Monday, September 28, 2009


PICTURE: Ex-'INHALANTS' stars finally re-united, as part of Hiromi Nagashima's 'GLUE-SNIFFING REVIVAL A GO GO!' champagne brunch presentation, which was hosted in the Portico Rooms, Somerset House, during a busy and well-attended London Fashion Week. "I see solvent abuse as the most prolix response of all to simulated recession," the 43-year old Osaka designer and bedwetter wittered to a bunch of pissed-up cunts from Italian Vogue.

Left: jeans, jacket, glue bag, model's own. Right: Union Flag shirt, £4, British Movement; Crombie, £100, Enfants de Fumier; bleached jeans by Mad Pam (deceased)

Well, fuck it, I've had it with music after this rotten month. Listen - in the early 1980s, do you know what the BEATLES meant to me? I'll tell you what - a broken pair of spectacles in a mound of splattered brains, a degenerate pervert serenading cartoon frogs, a far-out hippie threatening his wife with a broken whisky bottle and an ape narrating some nauseating piece of Stakhanovite propaganda about an obsequious talking train, which, for some lunatic reason, was deemed 'suitable viewing' for pre-pubescents.

Listening to the Beatles was like being transported back to a golden age where men walked around in top hats, babies died of consumption, families bathed in cold cabbage water (in a tin) and all turntables had a massive deaf man's trumpet attached. This band had no place in a world that had discovered microchips and sanitary towels. They were a tinny, whining mess, fit only to scare young visitors to the History Museum. As part of an exhibition entitled What our ancestors listened to when every waking hour was a razorcut of excrutiating fucking boredom, or similar.

And as for VERA cunting LYNN...I mean, are you kidding me? At least Josef Locke had the decency not to haul his carcass, kicking and screaming "HEEEEARRR MY SONNNGGG", into the 21st century. Vera Lynn! Didn't she play with Hawkwind, or something?

But - Buddah doing something you don't typically associate with deities! - here we are in September 2009, and BOTH of these tortured relics are clogging up the Top Ten of the UK albums chart. Words fail me. Cigarettes fail to placate me. Vomit escapes me. This is what the majority of the British music-buying public are wasting their cash on. Are you NOW in any doubt as to why the BNP did so well in the Euro elections?

So, sod it; I decided to concentrate on fashion instead this month. As most of you probably couldn't give a fig about, London's just hosted its prestigious 'Fashion Week' - seven sizzling days of sartorial innovation. Give or take a couple a days, maybe...but hey! Who's paying heed to lunar rotations, we only care about the thread count!

I'm no stranger to style myself. Why, back in my wilderness daze in Luton, I was often complimented on my tartan bondage strides (not the ones with the strap between the legs - how was I meant to run away from lagered-up freak-bashers at 11pm with one of those contraptions slowing me down?) In fact, I can count on two fingers the number of times women shouted "Nice trousers!" at me. You know, secretary types and all! And even a member of the Bury Park Youth Posse thought my kecks were 'skill'. He may have been taking the piss, but at least he didn't lamp me one. The only person who vocally expressed his disapproval was a bus driver, who informed me they were 'gay' - but any bus driver worth their salt has a decidely low opinion of humanity anyway, so at least I knew I was in for a safe ride home.

Do I still own this cheaply-sewn cloth combo of Highland clan couture and rusty zips? No, of course I don't, ya fools! That's not how FASHION works. Every garment ever produced in the name of 'fashion' has its 'season'. I ended up giving the trousers to someone as a symbol of my undying love (she actually wanted my black army jacket, but there was no way I was relinquishing THAT to a mere mortal). The trousers were promptly stuffed into the back of her wardrobe for a few months, and then discarded in a bin. A bit of a metaphor for life, if you ask...someone with nothing better to think about.

