I
know, I thought, I’ll buy myself some new clothes. That’s the
sort of thing that makes you feel all nice and good about yourself,
isn’t it. New clothes. Perhaps something a bit daring, maybe even
glaringly colourful. Yes, new clothes, that’s what I’ll do, get
some new clothes. So off I popped to the village shops, where I
exchanged money cash for goods. I purchased some rather jaunty red
corduroy trousers, a lovely ‘Christmas’ jumper and a striped,
long sleeved T-shirt. Due to my recent decision to run a marathon in
April I have been in training, this training has resulted in less fat
about my person and this has resulted in me purchasing a smaller size
garment than I’m used to, which is most pleasing. So I was feeling
pretty snazzy, all decked out in fresh new togs, a glint in my eye, a
new thirst for excitement and adventure and all that bollocks. I felt
good. I looked good, or rather, I thought I looked good. Fortunately
I’m surrounded by people – I hesitate to call them friends –
kind enough to correct me, and apparently I in fact look a bit of a
twat.
Yes,
it would appear that red corduroy trousers are either completely
hysterical or ‘good trousers for a stand up comic’, and although
I am dabbling in that field of entertainment I suspect the person who
informed me of this meant that I looked ridiculous. My lovely jumper
also attracted guffaws and varied criticism which made me question
the validity of the compliment offered by Miss Lovely at work, though
I have since decided it was genuine due to her Lovely stature.
However, it was comments on the striped, long sleeved top that
confused me the most. According to one particularly helpful
acquaintance, it is a unisex top but the stripes are too thin and
close together, making it look like I am wearing a girls top.
First
of all: fuck off. Secondly, no it doesn’t. It was at this point
someone, admittedly defending me somewhat, explained that it couldn’t
be a girls top because the pocket was on the wearers left, as if this
was a dress code fact that every adult was in possession of. Which
they are not, because I didn’t have a clue about this, or the
follow up knowledge that buttons are on the other side for the
ladies. Why? I’ll bloody tell you why: so that if you walk into a
shop and see a top you like, you can’t sodding buy it because it’s
been decided that it’s for the boobed among us and so has wrong
buttons and a pocket on the right, to you, if you’re wearing it.
Bastards.
Anyway,
as luck would have it I don’t really give a stuff about what other
people think about my dress sense. Well, most people. I still happen
to think I look rather spiffing and as such I shall continue to wear
what I please. I happen to believe that the idea of ‘cool’ or
‘hip’ or whatever the kids are calling it these days – probably
‘hool’ – in relation to what one wears, only exists in those
that don’t give a hoot about what someone may opine about their
wardrobe. As long as you think you look good, you will feel good.
That is really hool. Anything else is a variant of pathetic fashion
chasing, which is most certainly unhool. What I am a little worried
by is this new clothing based information that has fallen into my
brain. I had no idea that a top that could otherwise be worn by
anybody, be they of penis or vagina, is rendered rather useless to
one team by the strategic use of a gender based pocket and button
system created by retailers in order to sell specific looks and the
like to specific genitalia owning persons. Not on really.
I
suppose you could buy a ladies top, with its pocket and buttons on
the wrong side, and wear it on your hairy, manly back. I suppose you
could do that, but as it seems that the entire world has been aware
of the rules for a long time before I cottoned on, someone will
probably call you a variety of names and maybe even question your
sexuality. Now that I know the rules I sure as Hell will. If it
wasn’t for the pockets and buttons – oh and if I’m to believe
what I hear, the thickness of stripes and how close they are together
– we could all wear what we wanted. But then the shops couldn’t
control us and split us up in demographics, like the silly little
wankers they obviously think we are. Next they’ll be trying to tell
me that all underwear isn’t unisex. Patronising idiots.
So
I shall be ignoring all fashion advice from anyone I don’t want to
have sex with. This seems a pretty good rule of thumb and means that
I shall remain in control of how I look, rather than Top Man and
River Island and Next. Which, having seen the mannequins in the
windows of said shops, is a bloody good thing. Because they look like
cunts, and I hardly need to underline my personality by wearing a
uniform.
0 Comments