http://www.uefa.com/uefa/keytopics/kind=512/newsid=839076.html
Dear Michel Platini,
We, the undersigned, hereby demand your immediate undertaking that if you, Sepp Blatter or any other members of UEFA’s hierachy have something stolen from you because of the corruption or idiocy of another, that you then publicly prostrate yourself upon whichever national or internet broadcasting site you choose and declare the following:
‘I utterly and totally accept that I have been robbed, violated or assaulted and in the interests of good sportsmanship I shall smile and declare myself to be a little velvet child, desperate for the approbation of those who seek to make me victim. I cannot declare this to be an unjust, nor appear angry or upset that I am become victim, for my superiors do not allow such behaviour’.
The price for not following such action is a unanimous boycott of all Sony, Vodafone, Hineken, Mastercard and related financial services and Ford products until such time as the 2009 European cup final is restaged with the legitimately successful teams from the quarter final stages, Manchester United and Chelsea Football Club again, by us, the undersigned.
I used to be like you, I’d think that cartoon T-shirt which clung to your overhanging gut, itself roped off with your jogging bottom waistband was the height of sartorial elegance. Turns out we were both wrong - and whilst I shall never win a ‘best dressed’ competition, I will attempt to pass on the tidbits that I have learned after the last two years.
If you are looking at yourself and thinking ‘Hang on, that’s what I’m wearing now’ then read on, because for very, very little money, I can make you presentable!
Part 1. The £100 suit.
I always felt suits were uncomfortable strappado upon my bulging intestines. Then I discovered that I could make a suit work in almost any situation, work, play, nights out - all by picking the right suit and knowing the rules.
Moreover, you can now buy a perfectly good suit for £50 in Tesco, ASDA or Primark so it’s not as if it’s an expensive trip to a tailor shop for your first step into the world.Traditionally, a suit underneath £400 was something to be sneered at, but now we have the free market, so let’s celebrate it a little. Here is how to put together a good outfit for under £100.
Avoiding David Brent - The ‘Sausage Wrapped in Twine’ look
Firstly, your bodyshape will say a lot about you:
- If you are medium height (Between 5-6ft) and have a overhanging gut and boobs, then opt for a three button suit. These have squarer shoulders designed to make you look more like Martin Johnson then Ricky Tomlinson because they make your torso appear longer and squarer, reducing the impact of your belly. NOTE: You may have heard of the phrase ‘Sometimes, Always, Never’ bandied about - this relates to three button jackets and means that when you do the buttons up, you should sometimes do the top button up, always do the central one up and never the bottom - because it’s not designed to be done up (and makes you look like George from Seinfeld) - this is because royal fattie (Bonnie) Prince Charles (Not the jug eared one, one from history) was so fat he couldn’t do up his bottom button, so now all 3 button suits have an unusable bottom button.
- If you’re short, then a two or one buttoned suit will draw in your waist, making you appear taller. (As above, never do up your bottom button)
- A double-breasted suit should only be attempted if you’re some sort of thin athlete. Piss off, this blog ain’t for you, Dwayne Johnson.
Colour
As a neckbearded, pasty-white, needy gutsy child, the odds are that you have skin whiter than Justin Timberlake, which means you need to go for plain, dark colours. This means Black, Charcoal Grey, Dark, Dark Blue and Dark Green. Outside of this? You will look like a lobster.
If you get more confident, why not experiment with pinstripes? Just ensure the colour of the shirt you are wearing matches your pinstripe. Do not under any circumstances go near checked or grid-patterned clothing, because they will make you look like a teletubby.
The Shirt
My old Dad used to tell me ‘Son, invest in a decent shirt and the world will always respect you’ - at least he would if he wasn’t fictional. Anyway. My best advice is to go to Marks and Spencer and spend £15 on a thick cotton shirt which is non-iron. Why non-iron? Why thick? Some shirts are only thick in the ‘modesty areas’ which for some reason, are the shoulders and central ceam. The rest are as wafer thin as a net curtain and any chubster with prominent nipples might as well be topless. The traditional cure to this is to wear a wifebeater beneath it, but then you wind up looking like a man who cannot dress himself. This is the 21st century. When buying a shirt, hold your hand on the underside of the material. if you can see the colour of your skin through it, put it back. If it remains the same colour, then buy away. The classic shirt is white, but black or dark blue work well for less formal occaisions or going out.
