Alright Welly Wankers, listen up. Yep, I’m talking to you, Mr Clapham Junction with your Ray-Bans and Northface gillet ensemble – but not you Mr Farmer who with your justified, practical reasons for wellying up.
I've noticed it’s been bucketing it down lately, which has been a bugger, but the rain seems to have bought with it a far more offensive influx of idiots who seem to think wellington boots are suitable inner city footwear.
London, or any other city blessed with the luxury of pavements, rarely falls victim to muddy bogs or flooding worthy of footwear that protects you from knee to toe, so I really can’t help but ask: what the hell are you thinking?
Whilst I’m delighted that you’ve finally realised flip-flops are not suitable for all twelve months of the year (or with smart trousers for that matter…), you appear to have ventured too far along the footwear spectrum and ended up looking like you’re en route to an abattoir.
You should have stopped somewhere around the boot/trainer region, but instead I see you’ve been brain damaged by our soggy start to Summer and now you’re sat inside a pub in Central London on a Thursday night looking like a twat, sweating your tits off while it drizzles outside.
Sitting on the Northern Line is uncomfortable enough without your shins melting behind thick rubber.
Of course, thanks to our fantastically swampy British music festivals and Topshop cashing in by churning them out in every whimsical print imaginable (puppies printed on rubber, anyone? No? How about dolly mixtures? WHY?!) wellies have become an ironic summer essential – but this rule only applies when you are pissed and dancing IN A FIELD.
We all resort to wellies upon waking up in a tent after too many cloudy ciders and shoving anything on your feet to get you to the nearest portaloo, but on a weeknight chances are you woke up sober in your home and decided through free will to do this to yourself.
Now you’re at work you had better prepare yourself for the moment you’re called into the Directors office as they suspect you are either high on hallucinogenics or trying to impersonate Ben Fogle. Admitting to either will lead to your immediate dismissal so you’re going to have to list your rational reasons for wearing wellingtons, which you’ll struggle with BECAUSE THERE AREN’T ANY.
And what are you going to do when you need to commute home, eh? Sitting on the Northern Line is uncomfortable enough without your shins melting behind thick rubber.
But you’ve done it now and the welly commitment lasts all day long. You might be able to hide the sight of them but you’ll never mask that unmistakable rubbery stench. Not to mention the lingering odour of puke which hasn’t vacated your wellingtons since your best friend vommed in one at Glastonbury last year.
Please, next time it rains just leave your wellies where they should be: coated in mud and sat in the boot of your car for 360 days of the year.
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