she is finally at an end.

‘Tis true dear readers, that while I – like you – do not live in a place renowned for its blistering heat and tropical climate, as soon as February rolls in, I am unable to resist the comfort, freedom and superior sense of slobbishness that a good pair of board shorts brings.

Sat in the garden this evening, I’ll have the fire pit a’howlin’, the barbie a’rockin’ and the blankets a’drapin’. Every known method of keeping warm that I can employ, I shall. But my legs, like two twin ambassadors of defiance in the face of hypothermic danger, will be uncovered and ready to bid a fond hello to 2022.

Before the first lockdown kicked in all those many moons ago, I was a relatively smart chap. Home working and lack of any visual interaction other than via Zoom (in which only my head, neck and shoulders could be seen) put paid to that. Soon the range of checked three-pieces and brogues that had become my signature clobber were replaced with flip-flops, gig-tees and a face that was at least five eighths beard. This of course was visible over Zoom, but as the beast took over, I just began to care less and less. Sorry all.

The board shorts were part of this ensemble, and so began my love affair with spending every hour, day in day out, with a breeze between my knees. I’d always believed that a good suit was a route to great confidence, but in my shorts I felt like a king, and the feeling has never dissipated.

For the past two years I’ve tried to hang on through November, though each time I have had to shelve my pride and break out more practical leg ware after icicles began to form on my shin hairs. If I’d lost November there seemed little point in resurrecting the board shorts for December (even I have to admit they are seldom paired well with a Christmas jumper), and January, quite simply, has remained far too glacial for the last 24 moons to brave the bite.

But having steeled myself, built up my tolerance to the chill, and strategically hidden hot water bottles and Pot Noodles all over the house, I’m ready to embrace February’s barely-warmer pastures, and return to ‘office ware Dan – Hasselhoff style’. This year, I’m even gonna’ rock the perm.

Sometimes I do wonder what my betrothed thinks of the sloth-like nature of the attire I have embraced all the more as my 30s have progressed from their advent into their mid.

When we first began our courtship she had begun dating a sharp-suited young journo with a pretty and ostentatious motor almost as ridiculous as his ever-expanding ego. Now that we are ‘comfortable’, she is shacked up with a strange and at best ‘eccentrically charming’ hybrid of Zak Dingle and Alan à la The Hangover who dreams about camper vans. She seems content, but I know better than to press the issue.

For now, it’s time to toast this as the last column I intend to write in trousers for the next nine months, and think about the fabulous array of upper-body wear I can team my faithful shorts with this year.

The gig-tees are beginning to get tatty, and truth be told, ‘beginning’ is probably pushing it.

I feel the call of a few Hawaiian shirts on the horizon. I mean come on... who wants to be Mitch Buchannon when you can be Magnum PI?

And I could make that tash look good...

All fashion tips/counselling/sympathy/burn-your-wardrobe-and-start-again-type-of-advice very well received. I’ll be the guy at the bar with the frostbite.

Here’s to February, and all who sail in her...