Here’s a vexed question if ever there was one: at what stage must you bow to the inevitable and say goodbye to your favourite pair of jeans?

Clearly, I reckon never. However, I’ve been given the order that I’m never to wear these bad boys again.

According to the wife, this pair has reached the stage where they’re offensive. “You’ll make people uncomfortable if you wear them in public,” she said.

Well! I might have been too gutless to retaliate while she was busy attacking my pants, but I’m certainly man enough to blog my retort while she’s not around. So here it is.

More often than not, I wear underpants — dark-coloured ones at that — so there’s little chance of drawing undue attention to the offending area.

Furthermore, anyone who goes out of their way to look at my crotch is obviously doing so in the hope they’ll see something. Far from making them uncomfortable, you could say I’m providing a public service to one of the most marginalised groups in society: dirty filthy sickos.

In fact, one might almost say that kind of selfless act would make me a true Australian hero — and who wouldn’t want to be married to one of those?

Or maybe I’ll just throw the damn things away before she gets home and murders me.