If you are buying the one white shirt, then remember, do the buttons up until the collar but not the top one. If you are attending a formal event, your tie will hold (and is meant to) the collars together and prevent you getting neck ache, if you are attending an informal event, either loosen the tie to attempt a ‘casual’ tie-look, or remove it altogether and unbutton one further button. For the love of God though, if you unbutton another after that, you will expose your chest hair and look like a takeaway owner. The one button rule will save your life.
As someone who only rarely wears ties, I prefer to go ‘one button’ most of the time, with the benefit that I don’t look like a prick in a tie, more like James Caan from Dragons Den. Actually - stick with that theme. Duncan Bannatyne rocks the open-necked shirt and you can learn a lot from that. It’s formal without being stiff and suggests you’re relaxed and knowledgeable, not uptight and stuffy.
Socks
‘Trainer Socks’ (i.e. socks which stop beneath the ankle to give the impression you are bare footed inside your shoes) are worn only by Big Brother contestants. White socks should only be worn inside trainers at the Gym or similar sporting event. For every other minute of your walking live, black cotton socks or nothing. Any decent shop will sell these to you with an idiot premium, but there is no reason to go to Burtons to buy socks. A pair of socks should cost no more than a pound for excellent quality, oftentimes you can even find market stalls which sell nothing but socks and pants.
Speaking of which… Pants
If you seek to wear Y-Fronts ‘ironically’, then grow up. Black, plain boxer shorts or commando. James Bond doesn’t wear superman pants and neither should you.
Shoes
Shoes are the problem, because we have two issues - Colour and Price. This is where you are going to have to be creative. A £50 suit and a £15 shirt, a £1 pair of socks and a £10 tie leaves us with £24. Most decent shoes will cost you twice that.
First thing, don’t scrimp on the shoes. Your feet are an important body part and if your feet aren’t comfortable, then you won’t be either. Secondly, you know those cackling harpies in ‘Sex and the City’ and it’s stereotypes (cf. any menopausal woman with a credit card who pretends she’s living in New York and not Bolton) - well they do know one thing, ‘the sales’. I never shop for shoes full price, because I have massive Size 12 feet which means that either I buy full price (£100) or I buy those disability-moccasin things you see in the back page advert of the daily mail. No, instead check out the sales assidiously, mostly one or the other high-street chains have a sale, and you can often grab a shoe that’s (according to the arbitrary rules of people who follow such things) ’sooo last season’. Well bugger that, last season’s about as modern as you’ve managed by accident so far in life, so for it to be achieved intentionally’s a bloody achievement (Me included here).
Secondly, is colour. When I was 22, I believed that any shoe that wasn’t black was a horrible abomination. ‘Sex offenders wear BROWN shoes!’ - until I met someone (His name’s Ben, he’s charming) who wore Brown shoes (much to my dismay) and said that he really liked them. I was walking home down Oxford street and saw a pair of plain brown shoes in the Clarks for £15 and, like a brown-paper-bag perv wandering through Soho, furtively wandered in to buy them, hoping that I wouldn’t be found out.
Turns out, Brown shoes have a multitude of bloody handy uses. They help to offset the line of your trousers to make you look taller, they are a lot less dull than black shoes and they go a lot better with jeans (We’ll get to Schmuart-Casual in a later seminar). Here’s some shoes that I’ve bought in the last sales run which cost me (individually) £20 each.
This bad boy is a Black (Yeah I know, it looks brown) patent leather brogue which I’m saving either for a job interview or my inevitable career as a silver service waiter. I’m going to blow people away when I serve them soup in those shoes! The cost? £20
This is a ‘tarnished’ style Italian leather tailored shoe which I think looks very, very dapper, which I’m either going to wear to a Job interview or to work full stop, because they are excellent shoes - these are the sort of shoes you would go to a wine bar with, or better, to impress anyone you meet. The cost? In the sales, these were £25
Of course whilst those two are mildly extravagant fashion purchases, I’ve saved the best(est) till last…
Yes kids, a tarnished brown patent leather brogue. Which is such an awesome shoe, I can’t stop wearing it. I wore them to graduate from law school in, I wear them to work, no-one can deny the awesomeness of these shoes.
As an aside. I’m not gay.
So anyway, you grab a pair of decent shoes like the examples above, and you have an ensemble (french for ‘Clothes you can wear’) which should see your friends, colleagues and people in the street say ‘Hey, he’s not a sex offender, he’s a regular part of society, why not ignore him in approbation’. Because everyone loves the crushing anonymity of conformity.
