I've no clean underwear.

Again. This is a weekly problem [1]. We are so busy washing the towels daughters number one and two go through on a daily basis that there is no time to wash anything else.

So I have a choice. I can either go commando - an option I tend not to pursue - or I can wear one of the two pairs of undergarments right at the back of the sock drawer. The first is a pair of budgie smugglers I bought when a trip to Canada was prolonged unexpectedly and they were the only thing I could find in the shop. They are not even comfortable. But I would wear them before the other pair. The Union Jack pair.

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How did I end up with a pair of boxer shorts adorned with the national flag? I can't imagine anyone bought them for me. And I certainly would not have bought them myself. It's important you know that. I do not want you to think that wrapping the Union Jack around my nether regions is some weird sexual fetish of mine.

(And by the way, before anyone complains, I know it is really the Union flag unless it is on a ship. And so my boxers would only qualify as Union Jack boxers if I was standing half naked, whirling them around my head on the deck of the HMS Belfast - an image I appreciate is one none of you want to think about over your Corn Flakes [2]. But if I say the Union Jack you can picture what I mean right away. Not that I want to picture you picturing me in my Union Jack boxers. Oh, let's stop this before it gets any more embarrassing.)

I am not one for waving flags. I am not one for wearing them either. It comes of growing up in Northern Ireland where, frankly, we took that kind of thing a bit too seriously. And because, well, it's a bit naff, isn't it? A bit cringey. A bit Tory.

And anyway, it is all very well for Linford Christie or Jessica Ennis to wrap themselves up in the flag once they have won a gold medal, but I am not representing my country in any sporting event. Unless they made sitting on the sofa and scratching your bum while watching the World Cup a sport and not told me.

Still, there have been times I have worn them. I spend those days in a state of fear. What if I'm in an accident and the nurses see I'm wearing Union Jack boxers (even if they are clean)? What if I die and they base my funeral around the fact I'm wearing them?

A military internment. A Better Together sticker on the coffin. The token Tory thinking: "I knew he was one of us all along." It's horrifying. Maybe I should buy another pair of budgie smugglers just in case.


[1] Finding a pair of socks, by contrast, is a daily problem.

[2] It's not an image I want to think about either.