A week before writing this column, I found myself stealing glances at another man’s legs. They were tanned, muscular and perfect. My adoring gaze was part-homoerotic fantasy, part-exercise in self-loathing.
I wanted those legs. On me. Not in that way. I didn’t fancy the man. I envied
him. I wanted his bronzed limbs in place of the hairy twiglets that dangle beneath my Bermudas, like discarded appendages from Groot.
The legs belonged to Teddy Sheringham, a former Manchester United and England striker, now earning a good living as an after-dinner speaker and Benjamin Button impersonator.
He’s ageing backwards. He’s 56-going-on-46, capable of passing for a decade younger. When I shared photos of us sitting together during our recent interview, the responses were wearily predictable. Doesn’t Teddy look well? He doesn’t seem to age, does he? Hasn’t he got lovely legs? It’s practically winking at me in those tight shorts.
And those were just the comments from my mother.
Once again, I was forced to ponder my physical peculiarities and the DNA cocktail that produced simian-like arms and legs, a kangaroo’s feet and a sausage roll for a torso. Growing up, I looked like the malnourished lovechild of Stephen Merchant and Olive Oyl.
The only defence mechanism at my disposal was self-deprecation, mocking my gangly appearance quickly, getting in the first verbal punch before anyone else did (thank God, I grew out of that painfully transparent attempt at social acceptance, eh?).
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