Angst in the Pants

And yay, verily, did the festive holiday draw to an end. Yeah, we’re all there. One of the problems with the New Year Bank Holiday Monday is that it always feels more like a Sunday than most Sundays do, and that inevitably whacks your fragile equilibrium into an even more confused state than it is in already.

‘The Clanging Chimes of Doom’, Sunday

And post-Christmas, that sinking feeling of returning to gift-less routine is heightened. It is particularly reminiscent of that sensation of not having done the weekend homework, and then being reminded of it by the clanging chimes of doom that are the introductory notes to the theme music of Songs of Praise – it meant potentially attempting to shoe-horn eight hours work into two brain-pressing hours, so probably best off not even beginning, eh? Start shitting yourself now, as this is going to be unpleasant – all night, whilst you think about not having done it, and all day tomorrow as a list of teachers ask you where your work is.

Of course, it has been over 20 years since that actual howework feeling was replaced by the hypothetical Sunday-night conundrum. This was during the hate-filled secondary schooldays, back in the 80’s. Ah yes, the 80’s…to think that men actually wore stone-washed denim trousers with elasticated ankles, rounded Su Pollard-esque glasses with flick haircuts and ill-fitting Fila tracksuit tops…wait…..what is this walking nightmare coming towards me? Dear God, surely not every high street up and down this feted land is populated by people thinking Farrah is a cool brand, wearing these diarrhea-stopping Smurf pants? This part of fashion 25 years ago was, quite frankly, shit. Simple. There was the occasionally timeless piece that was revered enough to stand the test of time, yet there was so much that was bad, that surely this is not the path to take inspiration from? Apparently, the ‘kids’ and those in the trendy-know call it ‘ironic fashion’. Well, if you are stopped in the street and abused, it will not be ‘ironic abuse’ you will face.

Of course, drawing inspiration from previous decades to guide direction and give identity to your own time in the fashion lineage clock-watch is nothing new – flares were shit in the 70’s, a cut that managed to make both men and women looked like they had webbed flippers for feet, smuggled under sails of washed-out denim or, dare I say it, corduroy of various hues of brown. Even when the Manchester bands of the late 80’s/early 90’s brought ‘baggy’ fashion to it’s extreme, yet logical, conclusion in tandem with the underground rave and club culture, they weren’t stupid enough to go full-blown bell-bottom often. It looked really stupid when our parents did it, so why go there again when we had the chance to learn from their mistakes and correct that flappy part of history?

The 70’s – ‘sails of denim’

So, it beggars the question: why the fucking hippy-hoppity Christ-in-a-leftovers-sandwich would you want to replicate the absolute worst of a decade through this form of trouser? They are the Thatcher of fashion, representing the devil in denim form, and the garment and those idiotic enough to be wearing them must be punished.

Those young enough to not remember this stylistic abortion of a decade can almost be forgiven, but they will have parents that can remember this turgid time, and should have the power to intervene. And, if I may, I want to add Harem pants to this particular cult of trend. Please, there is absolutely nothing attractive about a pair of trousers that make you look like you’re late getting back to your dialysis machine. If they ‘fit’ then it looks like you’ve soiled yourself. If they don’t, it looks like you need your ‘bag’ emptying. Why not do yourself a favour, men, and divert attention from these gravity-sodden arse-slings for the mentally ill, by adding some Ugg boots to complete the look?

As if this wasn’t bad enough, the concern is that we are one step away from the summer months and a nationwide, beer-garden epidemic of being plagued by reams and reams of uber-Chav, marching around in Loadsa Money t-shirts. These were readily on sale in the fashion hotspot that was Watford Market when I was fighting with my teenage self, and avoiding lessons (and the inevitable homework mentioned above). For those unaware, Watford still exists. It will always suffer from being the proverbial ‘satellite town’, as far north of London as that ‘paragon of scum’ Croydon is to the south. In the 80’s the public were probably familiar with Watford more for the football team and it’s famous, flamboyant and teary-eyed, boater-wearing, coke-hoover of a Chairman; Reginald Dwight.

Well, he was back in the media over the Christmas period, as Sir Elton, 63, and his film-maker partner David Furnish welcomed their first-bought into the world. You have to place ‘film-maker’ in front of Mr Furnish’s name, otherwise nobody would have any idea what he supposedly ‘does’. What he doesn’t do particularly well, and one would expect better from a partner such as he, is advise the midget-armed, sausages-for-fingers Queen of Arrogance about his clothing. How can a man with that much money only seem to be able to buy jackets that fit his arms as well as Jamie Oliver’s tongue fits his mouth?

Elton – sausages wrapped in banana

I fear that the understated and not-idiotically-named Zachary (ok, fair enough) Jackson (please not after that King of The Kid Worriers, surely?) Levon (nope, no idea, any clues please let me know below?) Furnish-John shall end up with baby-grows falling of his feet and gloves the size and proportion of Mickey Mouse’s, if Daddy Wallet has to dress him. However, that is about as likely as Watford being voted European City of Culture, or any of us looking forward to going back to work after an extended holiday.

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