Today...the pub regulars discuss their underpants preferences in a column perhaps best avoided by sensitive souls who are easily offended. The rest, now read on.

"Right lads - what sort of underpants do you wear?" inquired Thelma Gusset (pronounced "Gussay"), pen poised above her T&A-issue notebook. The regulars at the Boilermaker's raised a collective eyebrow.

"Don't look at me like that!" countered Thelma. "Blame Jeremy Paxman. He complained about M&S underpants not providing the support he needs. And now the Assistant Editor with Special Responsibility for Thinking up Embarrassing Jobs for Reporters has decided I should ask local men about their undergarment preferences for a feature on the Women's Page. So come on - don't be shy."

As no-one seemed to want to be first, The Scribbler decided he'd come to his colleague's rescue, safe in the knowledge that thanks to the closeness of their relationship Thelma already knew his answer.

"I have read," he said, "that boxer shorts are far and away the most popular style. They allow freedom, you see."

"Of course they do," said Boris the Landlord. "Stands to reason, doesn't it. That which Nature designed to dangle doesn't take kindly to being closely confined."

"Right," declared Thelma, making a note. "That's you two sorted. Now what about the rest of you?"

"I well recall the underpants worn by Mr Thrope during the long and tedious years of our marriage," mused Doris Thrope, the "Happy Medium" and mother of resting actor Barrington Thrope. "They were Y-fronts of the string variety, to match his string vest. They made his lower portions look about as alluring as a bag of sprouts."

"It's no wonder you're an only child, is it Barrington?" sniggered Graham the Gasman, never slow to lower the tone of any low discussion even further.

"Come on, Graham," coaxed Thelma. "Spill the beans about your pants."

"Jockey style," admitted Graham, with just the hint of a blush. "I need the support, you see, for professional purposes, because I do a lot of lifting - more than Jeremy Paxman does."

Barrington Thrope coughed theatrically to draw attention to himself. "Speaking of professional purposes, I once had to wear a posing pouch." The assembled company fell silent and stared at him expectantly.

"It was during a lean period in my career, when I was obliged to take a job in the sophisticated review Naughty Boys of Nineteen Ninety. I've never worn anything as uncomfortable in my life. That's why I've been a boxer man ever since."

The stunned silence was broken by the pub's new owner, Wilf the Woolman, who since his swashbuckling Siberian exploits had discarded his trilby hat and Crombie overcoat in favour of the sort of adventurer's gear favoured by Indiana Jones.

"Back in the golden age when Bradford trade was booming and t'mill was making a mint, I used to have my underpants made to measure at Brown, Muff's," he said. "They didn't go in for confining in those days. They always made them baggy, using plenty of material."

"I remember," interrupted Daphne the venerable barmaid, referring with a hint of ice in her voice to the period when she and Wilf were what nowadays would be known as an "item". She went on: "If you want to know my opinion, I think that the most comfortable sort of pants must be those favoured by true Scotsmen - namely, none at all, under a kilt."

And with that she fell silent, staring dreamily into space as she recalled Hamish McRoger. But that's another story, and probably one not suitable for telling in a family newspaper