Due to the vagaries of print deadlines, I will be sunning myself in Portugal when you read this, as I enjoy the marriage test that is a two-week holiday. As yet, I don’t know what I’ll be wearing, as I had a sartorial panic attack as I was shopping for holiday clothes.

The trigger for this was co-ords, the matching shirt-and-short combos that loads of blokes are wearing on holiday. I was searching through the Asos website and visualising how cool I was going to look heading to the beach in my matchy-matchy outfit. Men and women would raise their sunglasses as I walked past and say: “I can’t believe that guy is so well dressed just to come to the beach.” Children would stop making sandcastles and say to their dads: “I wish you were as cool as that man over there.”

I was snapped back into reality when I took a moment to engage with what I might actually look like in these clothes. It dawned on me that everyone I saw on the website was about 15 to 20 years younger than I am, and that while I could buy the stuff, it wouldn’t include a new body and head.

I have long been guilty of dressing too young for my age. My obsession with hip-hop has given me an addiction to trainers, which are very much a young person’s game, and I am known to rock a full tracksuit, under the pretence that it’s more comfortable to travel in. I recently watched an Instagram clip where a rapper talked about how tragic it was to wear a cap when you’re over 35, and I glanced across at my collection of them with a single midlife-crisis tear rolling down my cheek. All this time, I’d assumed I was a guy who dressed quite well, but it turns out I’m a sad mutton man.

It’s difficult to know how to move your dress sense on as a bloke. I look at some of my friends, and they are very much ensconced in the blazer-and-smart-shoes club. They have started talking about expensive watches, and even cufflinks. I read men’s magazines and there’s loads of talk about acquiring a capsule wardrobe as you get older, and discarding some of the garments that were once staples. According to the experts, I shouldn’t be wearing caps, camo, sportswear or trainers, unless I decide to pair a smart white plimsoll with a summer suit when “attending an outdoor gig”. Christ.

I considered ploughing my money into designer clothing, but it is super-expensive and there is something a bit tragic about paying a shitload more money for a fairly standard-looking garment just because it has a horse on it. Also, I once spent £100 on a polo shirt from Lacoste and spilled olive oil on it the first time I wore it out.

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My dress sense has improved since I first started doing comedy. I remember supporting Seann Walsh at a gig and him pissing himself laughing because I was about to go on stage in an outfit he assumed I had worn earlier in the day to teach maths. I once had to redo a photoshoot for my Edinburgh show because my agent at the time told me: “The photos are unusable because of what you’re wearing.”

I have come to the conclusion that I have thought about it too much. In future, I will shoot from the hip. I am hoping that, as you read this, I will be sitting on a beach in lime green co-ords with yellow sliders, embarrassing the hell out of my family, but feeling absolutely fresh to death while doing it. In reality, my wife will probably just ask me to change into something that doesn’t make me look like Ali G. Which in itself is an outdated reference and further proof that I’m just too old to even try.