Darwin & The T-Shirt of Doom

As the onset of climate change manifests itself this January with the budding of plants and the decline of "the Labour Party are killing pensioners by not providing sufficient heating subsidies" headlines in the Daily Mail, I believe a dilemma has also arisen for a minority amongst us who may feel their whole raison d'etre to be challenged.

They are, of course, the young men who would strut the sub-zero streets of our provincial cities in t-shirts, emphasising their tattooed biceps however low the temperature*. It may be minus 5 in Newcastle, with the North Sea wind-chill dragging it down further, but the lads will be out in nothing less than a football shirt, regardless of the unremitting misery they may be enduring to demonstrate that they are MEN. Every year, in testament to the fact, the north-east produces a series of "drunk man found dead in t-shirt with hypothermia" stories, as the inebriated stalwarts attempt vainly to stagger the last mile home in the snow storm.

What does any of this mean in the new era of the Meditteranean winter? Well not much. In such mild weather, the choice to step out in a t-shirt just looks like you may have left your jacket in the car whilst nipping in the corner shop for a packet of fags. The whole point is lost; it's like karate expert forgoing the breeze blocks and opting to chop through ice cream.
No woman is going to think: "wow, look at that alpha male, he's exhibiting the very virility that I need to ensure that my offspring will not only survive, but thrive in just a t-shirt in the most rugged winter, I will display to him to encourage him to copulate with me!"

Indeed, under the new conditions, and the concomittant semiotic confusion that would arise from the vague new dress codes, such women may well begin to be distracted by other, less rugged, modes, like the duffel coat, or the cardigan. This could have serious consequences for the drinking classes, as the gene would become weakened as their women begin to forego the "knee-trembler" 'round the back of Harry Ramsden's, and elect for the more comfortable wooing of a night at Yate's Wine Lodge followed by some passionate slap & tickle in front of the fire somewhere in the suburbs.

Thus, an entire species of spotty, translucent-skinned herberts, raised on chips and brown ale will wither (not unlike their frozen penises) and die, whilst a less robust "continental" style of youth will emerge, with a penchant for coffee and conversation, in preferrence to the earlier traditions of ram-raiding and tribal street-brawling.

Oh yes, global warming is going to have a wider impact than you may think.

*(Note: these are not to be confused with their distant relation, the inner-city young black male in the woolly hat, worn throughout the extremes of the oppressive heat of the summer. I've no idea what's going on there.)