Advanced Lesson - The Suit
The scene - You’re going out, but it’s not to the pub with the lads, it’s to a bar, or worse, a club, a posh one. Half a pint is gonna cost you six quid and you’re going to hate it. More importantly, there is a socially required need for you to dress appropriately. Either the nazis on the door are going to exclude you based on their prejudging or worse, women will laugh at you. So here’s what you do.
Grab your trusty new suit, but don’t grab the shirt. Just the jacket and trousers. If you have one already, get a black, plain, logoless poloshirt. At a push you can have a Lyle & Scott one, which they sell in Burton (It has a gold eagle on the left nip), but otherwise plain. (I have it on good authority that olive-skinned or a/c men need to choose neon pink, but I can’t comment). Put it on and your jacket over the top. You can now choose, a pair of jeans or the suit’s trousers, coupled with a pair of Brown shoes. Why not black? Because it’s a bar, and there’s an expectation that you have some sort of ‘personality’, so at least pretend. It’ll take away half the awkward conversations you will have that evening.
-o-
This is my first draft and my first rambled attempt at explaining such a manifesto of clothing and clothery, as such I would appreciate all comments and other fashion based conclusions to make us all better dressers.
Next time: Why wearing a Keffiyeh with white-rimmed sunglasses tells the world you either hate Jews, excessively admire Kayne West or you’re a french tourist and other sartorial accidents in the world of ‘casual dressing’.
test (ahhhhONEahhhTWOAAAHHHH)
1. Harvey Wallbangers
2. Job applications
In retrospect, not in that order - makes you sound too much like Jose Mourhinio.
At some point soon I hope that my learned (but not learned ) friend Professor Scott will be referring to this matter in a far more eloquent manner, but my outrage is immense and my time short.
Iris Robinson suggested a few weeks ago that homosexuals were ‘curable’ and declared that such practices were (and I quote) ‘an abomination’. Naturally, with this not being 1066, there was outrage at her bigoted idiocy and lack of tolerance as well as lack of understanding of basic theology and biology (Since a far as I recall, having excess estrogen / testosterone in the brain during pregnancy isn’t a sin). A petition on the Number 10 website was started, and Gordy’s response is here.
Here is the choice line:
There is no constitutional role for the Prime Minister to reprimand individual Members of Parliament who are accountable to their electorate for their own comments.
It befalls me to point out that this is not a constitutional matter, this is not even a matter of political practice. To hide behind such is emblematic of the moral cowardice which runs like a river through this government. Were I Prime Minister (and doubtless it would be for a very short time indeed), I would have had Robinson dragged into my office where I would have told her that she isn’t welcome to represent the people if she is ‘appalled’ by a proportion of the people she represents. Then I would have rather publicly said the following;
‘Shut the fuck up, you fucking fucker’.
A filter exists, between my mind and my typing, protecting the tender inner parts of my psyche from the harsh eye of those who know me. Today it’s on holiday.
This story begins the sleepless night I received my exam results after my second year at University. I’d failed and in doing so, had almost totally wrecked my chances of ever having a career as a lawyer. I remember feeling resentful at the atmosphere of observation at home, the inability to leave your front door without being harassed, questioned. I called the school’s ‘Pastoral Care and Welfare (et cetera)’ tutor, Paul Hubert, tears streaming down my eyes and barely holding the feral noises in my mouth. I asked for advice. ‘Call back during my office hours’, he said and he hung up.
I replaced the receiver, I didn’t call back. I obviously wasn’t worth his time.
When my third year results were released, I remember pacing around and wishing that Hubert was there. He was the pin that tied together my pain and when, despite all of my hard work, my effort, it hadn’t paid off. I was mere inches away, I wanted to burn and I wanted him to burn with me. I was psychotic, and I remember standing on the grass outside his office, wondering if the impulse would take me and chastising myself as a wimp for not doing so.
Inside my head, there is often a fight between the angry and immature me and the weedy, terrified one. I wonder if angry was let out, he would make a monster or if it would be years of repressed energy, deforming me into some cocksure winner of the world. I don’t know what he is or what he represents, but he’s staying locked down in the bottom there.
o0o
At the end of my final LPC exam, I walked aimlessly around London. I found myself wandering around like a loon, the question of what to do now repeating in my head. I didn’t have anything. The wind out of my sails, no feeling of motion, just a hollowness where I should have felt.
I have never been one to dramatise anything, when I was at High School there was enough drama to power the BBC for years.
