Remember that lovely little tear-jerker of a show with Trinny and Tranny – the women who never did quite get round to convincing a doctor to perform the separation procedure? Well, this is a little different.
I’m not going to grab your tits and tell you to “just be your bloody self”. All that lovey-dovey soapy tit-wank crap is so tiring. I’m tired of taking a walk into the city centre and feeling like I’ve stepped into a background scene of Crossroads.
You’ve all had your chance. You blew it. You look like dicks and I’m going to tell you straight. Don’t wear any of these things ever again.
Frankly, an item of clothing so dull that it could make a coked-up Tom Cruise fall into a coma so deep that his skull melts. I remember reading about chinos in 2009 as next summer’s must-buy. TWO THOUSAND AND FUCKING NINE. Move. The. Fuck. On.
If there’s a piece of clothing that more clearly advertises the fact that you have less imagination than a lobotomised seal then I’ve yet to find it.
That woman is not just some cool dyke you can plaster on an H&M tee and impress your tediously ill-informed friends with. She is Patti Smith, and if she saw you wearing that she’d probably take your eye out with a broken copy of Horses.
For the record, David Bowie isn’t a sunglasses model and The Rolling Stones aren’t a Camden-based indie T-shirt company.
You can do what you like with Ramones tees, though; ever since Paris Hilton wore one they lost more dignity than when the Hoff ate a hamburger off his bathroom floor.
HIGH WAISTED JEANS WITH GOLD BUTTONS
I don’t buy that Gok Wan hourglass figure crap and neither do you. These atrocities make your muffin top look like a pavlova and just serve to point out that you definitely spent three hours with a coat hanger this morning trying to get the bastards on.
And what on Earth is with the buttons? Is there some cosmic law that dictates that, to avoid the implosion of the universe, any denim formed remotely in the shape of high waisted jeans must be connected to gold buttons?
Please, just accept that you’re fat and slip into those comfy Suburban Mom jeans.
There’s some odd myth floating around the High Street Clique that makes men think that if they remove their socks, slip their sweaty feet into some plasticky boat shoes and roll up their jeans, women will squirm with desire. They won’t.
The only thing that comes to mind is an intense desire to hire a yacht, sail you to international waters and dump your mannequin-beaten body at sea.
CHAT-UP LINE T-SHIRTS
‘REMEMBER MY NAME/ YOU’LL BE SCREAMING IT LATER’ sounds more like a promise of sexual attack than a flirtatious catcall.
These are a very popular sight if you have the misfortune of living in a university town. If you actually wear one, let me tell you a little home truth: you probably already look, sound and smell like a virgin. Let’s not make it any more obvious.