Which is old naval slang and has absolutely nothing to do with a monkey’s downstairs.
But not everyone reacts to winter like it’s a seasonal emergency.
Because scattered across New Zealand are a special group of people who proudly deny the cold and continue wearing shorts to spite winter, because apparently no planetary tilt and reduced daylight hours are going to tell them how to dress.
I call these people winter shorts people.
Now the interesting thing is the members of this club never make a fuss about it either.
They don’t arrive anywhere announcing they’re cold-resistant.
They simply appear, pins out, completely relaxed, while the rest of us are dressed like we’re preparing for an Antarctic mission.
And it does make you wonder what exactly is going on here.
Because New Zealand winter isn’t subtle.
We’ve all had that awful moment at 3am where you wake up and have a genuine internal debate about whether going to the toilet is worth leaving the blankets for.
Yet somehow, winter shorts people carry on as if none of this concerns them.
Part of me thinks it simply comes down to insulation.
At some point, leg hair stops being cosmetic and starts functioning like the Pink Batts in your ceiling, trapping warmth and quietly protecting the lower body from frostbite.
But I suspect in reality these are the same people who walk barefoot across scorching black sand in summer and casually say, “It’s not that hot”.
The same people who ignore police advice and bite straight into a pie without blowing on it first.
It’s less about temperature and more about mindset.
And once you start noticing them, you realise there isn’t just one type of winter shorts person. There’s a whole ecosystem.
First, you’ve got the tradie, because shorts are basically part of the unwritten tradie uniform.
Steel cap boots. Shorts. Hardware store-branded beanie. Hoodie.
The risk of waxing from a belt sander doesn’t stop them wearing shorts.
Frost doesn’t stop them wearing shorts.
I’m also fairly certain that if a meteor hit Earth and we entered another ice age, there’d still be a bloke framing up a garage in shorts.
Then there’s the school drop-off dad.
Standing there in shorts, coffee in hand, chatting away like it’s a mild autumn morning while every other parent looks like they belong in a black-and-white photo from Scott’s Antarctic expedition.
But the thing that always gives him away as not being a genuine winter shorts person is what happens after drop-off.
Because the second the kids disappear through the school gates, he jumps back into an SUV and cranks the heater to temperatures normally associated with rotisserie chickens.
And then there’s the office shorts guy.
This is a completely different category.
His shorts-wearing has nothing to do with temperature or weather.
It’s about whether “pins out” belongs near a quarterly sales meeting.
Because “business casual” is already one of the most confusing dress codes ever created – nobody actually knows where the line is.
One person’s version of business casual is a tidy jersey and chinos.
Another person hears the word casual and arrives looking like they’re heading to a barbecue after work.
The office shorts person lives right on that line – business up top, very casual party below the equator.
You just know at some point there’ll be a carefully worded group email drafted about “appropriate workplace attire,” which somehow also includes a reminder to put your dishes in the staffroom dishwasher.
Then there’s the sideline supporters.
You’ll find them pacing up and down rugby fields and netball courts every Saturday morning.
Shorts on. Legs out.
Hands tucked deep into the sleeves of a hoodie while everyone else slowly loses circulation in their toes.
And finally, there’s the farmer.
We’ll call him Ian.
Ian does not check weather apps.
Ian walks outside, looks at the frost sitting heavy across the paddocks, sees the troughs frozen over, and simply gets on with things.
Because for Ian, the weather is simply information, not a reason to change plans or to change into leg restrictors.
He’s running a simple wardrobe. Shorts. Gumboots. Swanndri. Maybe a jersey if conditions become genuinely extreme.
Which is why I reckon the winter solstice deserves a rethink.
Forget the shortest day. From now on, it’s National Shorts Day.
A celebration of the brave New Zealanders who’ve spent decades refusing to surrender their knees to winter, and of shorts themselves, from the 70s Stubbies to the trusted Harlequin shorts that still have a season or two left in them.
So roll up your jeans. Pull on the shorts. Let your shins see daylight and celebrate the winter solstice exactly as Fred Dagg would have wanted.
Happy National Shorts Day.