I wandered up and down Victoria bridge. There are little balconies with benches recessed which allow passers by of a bygone era to sit and reflect upon the day. I climbed over and dangled over the edge. I had been (and still am, to be honest) rejected or ignored by every firm I had sent an application to, and for the first time I was aware of the impending impotence. I would have spent five years, thirty thousand pounds and wasted my adult life not finding a job. I was a dead end, a footnote that life’s winners can compare themselves to, someone who fell by the wayside. In my head I was contemplating the best method of suicide and the correct method to achieve it. I worked it through in the methodical, committed fashion in my own mind that I do everything. This is no idle threat to my psyche. I don’t say this to glamourise it, attention seek or crave statements from my friends. I was low, and I want you to know how low I was. I was alone and in pain. The pain wouldn’t go away.
Of everyone I have been fortunate to know, students I have studied with, valued friends, most of them are off onto careers, further study, travel… something. What did I have? A worthless degree from a University I loathed and had treated me with a contemptuous indifference, no career prospects and the thought that I would live out my days working in a factory in Lowestoft for the rest of my miserable life. The propeller blades on the Thames clipper couldn’t have looked more inviting.
o0o
This afternoon I raced home from work, sweat beading from every part of me, my hair matted and unkempt. I poured myself a glass of whiskey and sat in silence with the envelope of results in my hands, on my lap. I was still. As long as the envelope remained closed, there was hope, however slight, that I could move on. When it was open, it felt feted that it would be the end of me and that the pain would be silent no more. All I had ever wanted was to fit, to do well by others and to stand on my own two. Nothing in my life was even close to that ideal. I offered no prayer, I merely wanted to never leave the stasis.
My right hand pawed at the seal, the left held it steady. I closed my eyes and the right hand tore forward, drawing the seal back and shocking the paper into it’s hand. It didn’t belong to me anymore.
I opened my eyes, and in the centre of the page, separated on all sides by a generous, wide, clear margin, was the word
COMMENDATION
and my body went cold, then warm, sparks and shocks. I giggled. I cried. I giggled some more and cried a little. I downed the fluid in one go and felt nothing but the hysteria of triumph. The first time in years, I had made it. I’d not passed, I’d not scraped it, I’d done it properly .
Overleaf, the sheaf of paper offered more marks, a breakdown of the results, information on graduating and a mention of…
the LPC can be converted (upgraded, what have you) into an LLM with the submission of a 20,000 word dissertation. It’ll cost, but it’ll be cheaper than re-doing a whole year in education, and an LLM is now respected and often is seen by employers as positive. It could potentially wash away my shitty degree, and with it I could again begin to hope that my life could still have some meaning. I don’t doubt that something shall come and ruin me, something shall snipe, pick, I shall feel yet another thousand betrayals as I am rejected for more jobs, but for today, and today only, I shall allow myself to bathe in triumph.
As a child, when I wrote a story in which the main character emerges, battered and bruised from his torment and stands free, hopeful of a better life, I always ended with a line stolen from Douglas Naylor. For today, at least, I can begin to hope.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the grass began to sway.
Thank you for not calling the authorities. I could have been lying here, in a pool of my own excreta. No-one’d have known. Thank you.
I don’t particularly like Brian Ashton, I don’t like his demeanour, the way he communicates ideas – he reminds me of a dour PE Teacher I had in middle school, loading his commentary with scathing, hidden criticism and damning everyone who wasn’t his favourites with faint praise. Watching his post-game commentary makes me want to throw items at the TV, such as his voice and mannerisms fill me with hellish visions of school memories long since repressed.
What you can’t fault him for, perhaps sadly, is that he is a brilliant Rugby Coach. Without descending into hyperbole, he is excellent at his job – and yet week on week, John Inverdale and Gobby Logan constantly belittle him, teasing him like a sneering end page of the Sun, dangling provocation in front of him like a ball of wool in front of a cat you hate screaming ‘do you WANT IT?!, DO YOU?!’ and millimetres away from grasping it, they snatch it away to leave the cat falling headfirst into a concrete wall. Ashton managed to grab together the first twenty Englishmen he could grab hold of, and in a week had them ready to play in the World Cup. Three weeks later and they were World Cup contenders. Four months later and he takes England to 2nd Place in the Six Nations (Don’t mention the fact we owe the thoroughly amazing Welsh something for that). Brian Ashton is a Gnat’s pube away from taking us to a proper victory and yet somehow again, people are demanding his head.
