Matt & I were togging up in preparation for another shift saving the lives of the vulnerable, occasionally straying onto the more pressing debate as to what on earth possessed the casting directors to put Steph in the line up. C.J., of course, Caroline, obviously; but Steph, Steph! It just doesn't make sense....
....I digress. So, it was at some point in the privacy and intimacy that only a Lifeguards' beach hut can envelop its staff in, that I chose my moment to confide in Matt. The thing is, I had been having trouble keeping my stubble at just the right length so that I was pulling of the 5 o'clock shadow look without unleashing a whole world of schtubbley pain on the numerous hotties upon whom I need to perform CPR on a 10 times daily basis.
Matt let out a relieved sigh- he later told me he'd thought I was going to ask him to check me for testicular cancer again- 'the answer' he said 'is quite straightforward. You need to get yourself a decent razor, brush and, of course, the appropriate cream to leave your face as soft as a baby piglet's bottom.' I had expected a response like this and had in fact already resigned myself to the fact that I would have to relinquish my sponsorship deal with Bic. 'I know of just the place' Matt continued, interrupting my thoughts which had strayed onto other products I would now be free to put my name to. Perhaps GHDs? It may finally be time to say goodbye to the perm, well though it has served me over these last 30 years. 'It is an emporium of fine products for the well-groomed gent. It is a treasure trove of quintessentially British names....' He didn't have time to continue eulogising, I had vanished and was logged on making what would be the first of many orders at www.upper10.co.uk .
Ciao, Mitch.
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