Last night, the pile of black bags full of my clothes in what will become the kids' bedroom finally pissed me off. I'm between wardrobes at the moment. Not, literally, mind."Help! I'm trapped between these wardrobes! And they're fitted! Aaaarghh!" I do however, have some spaces left where I can stick some of my clothes. I was always of the opinion before that I never had any clothes. There's always something I need a new one of. Now I know I'm wrong. I must have about eleventy gazillion T-shirts. Going through them and folding them up last night, I realised what a sad geeky bastard I really am. The sad thing was, I'm geeky enough to count all the different types of T-shirts I've got. I have four Star Wars related shirts. I've two Daredevil shirts. Two of the Hulk. A Silver Surfer. A Punisher. Two Batman. A Captain America. A Bingo Bonanza (a small-press book I did a strip for. It qualified me for a free T-shirt at the last Brighton Expo). A Dalek. A Spidey. A replica of the shirt Sam J. Jones wore in the Flash Gordon movie. A fondue set. A cuddly toy.
How sad is that? I didn't include the loads of music T-shirts I've got, or the scores of Aston Villa related clothing. Thing is, there's a lot of these shirts I probably won't wear very often in case people spot me for the nerd I really am and attack my flat with pitchforks and flaming torches. (in the case of the Villa stuff, seeing as I live in a 'Bluenose' area, I walk around in Claret-and Blue, I will have my lungs handed to me by a group of dirty, tattooed knuckle-dragging Birmingham City supporting Cro-Magnons!) There's some old t-shirts that I've had since I was a teen that I refuse to throw out because of some stupid sentimental attachment, or "I'll keep them to do the decorating in, or summat", despite the fact they've got more holes in than Clyde Barrow, or my expanding beer gut means I can't wear tham without looking like a sack of shit tied in the middle. I really have to start geting ruthless with my hoard of old shite.