Ashton himself begged that they alter the coaching structure, since currently the structure stands as so:
Brian Ashton (Head Coach / Attack Coach)
/\
John Wells (Forwards Coach) Mike Ford (Backs / Defensive Coach)
Ashton being figurehead, manager, media front and for many Lynchpin of English Rugby. Despite his begging, Rob Andrew - Whilst should be praised for not behaving like a Football coach and knee-jerking him to the side – has yet to actively place a better support structure around Ashton to work. I’m not suggesting that the whole world has to revolve in order to allow Ashton to do his job, but it seems that there is too much conflict and distress at the top end of elite rugby. So I’ve decided to suggest a new, Fantasy England Coaching Team, with explanations.
Ashton hates playing the media game, mostly because he is, at his stony cold heart, a dour northerner who seems to hate being in the limelight. Ashton has begged for someone to take over the role, so why not someone born with the gift of playing the media well?
Manager: Jose Morhinio
Oh come on, like I’d choose anyone else. Imagine a day where we lost 112 – 0 to Italy, Jose would stand there, Grey wool trenchcoat flapping in the tunnel, stony faced and declaring casually to Gabby Logan; ‘The best team did not win, the Italians – they all dirty cheats’ before walking off into the distance leaving the mouthy bitch speechless. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t pay a fortune for that moment.
Players Coach: Martin Johnson or Lawrence Dallagio
I had pondered this for a while only to have the wind removed from my sails by the bloody papers – a former player with a strong head and captaincy skills could come in and bring discipline, co-ordination and role modelling. Imagine another ‘Ciprianigate’ situation – instead of having the coaches, who have a developmental role, being questioned for metering out punishments, it would be the senior players themselves who regulate the conduct of their members – but again it can’t be another team member, as the teams should be about community, not hierarchies, so how better to remedy this than by including designated carrot-and-stick holding team coaches?
Attack Coach: Brian Ashton
Or that feller who kept us at #2 in the world and #2 in the Northern Hemisphere, back to what he does best, nurturing individual skills such as those of Toby Flood, Matthew Tait, Richard Wigglesworth, Paul Sackey, Danny Cipriani and King Wilkinson.
Defensive Coach: Sean Edwards
Like I was going to mention anyone else. It’s a fantasy signing because if the Welsh have any sense, they would offer this man a solid gold statute of himself and all the Irish virgins he can get his tiny hands on, but watching 15 Welshmen stand there patiently waiting for the French to realise that they were fighting for possession of the ball in a ruck with only Frenchmen was the most satisfying moment in the whole Six Nations.
Set Piece Coach: Jake Wood
Another fantasy signing, but let’s be honest – that’s where the Springboks raped us badly in the World Cup final, England have remedied a large proportion of the set-piece faults, but more can be done to make us Set-piece kings of the World.
You may scoff at my selection because it is unrealistic. Ah, but I can dream can’t I?
Last week the final episode of David Simon’s The Wire was leaked, I just finished watching it.
I viewed the truncated season with mistrust, Season 4 had been powerful, funny and touching. It was also a dark, horrible slog to get through that ended on the blackest of low notes. I have been surprised at the majesty of these final 10 episodes, their wit, charm, the fact that it being the final season gave Simon licence to go wild, writing beyond even his excellent standards and bringing a fitting conclusion to the show.
I’m here upset not because of anything the show did in it’s final year (Although the regular ‘Where are they now’ montage will cause you to giggle like a child at one characters fate and immediately make you weep at another) but because that is it for ‘The Wire’. Whilst Simon even had characters within the show reading ‘Generation Kill’ - a journalist’s account of the Iraq war dealing with similar themes as The Wire, we must stand solemn and understand that a narrative as exquisite as this comes only once a generation.
#1 - Belle Du Jour, The Intimate Adventures of a London Call-Girl by Belle De Jour
#2 - The Further Adventures of a London Call-Girl by Belle De Jour (30/1/08)
#3 - Lessons from the Land of Pork Scratchings by Greg Gutfeld (12/2/08)
#4 - The Naked Jape by Jimmy Carr and Lucy Greeves (21/2/08)
Reading:
The Yiddish Policeman’s Union by Michael Chabon
Zodiac by Robert Graysmith
It’s Superman! by Tom DeHaven
Up Next:
For Whom the Bell Tolls by Ernest Hemmingway
Don’t Feed the Ducks by Liam O’Connell
Purchased:
Vineland by Thomas Pynchon
Crash by J.G. Ballard
The Princess Bride by William Goldman
The Old Devils by Martin Amis
Recommended To Me:
The Damned United by David Peace (by Prof. Scott)
The Girl’s Guide to Modern European Philosophy by Charlotte Greig (by Katie B)
Anyone else have the feeling that I’m going to have a lot of catching up to do in the Summer? I should have read 20 books by March 1st…
