Sartorial inelegance prompted by infrequent sunny weather W

IT is 80 years since Superman appeared in DC Action Comics.

He was about 20 at the time. So that makes him 100 and yet he’s still as active as ever.

Just keep him away from kryptonite. He emerged in the post depression years with a creed of “truth, justice and the American way” which, at the time, included rampant prejudice and southern segregation and today has Donald Trump.

Superman remains a hero, for some strange reason, although I personally prefer the UK variety who were lot more low-key. They didn’t need to shout their HEN the warm weather finally hit Huddersfield, I went looking for shorts that have been in storage since our last summer. And how many years ago is that? To be fair, I did wear shorts last year on a couple of occasions but it seems a long time since I spent weeks at a time in them.

There was even one year that was so hot I wore them to go to work at the Examiner office, although that didn’t last long.

My shorts were khaki and I soon tired of being called Gunner Sugden.

I have, in all honesty, had a lifelong love affair with shorts, possibly because my mother kept me in short trousers at school until I was 14 when everybody else in my year were in grey flannels.

“You have good legs. You should show them,” she told me, which is an unlikely comment for any mother to make to their son.

It left me with the lasting impression that my legs were superior to the run of the mill variety that remained covered in all seasons and so, while in long trews for college, work and going out with girls, I reverted to shorts in my spare time every summer.

When I lived and worked in Uganda, when runners still carried messages in cleft sticks because the internet hadn’t been invented, I wore shorts everyday like everybody else, although it was necessary to team them with long socks and a semi-formal short-sleeved shirt with top pockets for cigarette packet and notebook. In those days, everybody smoked.

On one occasion I was giving my daughter and student chums a lift back to university in my shorts – well, it was actually in my car as I’ve never had shorts that roomy – when one asked her: “Your dad has footballers superiority or wear underpants over tights: they were British, for goodness sake.

Andy Capp, for instance, continues to avoid work, get drunk and fall in the canal, when he must be in his 80s. So obviously Newcastle Brown hasn’t done him any harm, while Dennis the Menace first appeared in the Beano in 1951 as a nine or 10-year-old which makes him 67. And still menacing.

Roy of the Rovers had a 39-year playing career until he lost a foot in a helicopter crash in 1993, by which time he must have been at least 57. And people say Rooney is past it at 32. legs” which chuffed me to bits, even though I have never had footballers’ money.

My mother had been right, thought.

Through the years, I have gone from short shorts to knee-length, seersucker to khaki cotton and, when I semi-retired 10 years go, it

For real sporting longevity, you can’t beat Wilson the Wonder Athlete who, naturally, was from Yorkshire. He was born in a moorland village in 1795 and was running a three-minute mile two centuries later. They breed ‘em tough in Yorkshire. Which brings me to my final hero, Alf Tupper, Tough of the Track, whose diet was fish and chips, and who would often run to a White City event after missing the bus because he’d been on night shift, and still beat the snobby toffs who looked down on him.

My kind of heroes. And none of them wore underpants over tights. was at first a relief to wear shorts permanently from spring to autumn in the privacy of my own home and garden.

In recent years I have struggled to find the correct sort of garment with which to gird my loins.

This was brought home to me this week when I dug out the ones from previous years.

A pair of extremely baggy ones with enough pockets to house a picnic for four – including table and chairs – made me look like Bob the builder’s demented brother who opted at birth for a screwdriver rather than dress sense.

A lightweight pair had been packed away with such ingenuity they looked like concertinas. So did my legs when I put them on.

I tried Google to find styles that might suit and was lost in a fashion maze of choice: combat, slimfit, regular, cargo, chino, turn-ups, skinny fit, jersey, stretch, patterned, checked, dock, running, Bermuda, flatfront, board, surfer, plaid, casual and formal.

And jeans shorts, I discovered, are now known as jorts. Just in case you were interested.

The ones I had made me look daft so – no doubt like many others – I nipped into town to buy replacements.

It was a snap decision because, this being Britain, the monsoon season could return without warning anytime.

I returned with two items plus a pack of those little socks that don’t look like socks but keep your feet comfortable in trainers even on a sweaty day.

I retired to my bedroom and tried them on. And do you know what? My legs may retain a hint of past athleticism, but I still look daft in shorts.

Or maybe I have become sensitive in my old age.

Nonetheless,I shall wear them in memory of ages past and because they are decidedly more comfortable than long trousers or tracksuits in hot weather.