Not that I care but….

Not that I care but….

I found a box of old photos in the loft the other day, dating back to the early eighties. They were mostly just embarrassing old pictures of me in my youth, which was why I’d stuck them the loft in the first place. Some of those fashions look ridiculous now. I didn’t think so at the time, of course, I thought I was the business, at the cutting edge, but somehow, over time, clothes become naff. I blame people who wear fashions for too long - that gives them a bad name and then it tars everyone with the same brush for years to come. I believe fashion should be more Stalinist in approach, ruthlessly regulated - not the designs necessarily, just how long you can wear stuff, a wear-by date perhaps, or better still - a loudspeaker van touring the streets proclaiming and shaming:

Attention Everyone! Platform shoes are now OUT!, I repeat Platform shoes are now OUT!

Please note: Shirts must now be tucked IN!

This is a public announcement: WHITE is the new BLACK!

Now hear this: Cerise is just so last season, darling, I say again....

Oi you in the burberry baseball cap, you look a right CHUFF! And yer bird looks a tart too. In such a world you could look at old pictures of yourself without embarrassment and simply think - what a shame I’m not allowed to wear that outfit any more - that was a great pair of stone-washed/stretch/distressed jeans, not to mention that lovely cap-sleeve Frankie T-shirt.

These days I don’t give a damn about fashion and would hardly register on the radar of the loudspeaker van if it came down my street. In fact I fear I’m rapidly approaching the age where I’m destined to become Mr Marks and Spencer – all woolly jumpers and corduroy trousers and those shoes that look like Cornish pasties. But what can I do? – if you swim too hard against this tide of corduroy and expandable waistlines you might as well don a sandwich board proclaiming ‘Look everyone – Mid-Life Crisis going on here’. Then, inevitably, after the corduroy trousers it’ll be a downward spiral into Farahs and car coats, cardigans and death.

All this from a box of photos. I must stop going into the loft.

All you need do, Sir, is become a Fashionista. Then your choice of dressings will be taken out of your hands. Sooo much cheaper than a van with a loudspeaker, and less... y'know... loud. For most of the year, anyway.