A recent suggestion on the Daily Post was Write about one thing you’ve never told anyone and explain why.

I‘m not wild about this one. If there is something that you’ve never told anyone, ever, there probably is a very good reason, so the place to unburden your soul about it is probably not on a blog which is easily accessible by your spouse, by your boss, or by Interpol.

Anyway, regular readers will feel that there surely can’t be much that I keep from anyone. I’ve told you all here about my blackouts, my heart ops, my pacemaker. I’ve told you about my depression, my derealisation, my shrink. I mention my local so often that, without telling you I drink a lot, I’ve told you I drink a lot. I’ve told you I’m short, I’ve told you I support Man United, I’ve even told you that I used to play cricket.

The only reason that I’ve never told you that I was the Tipperary County 1987 Irish Dancing Champion is that it isn’t true.

But I feel that I should share some secret, so I’m going to show you something which people who knew me at the time know all about, but which I’ve never shared the shame of in front of you blog friends before (here we go, Laughykate).

Have a look at the attached photo. A couple of things will strike you about it. The first is that Tinman does not have access to one of those gizmos by which criminals, victims or witnesses are pixillated in TV programs, and has instead hidden his face by the more Amish method of using the eraser in Microsoft Paint (and I’m bloody proud of having been able to do even that, let me tell you).

The second thing is that it seems that I am being haunted by the ghost of a small choirboy. That in fact is Tinson2, on his First Communion Day.

But focus again on me. Ignore the fact that I appear to have been vomited on by the Tippex monster, and have a look at the hair. I know it’s not a great picture, but the hair is blond. Yet I was born with brown hair.

So that’s my secret. From mid 2002 until late 2003 I dyed my hair blond.

It began as a bit of a joke, Tinson1 and I both did it on holiday in Majorca (his whole class were doing it, it was some sort of bonding thing), but when it started to grow out (aaargh!!! look at my roots!!) I found myself doing it again. And then again, and again, until one morning about 18 months later when I dragged myself out of bed for work, look at myself blearily in the bathroom mirror, and thought “wow, you look like a real gobshite.”

So there you have it. Whether you were about to confess that you never liked your mother, or you were about to admit you always fancied your wife’s sister, or you were about to reveal that you were actually the guy on the grassy knoll, you can put your laptop away now.

You’ll never top my revelation.


2 thoughts on “Goldilocks

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