Golf Moobs

I was watching the coverage of the Masters from Augusta when Gabby got back from the off license. After she’d finished emptying her crates of brown ale and arranging her bottles in the refrigerator, she threw herself down onto the sofa and together we admired Tiger Wood’s putting strokes. I was too wrapped up in the ebb and flow of the competition to notice that Gabby’s eyebrows were slowly coming together like two squirrels set to begin a reluctant joust. The first thing I knew of her quizzical look was when she turned to me and asked, ever so earnestly, why ‘Big Jugs Monty’ wasn’t playing.

I admit that I was a little big taken aback. ‘Big Jugs Monty’? I don’t know where she hears these things but she certainly doesn’t hear them from me. Man breasts – or ‘moobs’ as I think they’re now called – are no laughing matter. Being blessed with perfectly formed pectorals, myself, I don’t see any point in making fun of men who are cursed with that form of buxomness deemed unacceptable in this age of the plastically pert nipple.

Or at least that’s what I told Gabby who proceeded to lecture me at even greater length that in Romania male breasts are considered a sigh of great virility and that she was only watching the golf in order to catch Colin Montgomery in action. Apparently, the reason he’s so sexy to Romanian eyes is linked to the reason why Norman Wisdom is considered big in Albania. There, shortness of stature is considered sexy, as are clumsiness and flat caps worn askance.

I had no reply. I carried on watching the golf, left slightly subdued by the knowledge that my well oiled flat chest actually stands for nothing in the land of the magnificent moob.