Good lord, man, most of us are sat around in our hovels wearing only a fried egg-stained string vest and off-white droopy y-fronts that haven't seen a washing machine since 1986. Our receding hair and month-old stubble is matted with Brylcreem and food detritus, our toes are separated with toe-jam and our cribs reek of cat's urine, sweat and talcum powder. We are covered in flies and the carpets stick to our rancid slippers as we pop to the kitchen sink for a pee or head for the front doot for the next pizza delivery. We are 8 stone overweight, covered in bed sores and fecal matter pebble-dashes the walls like a Jackson Pollock painting.
However, we reserve the right to highlight any perceived minor aesthetic imperfections in others.