Fashion is constantly on the move, roaring through the cosmos like a Babylonian dragon. It takes no prisoners; it discards all chains. One minute, you're sauntering down the street in a denim skirt, lycra leggings and ballet pumps, cars smashing into each other as their awe-struck drivers gawp at your elegance - the next, you're screaming and locking yourself in the bathroom, broken mirror shard hovering over artery, as an acid-trippy vision of girls wearing imitation biker boots and floral dresses - a.k.a THIS season's thang! - MOCK you with derisive cackles! Fashion literally sucks you in, chews you up and spits you into the NAPKIN OF IRRELEVANCE, in the time it takes to say PHILIP GREEN'S A TASTELESS FUCKING GARGOYLE, or OH COME ON, WE ALL KNOW GAP MADE THEIR PROFITS OUT OF MUTILATING 6-YEAR OLD INDIANS, THE PASTELLY CUNTS.

Yes, believe it or not, I too have fallen foul of Fashion's fickle dictats. Like the time I purchased a bomber jacket with an orange lining, and a Union Flag and the word COMBAT sewn into the label (I got it from a branch of Millets, lol). I wore it to sixth form once and it bucketed down. Occult cloud revenge for all those 'RAIN, RAIN, GO AWAY!" spells our infant school coven used to chant at North London's leaden skies. The rain came back another day, alright, and soaked me to the bone. My 'hard man' jacket dissolved like bog roll. I had to wear my dad's old donkey jacket from then on in - a genuine 1960s building site number. "IT WAS GOOD ENOUGH FOR THE MAN WHO BUST HIS BALLS CLOTHIN' AN' FEEDIN' YA!" he raged when I didn't jump for joy on seeing my new jacket for the next 12 months. Everyone used to assume my bag was stuffed with copies of Morning Star. Whenever it rained, the jacket certainly kept the water out, though it did smell of dead dog for a few days after each downpour. You know how I sometimes refer to a certain 'ex' as being mental? Well, this isn't a puerile dig at her. I can ground this assertion in fact, here and now - she thought this garment of toil was 'sexy'.

All I can say is, the time - ages later - I looked in the old man's wardrobe and discovered a pristine, original Crombie (which I claimed), I learnt the true meaning of A Boy Named Sue.

And - oh Jesus, wipe away the memory - there was the fluorescent yellow and black Celtic away top. Even if I did obtain it at discount price - AT THE AGE OF 21 - why I thought it'd be a good idea to cling to some notion of Irish heritage by dressing like a glossy queen bee still utterly mystifies me. This item was destroyed by an explosive foreign match in the Marquis of Granby in New Cross, whilst watching a heated Old Firm game on Sky Sports. Celtic lost.

As for the studded wristband or the snide Police shades (20p in Thailand)...anyway, enough of all that. I decided to celebrate Fashion Week by observing my fellow passengers on the bus and tube. Sadly, even a relatively muted British summer brought out all the usual affronts to Western civilisation in their shorts and sandals. Thankfully, all the ballet pumps seem to be going the way of my bondage trousers. I observed a few men sporting jeans with white squiggles on the bum pockets - and I've been informed these monstrosities cost about £170! What the - ? If I tippex-ed your arse, you'd probably smack me in the kisser, not pay through the nose for the privilege of looking like a child who's been victimised in Art class.

So, what do you actually need in your wardrobes for the Autumn / Winter '09 /'10 season? Well, furry Russian hats for a start, but...I decided to check out some of my fellow online scribblers' opinions, before holding court on the subject. My first search came up with, so I guess they're the best. Firstly, for all you little ladies out there, the site recommends:

* "Over-the-knee/thigh-high boots". Well, OK, I'm an ex-Adam and the Ants fan, I don't mind this. It's not as if they're telling you to hollow out watermelons and wear them on your trotters.

* "Capes, capelets and cloaks". The only people in England who still wear capes are Odinists who listen to Neo-Folk bands called Axis of Blackbirds. Don't do it, woman! You'll look like a twat! A cloak indeed!

* "Leather clothing". Right, so we're on for 'risque' pseudo-dominatrix revival' this winter? Actually, I'm not hostile towards Ugg boots, unlike most loud-mouthed male commentators - they make me think of snowball fights in the street, and 70s 'white rasta' punk stars jumping around on abandoned car roofs in Derek Jarman flicks.

