Dan Morris: Socking it to the world with the big-lad pants

I realised with some amusement the other day that at the grand old age of 35, I've never actually bought my own underwear in my life.

Ridiculous, isn't it? I'll quickly point out that this doesn't mean I've been wearing the same pair of boxers for the last three decades, but rather that I'm fortunate enough to have a few faithful relatives who replenish my stock without fail every festive season, saving me the tedious bother of doing this myself.

The truth is that for a man, the options for underwear are generally far less exotic and varied than they are for women, and the purchasing process therefore requires less thought. Are they comfortable and presentable? Yes? Job usually pretty much done. Therefore, blokes can place quite a lot of confidence in the ability of another to pick out their pants without getting it seriously wrong or committing a horrendous fashion faux-pas.

Essentially, for a man, the buying of underwear can be one of those niggling 'need' not 'want' shopping tasks that can be happily unloaded each Christmas and birthday to any willing partners, parents, aunties and uncles that don't have any better ideas. Because when a man reaches 35, there are no better ideas. The items we used to pull faces at opening as kids are now the Holy Grail of presents (and I'm including smelly sprays and PJs in the list), because somebody else purchasing these things gives us the greatest gift of all – time.

In days gone by it was naturally assumed that men hated shopping, but this was never true. The truth is that men hate shopping for the things we need – detest it in fact. Filling precious free time with the arduous albeit necessary task of revitalising one's sock drawer is many a bloke's idea of purgatory. So when a shining soul can relieve us of this woeful duty and give us back precious hours with which to pursue more entertaining passions, that person is rightly revered.

If, like me, you have miraculously dodged the bullet for a score and fifteen, you are indeed blessed. Yet, while I feel victorious, I also can't help but feel just a teensy bit embarrassed. I've had a good run, but maybe, ladies and gentlemen, the time has come.

When I picture my very hapless self attempting to navigate the high street in this task, my mind is drawn instantly to a particularly hilarious instalment of Irish sitcom, Father Ted.

During said episode, the titular Ted and a platoon of fellow priests became lost in the lingerie section of a large department store. Entirely out of their depth and shaking to the bone, they were eventually forced to attempt a Steve McQueen-style escape from the tempestuous and unfamiliar hell they had found themselves in.

I don't intend to be perusing the ladies' undergarments on this particular venture, but then again, neither did Ted and his cohorts. A bit of assistance may be required.

So, what do you do when you're a 35-year-old man who has never bought his own underwear and you need a helping hand with minimal embarrassment? Well, firstly, you let all the fine folks who read your newspaper column know about your terrible inadequacy, and then you turn to the greatest fellow bloke your universe knows – your old man.

Dad, you've helped me out of many a pickle in the past, and I owe you more than I owe any other man alive already. But here, I need to make an urgent appeal. While I've proudly avoided the act for over three decades, if this goes on much longer even your five-week-old granddaughter is going to be laughing at me. It's time for me to buy (and, indeed, put on) the big lad pants... So do me a favour and ask Gran where she gets you yours from, will you? Cheers Pop!