(With apologies to Manchester punk poet, John Cooper Clarke)

There are some things in life that should never happen, however old you get. For instance, as we’ve got ‘shirt’ in the title, let me expound forth on one of my pet hates; men who wear shirts, of the proper buttoned up kind, untucked.

I know there are caveats such as if you are wearing a shirt over a t-shirt. I do get that, but I’m talking about a buttoned up shirt with nothing underneath it. I think some middle and later aged men do it because they think it’s trendy. OK, whatever floats your boat.

Others do it, let’s face it, because they consume huge amounts of beer, do no exercise and as a result have large stomachs.

However, you try to market it, it’s an awful look. Never have (untucked), never will.

There are other things that one should never stoop to even when you get to my age, but having gone on a bit too long about shirts over trousers, let’s get to the nub of this blog.

No, I want to talk about neck sizes.

I remember when I started work as a trainee solicitor at the fine establishment of AW Mawer & Co, solicitors of King Street West, Manchester, my shirt neck size was a 14 and a half. I’m sure it was. I then hovered around the sizes 15, and 15 and a half, for a long time. Some time in my late thirties, early forties, I reached size 16 and then I sort of stopped wearing formal shirts on a regular basis. Somewhere though I did hit 16 and a half, but occasionally came back down to 16, depending on how much running I was doing.

Cut to the chase Waring, I hear you yawning. Well, the other week, our youngest son Ben got picked to play for the MCC at Lords. To those who are not cricket buffs, playing for the MCC is considered quite prestigious in itself, but add to that the playing at Lords bit and yes, it’s quite a nice thing to achieve.

Lords is quite ‘establishment’, if you didn’t already know. In fact it is the very embodiment of ‘The Establishment’. Writing about Lords and its ethos, stuffiness, archaic rules, traditions and wonders, would take up several blogs. However, let’s just say, father Waring was invited to join son, for some sort of soiree after the game if son’s team won. Don’t read anything sexist into this – Mother Bear was asked first and declined on the grounds that she’s from Stockport and she was not dressing up for the benefit of any of the Sir Bufton -Tuftons that inhabit (literally) the Lords Pavilion.

I have been in the Pavilion before, a few times. So I knew the drill: shirt, tie and jacket (shirt most certainly tucked in) plus decent trousers and shoes. Not really difficult, but the day before our visit, I thought I’d best check the existing, ‘shirts that go with ties’ section of the wardrobe in which all are 16s/ 16 and a half collar shirts. That’s fine. I still rarely wear a tie even if I put a shirt on.

I tried a 16. Button up to the top and wear a tie. Actually I wasn’t able to fasten the top button. Must do some more running.

OK, on to one of the 16 and a half shirts. In fact onto all the 16 and a half shirts. Top button a tad tight on them all I’d say. More than a tad tight – on all of them. A check in the mirror, confirmed to my horror, what I had thought. I looked like Orville sitting on Rod Hull’s arm – or more to the point, I looked like Orville with Rod Hull’s arm stuck up his jacksy. I could just about move my head vaguely from side to side, whilst mouthing the words, ‘A gottle of geer.’

A feeling of cold terror spread through my body. I rushed downstairs and asked VW if she’d measure my neck. ‘Yeah, it’s 17 and a half.’ ‘Don’t be stupid it can’t be.’ So, she showed me the measuring tape, and there it was.

My life flashed before me. Oh, the shame and ignominy of it! Visions of walking down town and people turning to look at me, laughing, as they say to their mates, their partners or their kids;

‘Ha, ha. Look at that fat necked bastard, there!’

I drove into town contorting my mouth and cheeks with strange gurney-like movements in a vain attempt to strengthen the face and neck muscles. I got some strange looks from people in other cars, but did I care? Not a jot. Life as I had known it was now over.

Was I consigned to playing darts in the pub team? Could I somehow grow my beard down all over my neck, back and front to hide the shameful size it had now become? Would I end up wearing my open necked, sized 17 and a half shirts, outside my trousers? Perhaps a medallion on a chain, like Elvis? More like Jocky Wilson, God rest his soul!

I tried ‘Next’, first, and asked the lady in the Men’s Department if she could erm, measure my neck, please. ‘Yes, it’s 17 and a half.’ I managed to negotiate her down to a size 17. However, as is Next’s wont, they had nothing I liked, apart from one shirt which they didn’t have in 17 (or even 17 and a half, in case you were wondering).

I pottered off to, of all places, Marks and Spencers. It was, after all, Saturday afternoon. My options were limited. I had little choice. I suppose I actually broke another taboo that day, by going to get a shirt from M&S. I’ve always had a fear that John Inman of ‘Are you Being Served’ will jump out at me at any moment from an aisle in the menswear section of Marks’s.

However, a very nice lady agreed to measure my neck. Surely she’ll say: ‘Don’t worry dear it’s only 16 and a half’. Like heck she did. I managed to persuade her that she was wrong to add that extra half inch on, so we again agreed on a compromise at 17 inches. Like she cared, as she was called off to the Haberdashery Department, urgently. As if anything urgent ever happens in M&S. They’ve only just told the staff that Churchill’s died.

Anyway, I found a pleasant mid-blue 17 inch neck shirt, in the slightly posher than normal section. I couldn’t find anything other than a regular fit though. It dawned on me that if you’re 17 inches of neck, they certainly don’t think you are going to be of slim fit around the body.

I gave up.

I bought the shirt and a rather nice tie with lots of little pigs on which I thought would go down well sitting on the benches of the Lords Pavilion. I cheered myself up, by wearing one of my posh stripey summer blazers from Cannes. At least they still fit.

It was a glorious day at Lords in glorious weather. They let both the Queen of Stockport, and I, into the Pavilion. Number two son’s team lost, so we all ended up eating lunch in the Harris Garden. How quintessentially English can you get?

So I guess you’re all supposing with that happy ending I’ve forgotten all about neck sizes. Like hell I have! The gym’s taken some stick over the past two weeks and will be doing so for the foreseeable future.