There are a great many things in this world I hate doing but shopping for clothes has to be number one on my list. It's even edged past eating carrots or watching Heroes.
I was looking through my wardrobe today and realised the two pairs of jeans I regularly use were almost coming apart at the seams I'd had them for so long. They were almost threadbare, stretched beyond proportion. Used within an inch of their creation, like a book you love and read again and again until the binder creases and the pages become stained. Or back in the VCR days, a video you loved and wore out by constantly hitting that damned infernal rewind button. DVD's spoil us.
So... I knew I had to go out and buy a new pair, is the long and short. Not out of choice, rather necessity. Much as I despise 'fashion', I don't however wish to look like a hobo who's just let a stray dog piss all over him. I'm sure you don't either.
I therefore head into town with a creeping sense of dread at the task ahead, much like a man on Death Row walking towards the room for his last meal. I determinedly will go into one shop and one shop only - Burton's menswear. It's near the bus stop. It's reasonably priced. And you don't have to move through a gaudy women's sectioned with a floor stained with countless knickers to reach it. The thought of going to numerous shops to do this sickens me - I'd rather fellate a cucumber dipped in arsenic. I'm in Burton's, I'm looking at numerous jeans. All respectable, all fairly 'trendy', all not too expensive. I'm never 100% on my size/length so I take a few in the changing rooms, try them on. Average. They don't stand out. I sigh. Do I accept anything or do I keep on looking? I don't WANT to keep on looking. I want to go into HMV and dive into a big pile of 4 for 20 movies, but I can't. I did that last week and the police were called, it was a messy old business...
Anyway, I am reattaching my original apparel as I listen to some tedious mother bleating onto her son in another cubicle, asking how he looks. I've almost got my trousers fully up when the curtain flies open and the mother enters! 'Oh, I'm sorry!' she protests. I yank the curtain across with one hand (the other cupping my fly), only hearing her repeating apologies between asking her son where she is. Sure, she apologised. Fair enough. No harm done. But the stupid bint should be able to tell the direction of her son's voice when he's down THE OTHER END OF THE FUCKING CHANGING AREA!! But no, she'll pull open any closed curtain willy-nilly. Who cares if it ain't my son? Fuck it, I'll just go anywhere I please. Why don't I just go through the staff restricted door and leave a crap on the carpet? Ignoring her, I hastily retreat with the several pairs of jeans I don't want and have a swift look around, grabbing a dearer pair that look better and buying them simply to make this ordeal end. £35 they cost. Thirty-five pounds. That's two box-sets of The Shield. And I just spent it on something designed simply to hold my tackle in. Madness.
I left the shop and quelled my torment by looking around Borders at all the lovely books. I saw some I wanted but didn't buy them, I have enough to keep me going. I passed numerous young people who've embraced 'fashion' - you know, the kind of men who spend six hours in places like Urban Outfitters trying to decide what kind of cardigan to buy. Will it be Lacoste? Or maybe Hilfiger? You know what? I don't give an adamantium-encrusted shite what you look like, you preening twat. If I had my way, the government would assign you clothing and that'd be it. We'd all wear boiler suits with a state logo and a barcode with a number designating who we were. George Orwell would be both proud and terrified.
I fully intend to go as long as possible without suffering this ordeal again. Fashion? You can keep it.
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