Ahh my Fellow woolly ones, tis a fine day.

The Sun is out, the birds are doing the chirping thing while dodging the traffic, the children are skipping joyfully from car to car keying them with lovely wavey patterns – and FB is pissed off.

I generally get this way on Summer Days because the moment the bright yellow bastard pokes his head round the near-eternal cloud cover of the Albion’s skies all the ladies decide to shed fifteen layers of clothing and become, erm, immodest.

This was worse when I was un-gainfully employed by the British Government as a student, mainly to keep their embarrassing unemployment figures hidden.

It was really unfair too because how was a fellow with time on his hands and a final exam the next morning suppose to do some pretend revision with nubile first years parked on the grass wearing approximations of clothing made out of dental floss. If the low-rider jeans were engaged then it was a case of statutory use of sunglasses to prevent loss of sight.

Now when I was a full Beard it was even harder. I don’t know what it was , but there would always be one really really gorgeous young European girl who would come over to my leafleting spot and talk to me about what I was doing.

Was this crazy Eurochicka trying to get a taste of the mad and bad world of the Kefiya cowboys? Was she enraptured by my mighty beard which made the white men of her native land look puny? It was hard to figure out in between trying to preserve one’s Din and doing a flag pole impressing under the Jilbab.

Eurochicka would asked deep and searching questions while gazing up very intently into the eyes.

Then my mind would be formulating these complex arguments. Weaving thread from the depths of Derrida, whacking a bit of Niel Postman, honing it all with some Chomsky and then I would want to round off with a Sayyid Qutb or Hasan Al Banna. Well, that was between thinking about taking this woman and converting the heck out of her in various ways to the ways of islam.

All this hormono-testostero-acitivy would naturally lead to the pinnacle of human eloquence which would be ultimate answer. “Yeah , erm , that’s a good question.”.

I swear I chewed through some of those leaflets to stop the wailing and gnashing ofteath.

So now I have abandoned the way of the beard and am looking for some sinful excitement to entertainment my gelatinous self. I find that all the young nubiles have descended on my life because its sunny.

There are girls in slinky tank tops, cut away dresses, low-riders with shiny G-strings that threaten to bring down a passing jumbo, t-shirts tight enough to qualify as corsets and muchly taken care of body parts for all the world and FreeBeard to see.

I hate Summer.