I am not brave enough to take guerrilla photos of moustaches in Italian cafes but I have been pushing the boundaries of discretion in my admiring observation of the variety of mustachios on show since my arrival in the land of Verdi; bristling, razor-sharp, toothbrush, curlicue, drooperino, dashing, suave, waxed, prinked or uplifted, the moustaches of Italy are pleasing me no end.
It is now, however, clear to me that I have been checking out the B-listers: the 9th World Beard and Moustache Championships took place in Brighton last weekend. This event was organised by the Handlebar Club of Great Britain whose members must display ‘a hirsute appendage of the upper lip, with graspable extremities.’ It’s phrasing like that, particularly the locution ‘graspable extremities,’ that makes me grateful to providence for having deposited my protopersonage on the narrow land at the hour of my birth.
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