Dan Morris: Dad bod Baywatch and fishy goings on

By the time this column is published I'll be proudly pratting about on some Cornish beach, drinking rum from a coconut (Cornwall, Caribbean... tom-ay-to, tom-ar-to) and hopefully attempting to barbecue up some prized catch-of-the-morning. Happy days indeed.

Still, the thought of any prolonged trip away from home has felt very strange in the run up to it.

This was to be expected I suppose. The pandemic forced us into the lives of hermits, and for even the most starry-eyed swashbucklers among us, it has probably taken some time to feel natural about returning to a life of travel, adventure, exploration and fun.

But, he who dares, Rodney... After all Danny Boy, you're hardly heading to the Himalayas for six months. Baby steps my friend...

Whether it's barbecued by my own fair hands or not, the thought of tucking into to a good old bit of fresh seafood that I know was still swimming around 24 hours earlier has had my mouth watering for weeks. In fact, lets dispense with my fair hands altogether – the mother-in-law-to-be will be in attendance, and as a trained culinary sorceress, anyone else preparing such delicacies would be a travesty.

I'd be more than happy to do the 'hunter-gathering', yet my past endeavours with a fishing rod have been pretty ill-fated. I won't go into too many of the embarrassing details, but let's just say that on occasion one, the only perch involved was the one I fell off, and on occasion two, I didn't even catch enough shrimp for a cocktail.

Perhaps I'll just make my contribution in a digestion capacity. Surely any chef's greatest reward is the face of a satisfied diner? We all have our parts to play...

Singing shanties and indulging in a few pints of the finest Cornish ale is more likely to be much more my speed this break. Well, and doing my best Scarlett Johansson à la Black Widow impression in a wetsuit that now is far beyond skin tight. If I'm not bringing the gastronomic greatness, you better believe I'm gonna bring the comedy.

Said wetsuit is in fact a timely relic of one of the last trips I made to the Cornwall coast, and frankly I'm amazed it survived that particular week, let alone the subsequent nine years.

When I purchased it I was a lithe 25-year-old. I think on this particular holiday I may couple it with a corset.

One of the most wonderful things about being a British bloke on the beach of course is the proud opportunity to indulge in every fashion disaster you can imagine, and own it like a boss. Hawaiian shorts and an 'I heart Newquay' t-shirt? You better believe it honey. Crocs, Speedos, a vest and a straw fedora? Now you're talking.

It's a well-known, nigh-on universally-accepted fact that pale Englishmen are not traditionally the stuff that calendar dreams are made of. Yet when we feel the sand between our toes and the water lapping at our feet, our bulldog spirit is undeniable.

Gone are the inhibitions and banished is any subscription to 'demure'. When we hit the beach, we own the beach – and it's our catwalk, baby.

So as you continue to peruse through today's news and musings, think of me not with the aforementioned smirk, but rather as the defiant subject of the smirks of others, as I join my bloated and pasty brothers in the delinquent dad bod parade.

We've all seen Baywatch (most of us anyway), and me and mine will be ready! Some people stand in the darkness, afraid to step into the light... We may not be Hasselhoff, and we certainly aren't Zac Efron or Dwayne Johnson, but forever and always, we're always here.

A British version of this cheese-on-toast classic starring the fish-and-chip fans of Blighty? Now there's an idea, and a show that I can't be alone in craving. To all the upcoming filmmakers out there, please can one of you make this happen? Who really wants a six-pack on screen when you could have a keg?

I look forward to seeing the mailbag overflowing with audition tapes when I return to the parish...