Here’s how that looked:
The lyrics to M People’s 1994 swankwank classic are inspiring, no doubt about it, and on a good day, Wolverine’s claws, The Angel’s wings and Batman’s...batty ear thingies, poke from your clothes and skin like priapic urges in a monastery.
“If only I weren’t on a crowded bus surrounded by old women and babies! The way I feel right now, I could cast off this illusory mantle of alter-egoness and bound, fly or teleport myself towards my dream horizon in the spangliest costume evah!.”
And that’s where the problems begin.
You do ascend to that horizon! You do triumph over seemingly undefeatable enemies (most of whom wear helmets and capes more ludicrously spectacular than your own)! You do bask in the adoration of a world saved from disaster!
Then you go back to normal for a while, cutting toenails, chewing the fat, ironing shirts with difficult-to-iron collars and awkwardly flibbly sticky-outy bits.
And the hero inside yourself strips down to his bra and pants, and stumbles round the idly pumped frisbee flume of your bloodstream, looking for a decent razor and maybe a toothbrush.
The hours after battling heroically with an exuberant draft or meticulous edit can be flatter than Mae West’s breasts pressed between hugging titans.
You want to bound or fly or teleport some more, but the alleyway trashcan of life demands that you stop, either because it’s 3am, your partner is threatening to kill themself, you haven’t eaten for months — or some other stupid, stupid reason.
All of which stinketh mucho yucko.
But costumes are wilful as memes, selfish genes.
And even the drabbest of vaguely horned helmets will find a way to throw itself onto the shambling figure lost in your arterial alleyways of oblivion.
So keep checking your extremities for tell-tale signs of cozziepokery.
Like Dr Doom said, “every nipple or bellend is potentially the tip of a flamboyantly gloved superhero thumb.”