I've always been a bit weary of bras. Don't really understand them. I mean yes they hold the norks up, but I've never really been much of a ladies man. Despite my powerful masculinity and love of sports (tennis counts), I am of the sexual persuasion of the ancient Greeks. More give me head Beckham than on me head Beckham. He's the footballer, yes? The one with Posh Spice? Astonishing woman. Invisible to the naked eye.
So, like any red-blooded male (shutup) I'll be donning a bra. A double D no less. But it's not because I like to dress up in women's clothes, except for that one time when I wore my mum's high heels as a kid (I just liked the noise they made as they clip-clopped on the floor), it's for charity. Through the streets of Edinburgh I'll proudly march to help protect bresticles everywhere. It's at midnight, so I'll have the bra over a t-shirt so I won't have nipples you could hang your overcoat on. It's called the Edinburgh Moonwalk and it's for breast cancer. If any of you have breasts, or know people who do, and can spare a little in these times of economic apocalypse, please visit my fundraising site - there's a link on my Facebook profile.
Shit. There goes my secret identity. And I was going to use it to fight crime as well.
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