The Truth About My Underpants

Thanks to Bertas, I’m made aware of more anti-Madeley slander doing the rounds. Only, this time, the newspapers are making a mountain out of a molehill. Or a mountain out of my crotch, which, I’ll let you know, is completely free from moles and looks nothing like a hill.

It defies reason that journalists should rehash old news where there are so many interesting stories breaking in the world. I’ve mentioned on numerous occasions that I don’t wear underpants and I’ve always been quite open when it comes to admitting that I go commando whenever and wherever I can. It’s not as though I hide the fact. I often leave my flies down at home, though, naturally, not when we have guests. Judy has long since grown accustomed to my flaps being open and the aircraft nosing its way from the hangar. Which, again, leaves me bemused that the newspapers are making such a fuss.

I wouldn’t mind but I’m not the only one who practises the mildest form of naturism. Among the many celebrities I’ve tried brought into the fold, so to speak, are Jimmy Savile and David Walliams. They both took leaflets from me and, I would hope, saved on their laundry bills. It is, I repeat, the best way you can all save the planet. If you were all to abandon underwear, you would help reduce the nation’s energy costs by around 14% per year. We would use less water and fewer detergents, while, for we gentlemen, providing adequate ventilation in vital regions where tight underwear stifles our most basic functions, such as producing seed, scratching ourselves, and playing the bassoon.

So, again, I beg you to ignore the anti-Madeley spin the media give this non-story. You heard the truth from me. Now I suggest you do the sensible thing: pants off, undies in the bin, and feel the breeze down below. I swear that you’ll thank me for it later.