* "Ripped tights and stockings". Is a bloke writing this? I can see the appeal when you're straight, male and teenage, but after you've sat through The Accused a couple of times...((according to the site, these represent a new era of neo-Grunge, which, if it's anything like 'nu rave', will be nothing like 'grunge' whatsoever - thank Pan for small mercies! Anyway, you too can go to Top Shop and pay £25 for your pins to look like goth / punk girls' used to, whenever they naturally snagged their nylons bunking over a) cemetery walls, for the 'Midnight Cider Rite' b) cordons at demonstrations, to avoid the oncoming, baton-wielding 'Wall of Pork')).

Actually, who am I kidding, ripped tights sound great. Sorry, I still haven't confronted and slain my inner crustie...

* "See-through clothing". 2010's sheer pieces are a mixture of the soft and feminine, to the opposite extremes of the hardcore sex-kitten. This is like Jackie Collins writing sci-fi.

Right, time for the males.

* "Suits"
* "Military"
* "Deep V-Neck"

Oh, what a surprise. I mean, nobody could see those fuckers coming a mile off.

* "Brooches". The site explains: As if taking their cues from the Cool Britannia revival

Hang on, hang on - WHO in buggeration's used that WRETCHED term since those evil, dank days when 'the party of the prole' swapped Clause 4 for fucking D:Ream, and we all had to tolerate that hideous, mediocre crone from Sleeper, sweeping aside years of well-aimed Riot Grrrl polemic with her 'feminists should shut up and shave!' quips, mainly uttered to land her compost heap of a band a few more (unlistenable) album sales among the Kelly Brook/Jo Guest-obsessed DRIPS who thought that idolising the behaviour of the 1972 Leeds United squad (though actually passing out after six pints themselves), wearing brown vintage Adidas t-shirts ('to look like Renton'), reading Loaded articles on how to eat fish and chips like a 'geezer', and cheering on every dismal release by Ocean Colour Scene and Cast was the best that 'youth culture' could throw at 'The Man'? I mean, who's used the term'Cool Britannia' since? Cos, if anyone has, and you know where they live, you owe it to your community and your country to go and crush these reptiles with spanners.

Sorry - back to the experts. As if taking their cues from the Cool Britannia revival, the most popular of men's brooches take their cues from vintage Anglo-Saxon, English and Scottish brooches, and old-world motifs such as stag heads.

They're pushing a bloody Neo-Folk revival! Look, no shit - if I see anyone ponceing around London in a cape or runic brooch, the gutters will gush with blood. Cloaks went out with the Knights Templar - deal with it.

Just when you thought it couldn't get any worse:

* "Goth ninja". Goth Ninja/Batman meets Rick Owens/Dorian Gray meets Damir Doma/Japanese rock star...

...independent fashion site/a few Google Ads meets badly rushed NME live review/taking horse tranquilisers inside a piss-soaked cubicle...

...whatever you call it

Bollocks, perhaps? Goth Ninja...oh, reader, READER, I've heard it all now. Whatever happened to the Pirate Goths, incidentally? They were meant to be popping up on the horizon three years ago, but I haven't seen one yet. The fashion equivalent of an urban myth. How about Goth footballer? I'll permit Goths to wear shorts, just for the duration of this 'season', natch.

So, there you go. That's the way Fashion's blowing at the moment. If I can fling you a meagre scrap of advice, however - invest in a good Russian hat. It's the one immovable object that Fashion simply can't negate, denigrate or demote. In fact, it's pointless for me to give you general fashion advice, cos then you'd all look like me - and how would we ever learn to love and trust each other, trapped within a nightmare labyrinth of mirrors? But a world filled with Russian hats - I can dig that.

Oh, and if you're going for the 'military'look, - for Chrissakes, go to an army surplus store. They're cheap, and you won't be buying an over-priced car coat that's had a couple of epaulettes sewn on by a malnourished Indonesian orphan. Don't go near those retro red 'Rorke's Drift' jackets that Pete McLibertine used to wear. You'll look like one of the Queen's Guard - and we all know what fate awaits THOSE traitors, come the glorious day the Russian hat-clad insurgence sweeps into the Mall.

And so concludes my London Fashion Week review.
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