It doesn’t even look like a good tea towel. If this shirt was a tea towel it wouldn’t get in my ten best tea towels. So how did it ever rise through the ranks of things-that-fitted-me to the position of deputy best shirt? I don’t know. I really don’t.
And I hated this shirt. Hated it. The pocket had another, smaller, pocket in it. This quirky design choice made it an absolute bastard to iron. Every time I struggled with the inaccessible crumple inside the pocket, trying to make it flat enough so that I wore the shirt it wouldn’t look like there was a stray boob lurking beneath it, I had the same thought: “You wouldn’t have to mess around with this stupid pocket every week if you lost a stone or two, would you, you fat chimp?”
So yeah, good riddance, shirt. See you in hell.