I am currently in a pub full of men of either Jamaican or African ancestry. It’s fairly brusque; the rap music, which I do not recognise, is loud. The atmosphere is very male, very competitve. Yet, as I sit here in this south London pub, I cannot help wondering what would happen if these highly masculine men ever found out that the guy in the wheelchair is wearing a pair of knickers with read heart-shaped polka dots. Oh how I love this irony.