Misinformed, angry, coffee-addled ranting.
I am the most powerful man in the Universe.
That’s a bold statement I know, but hear me out. A few weeks ago, I wrote an article calling for the introduction of new chants and songs at Varsity sporting matches. Unhappy with the repetitive and unimaginative ditties being spouted at these encounters, I took to my blog to express my displeasure. And lo and behold, at last night’s Rugby Union Varsity, people had heeded my word and come up with some new and reasonably intelligent songs. I’ve decided this is all due to my article, and therefore I’m going to be using my new found position as the centre of the universe to right a few more wrongs and attempt to make this world a better place for us all to live.
Or, more accurately I’m just going to complain about things I don’t like to a cold, uncaring internet.
My biggest bugbear at the moment is probably the ‘irony’ of fashion. I’ve never been particularly stylish, and God knows I’ve not got the best track record when it comes to my appearance. A brief foray into the realms of circa-2007 The Horrors style backcombing, complete with pencil thin jeans and eyeliner was perhaps not my wisest choice.
But as questionably-attired as I may be, it looks like I’m running things from now on, so I better get fixing the problems in fashion as I see them. I once asked a German friend of mine what were the typical first thoughts that come to mind when thinking of a British person. She replied:
“Mr Bean. Oh and that the women can’t dress.”
Harsh. But then sat as we were outside a bar in the middle of Venice (because I’m a posh fucker) surrounded by good-looking young Italians all dressed both stylishly and sexily, I had to concede that she might be on to something. I started to compare how the Italian students were dressed in comparison to British ones. There was no sign of the inch-thick shovelling of hideous brown sludge onto the flesh that is fake tan. There was no sign of the ‘plump’ girl in a dress made for someone half her size that, whenever she breaths in manages to display her vagina to everyone in attendance; who try their hardest not to look at it whilst also being totally unable to look anywhere else, like they were witnessing an eclipse. And there was absolutely no sign of animal print.
Now, I’ve already said that I don’t understand fashion. My idea of haute couture is a pair of skinny jeans and a faded band t-shirt. Maybe a jacket if I’m feeling especially cutting-edge. But even I know that leopard print has a reputation of being the single tackiest thing in existence. Del Boy from Only Fools & Horses, animal print connoisseur, was not a man known for his subtlety or class.
Buying leopard print, as any right thinking person knows, represents the first in a series of increasingly poor life-choices that inevitably leads the class-challenged girl in question to a filthy hotel room in Kavos, having unprotected sex with a herpes-riddled Geordie she’s just met while her best friend gets the same treatment in the bed next to her. It’s a direct correlation and a scientific fact.
But what has been explained to me recently is that the whole reason things like animal print are fashionable now is because they are distinctly un-fashionable. It’s supposed to be ironic, in the same way that thick rimmed glasses and elbow patches went from being a staple of fusty old Geography teachers to be termed ‘Geek chic’. The guy in the River Island catalogue with the smug, punchable face doesn’t have a moustache because he thinks it looks good. He has a moustache because he knows it doesn’t look good, which therefore means that it’s fashionable because fuck logic.
This desire for irony is why (some) Vintage clothing shops have reduced their focus on genuinely stylish old clothes and started stocking hideous old sweaters and mustard-yellow corduroy jackets that no-one would be seen dead in if they found them in a charity shop. But when the Vintage store takes these items and slaps a £40 price tag on them, people lap them up.
Fashion isn’t supposed to make sense. There isn’t any real logic to why some things look ridiculous and others incredibly stylish. Fads come and go, so what may be the height of style today may tomorrow be so offensive to your eyeballs that you immediately vomit on sight.
I suppose this is the whole reason why I’ll never understand fashion. It requires an ability to think outside the box, to challenge preconceptions about what does or doesn’t look good. To take risks, to tell people that they don’t have to be confined by the traditional notions of what is acceptable. Most of all, to have the balls to say “laugh now, but one day you’ll all be wearing this”.
I won’t be. You look like a c**t.