Moustachioed men…

A moustache can say so much about a man. With a glance it can define him as a cad, an eccentric, even a dictator.

Who’d have thought that Charlie Chaplin’s funny little comedy moustache, so popular at the time, would go on to become such a symbol of hatred and oppression when worn by another man. So much so that nobody really sports that type of moustache any more... well apart from Russel Mael that is.

At my school most of my teachers sported moustaches. In fact the headmaster’s nickname was Stosh because he sported an Errol Flynne just beneath his nose (there’s a smutty joke in there if you want there to be) and the assistant headmaster, Ronnie, had almost a Hitler style postage stamp but as it was grey it seemed okay. Clibbo had a beard, the English Master (Jenners) a magnificent black handlebar, Primo (History) a whisp, Stinks (Biology) a Mexican bandit, Gilbey (Music) a runaway train, Aw, Henry! (Latin) a pencil lip... even Matron had the suggestion of a full bar above her fulsome pink lips.

And some of the upper sixth had them - as only they were allowed - but all of us boys left the fluff to grow beneath our noses for as long as we dared before being ordered to shave it off. I was never very successful, but even today I would love to grow a moustache. I dream of a long wiry Dali that I would wax and twirl in the way of all those screen villains from the silent era - you know the ones, the ones that tied young ladies to the tracks in front of approaching trains or onto conveyor belts in sawmills, the ones who wore stove-pipe hats and cloaks.

Unfortunately though I just can’t seem to manage it, and on the occasions that I’ve tried I’ve given up after a couple of weeks unimpressed by the rate of progress. Anyway, I’m not sure that my face is the right shape; my nose too flat, my lip too straight, and if I were to try again it would probably (definitely) be grey. Yes, I guess that I am doomed to be tacheless... but maybe, just maybe, I’ll give it one last try.

Watch this space…