There are lies, damned lies and the men with beards that tell them… Guns don’t kill people; people with beards kill people… You can tell the angels in Heaven that you never saw evil so singularly personified as you did in the eyes of the man with the fashion beard who killed you… At this point the three people reading this who know who I am will be going, “Wait a second you throbbing hypocrite! You’ve got the world’s biggest beard! You hazardously dressed twat!” Not any more sucker. I took a razor to myself just a month ago and hacked away at the face furniture until my face was as smooth and as bare as the top of William Hague’s head. Only my face is slightly less evil. There was a time when I thought having a beard was awesome. Who has a beard I thought to myself? Victorian bridge builders. Gentlemen mountaineers. Astronauts when the mission goes wrong. Bass players in death metal bands. Men who bed down al fresco behind hedges on A road roundabouts. The mavericks, the free thinkers, the imbibers and those unencumbered by a domicile or money. I wore my beard, long, ragged and proud and bus drivers, feeling pity for me, let me travel for free. So what went wrong? Fashion, my quivering friend; that’s what went wrong. It has been unavoidable for about a year now to venture outside my flat without seeing some Captain shitbeard, looking like an Edwardian naval town rent boy on a skateboard, zipping between a farmer’s market and a poetry slam, with a Nicaraguan low-sodium mocchatino to go. Do you think I can afford to be mistaken for one of these gibbering fussy men? Not on your nelly. So call this a protest shave. My face stays clean until the idiots move on to some other ridiculous trend. Death to false beards. Praise the lord and pass the Gillette Mach Three.