On roads that are paved with men that behave like they know where they're going

The prosecuton calls its first witness: this guy at the gym.

This guy, this guy just looks dirty. He wears a cotton polo shirt for spin. Which is wrong, wrong, wrong. His hair is lank, greasy and just that little bit too long for his age. I guess he's 40 odd, or perhaps way way younger. It's hard to tell because he has a beard. A nasty thankfully extinct animal on your face kind of beard. It's shapeless, of a nondescript length and badly cared for. It looks remarkably like my own.

'Welcome to the beard club,' he said cheerily to me at 6.45 yesterday morning.

'Tyutrfyg,' I replied what with it being 6.45 and all.

'Grew mine when I was eighteen. I haven't shaved since.'

'Oh Jesus, dude, really? And have you washed since? Or changed that polo shirt? Because all evidence points to the negatory.'

I didn't say that, of course. I said 'Utuhguhl.'

The prosecution calls it's second witness: Riker. Riker gives her testimony on the walk home from school yesterday.

'So, Riker, darling, my first born. How was your day?'

'Fine.'

'Anything exciting happen in school?'

'No.'

'What did you do in yard?'

'Nothing.'

'Oh for fuck's sake. Are you a fucking teenager already? Engage with your father! Christ.'

I didn't say that. Instead, reachingly, I said: 'So what do you think of my beard?'

There is a Beckettian pause. My Riker is a wonderful, sensitive, thoughtful child. She had no wish to rush in to anything that might hurt my feelings. So she went into it nice and slowly.

'No offence, Dad, but it looks kind of freaky.'

'None taken, Riker. None taken.'

The prosecution rests.

The defense calls Common Law.

'I like it.'

'I don't believe you.'

'I do. I think it's sexy.'

'No you fucking don't. You just want me to go out looking like a plonker.'

Common Law sighs.

But I do believe this, folks. She's always sending me out in dodgy, generally inside out attire, with sleep in my eyes and bogeys hanging from my nose. Why? Because I was totally lying when I said that I look like a car crash victim. In truth I am devastatingly, drop dead gorgeous and Common Law just doesn't want both women and men wandering this planet weeping inside day after day for the rest of their lives as they wail and bemoan the stark reality of my takeness, my being hers. She's generous that way, Common Law. And her generosity is fucking loving the beard.

The defense calls it second and final witness: Hardcore Motherfucker, my recently recovered bicycle.

'Your Honour, there is no way on God's green Gaia that those scumbags would have handed, nay, pushed me back into the arms of my true master had it not been for the beard. Yes, his eyes were crazy. Yes, he was foaming at the mouth. But they still would have punched him in the face and kicked him in the head until he was dead had it not been for this beard, this patchy beard of the unhinged.'

The defense rests.

As usual, folks, I will be letting all you people who I've never met make the big life decisions for me.

Shave or no shave?