Fashion Disasters

One recent morning, as I stood on the station platform waiting for my train, a young man walked past me, wearing a dark suit jacket and trousers, black t-shirt, faux Stetson shoes, and a shiny top hat.

I immediately thought: moron.

Perhaps it was uncharitable of me to do so. Afterall, my own dress sense has never exactly been award-winning. Indeed, a fair judge would deduce that I was the last person to be smirking at someone else’s attire. But at least I try to make an attempt - however token - to appear inconspicuous, if not exactly normal. This young man’s getup, by contrast, simply invited scorn.

He didn’t look like he was going to a fancy dress party, despite his appearance (anyway, it was 7:30am). You can always tell when someone has taken the trouble to kit themselves up for an occasion: they have an air of self-consciousness, as though desiring attention and yet dreading the prospect. This guy was just standing on the platform, waiting like the rest of us for the train to arrive.

Which could only have meant one thing: the clothes were a fashion statement. Which could only have meant one other thing: they were a retro fashion statement.

I could feel an existential sigh wafting through my soul as I considered the possibility. Our society labours under the deadening effect of many scourges. Of these, fashion would have to be one of the most pernicious. And of this particular form of self-inflicted brain damage, retro fashion counts as the most idiotic.

What is it, I wondered, that made people want to wear platform boots and flared trousers again? Hadn’t it been bad enough the first time around? Had young people not seen footage of the 70’s and realised how stupid people looked? What made them think they’d scrub up any better just because it was the 21st century?

The young man on the station platform was a case in point. He’d obviously been convinced by his peers that gadding about in a suit and spats and a top hat would be good for his image. Which either meant his friends were severely mentally defective, or they were taking the piss. Not that he seemed aware of the absurdity of his appearance. On the contrary, he calmly paced about in a small circle, serene in the thought that he cut a dashing, sophisticated figure.

Instead, he looked like a complete git.

Ah, well, I suppose we’ve all looked like complete gits from time to time, either as a consequence of an absurd attempt to court popularity, or in a desperate effort to avoid it. All except me, that is. In my case, avoiding popularity is a natural talent, affording me the freedom to dress how I like. For comfort; or, as my Dearly Beloved is wont to point out, like a slob. Still, it at least has this consolation: if I look like a git, at least I’m a comfortable git.

Unlike some other people I could name, clunking about in their platform soles and top hats.

Talk to you soon,

BB

Quote for the Day: Fashion is merely a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every six months. (Oscar Wilde)