Misinformed, angry, coffee-addled ranting.
Next week, I start work experience at one of those fancy grown up job things. So fancy and grown up is it, that I’ve had to buy my very first suit. Now, I am both a student and a writer, so 90% of my work is done sat in my room in my pants and a Batman T-Shirt (unlike your mum, who conducts 100% of her business with her underwear in a crumpled heap on her clients’ bedroom floor. Because she’s a prostitute, yeah? Get it? Ah screw you).
I’ve written before about my reluctance to embrace fashion. But apparently proper jobs require actual clothes, rather than ill-fitting Calvin Kleins and pop-culture t-shirts with immovable curry stains. Thusly, today I ventured into the city on my sartorial quest.
In my head, I was going to saunter suavely into a fine tailor, where a sophisticated gentleman with half-moon spectacles and a waistcoat would transform me from a skinny unshaven ragamuffin into James Bond. Instead, I blindly wandered from shop to shop staring blankly at the mannequins with the same boredom and resentment as when my mum took me school uniform shopping. I was half expecting to be forced to try on the trousers right in the middle of the shop like when you were 6 because the changing rooms were full and she didn’t have time for you to piss about.
In the first shop, I was inevitably asked by the shop assistant whether I required some assistance, the automatic reaction to which is of course “no thanks, just browsing”. This would have been fine, were it not for the instant realisation that I didn’t have the faintest clue what I was looking for. Bollocks. Sheepishly I had to return to the woman I had just dismissed less than a minute before and ask for help.
“What size are you?” she asked.
“I dunno. What size do you think I am?” I replied, like a really shit Riddler. She must have thought I was an absolute dick.
I foolishly tried on a three-piece suit, figuring the waistcoat might make me resemble Roger Sterling from Mad Men. Instead I looked more like a background urchin in an amateur production of Oliver Twist.
After visiting a few more shops for comparison’s sake, I took a break for lunch. Since I was having a sophisticated grown up day, I decided to grab a cappuccino and a bacon baguette in a fancy café I’d been wanting to try for a while. Sat there admiring the view of the posh end of town and sipping on good coffee, I finally started to feel like an adult. And then I spilt ketchup in my crotch, and remembered I’m a tragic mess who shouldn’t be allowed out in public.
With a heavy heart I returned to the shopping centre to try a few more shops. Suit shopping was not as fun as Anchorman made out.
In one of the shops, the changing rooms came equipped with a little button, which you use to inform the shop assistant if you’d like another size. I thought this was quite a cool idea, until I pressed it and an alarm sounded, loudly alerting the entire store that CUBICLE 4 REQUIRES ASSISTANCE!!! URGENT!!! URGENT!!! GET THE EMERGENCY TROUSERS!!! I never realised just how seriously some people take shopping until that moment. No wonder Capitalism gets such bad press.
Exhausted, bored and full of even more violent rage than my usual level, I returned to the first shop I went to, and bought the first suit I’d tried on; trying not to think of the three hours I could have saved by doing this in the first place. Then I got home, tried it on and decided I didn’t really like it any more. Typical.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s a nice suit. I have never looked more stylish. But unfortunately, even at my most stylish I’m more David Brent than Barney Stinson. I think I’ll stick to the Batman T-Shirt.