Fashion (Stellar)

I’m tired of it.  Every week I hear some girl on radio or in a bar throwing out this truism that Irish men are crap dressers and yet no-one ever questions why.  It’s an entirely different rule-set for women: it seems you girls can pretty much wear whatever you like.  For example, unless you’re Robin Beck and singing in a Coke ad in the ‘80s, it’s my belief you shouldn’t be wearing ripped jeans.  Yet, somehow they’ve found their way into fashion again.  Elle McPherson can stroll into a parent-teacher meeting wearing metallic leopard-print harem pants and still look pretty sophisticated.  Go figure.

For men, it’s a different story.  You see, Irish girls convince themselves they want their blokes to be fashionable.  But what they really want is for them to dress like Jude Law.  Fact: if Irish men were truly ‘fashionable’ we’d never, ever, ever get laid.  The problem is not that we’re too conservative – it’s that you are.  Don’t believe me?  Ask yourself this question – have you ever stricken off a potential date because his shirt was too shiny, his jeans too tight or too loose or – confess! – because his socks didn’t go with his shoes  Sure, you might say that these things are out of fashion, but what’s in fashion is far more ridiculous.  Take a look at the spring collection for, say, Acne’s men’s line.  The theme seems to be about futuristic gardeners, like Alan Titchmarsh walking into The Matrix with his apron and gloves still on.

A full itinerary of my wardrobe: 4 pairs of unadorned jeans, 14 t-shirts (assorted colours), 3 casual jackets, 2 coats, a hoodie, 3 suits and 4 pairs of shoes.  In my life, this is like a mathematical constant.  If one pair of jeans gets a rip in the crotch, I replace them.  I like clothes, but I no longer feel the need to command attention through the clothes I wear.  There was a time in my life, however, that I was hip.  Actually, more than hip.  If you cut me, I would have bled street cred.  You see, I once dated a fashion designer.

The first time I met Karen was at a party of a friend of mine.  She was wearing single-strap dungarees over a bodysuit and had black-and-white striped eyeshadow.  She looked like a backing singer from a German entry to Eurovision in the late 90s.  Curiosity killed the cat and we started dating (the same cat was subsequently skinned and turned into a darling little bolero).  I soon learned that there was no limit to what this girl would wear.  Green tights and heels under a Beefeater’s army jacket, chainmail singlets and biker jackets over woollen skirts that looked like a roll of carpet: she almost always pulled it off.  The problem is that I thought I could too.

It would never have gotten so out of hand were I not cocooned by a new circle of arty friends whom I met through Karen.  One of them dressed like a homeless person.  Either that was his look or he genuinely was homeless, I never got round to finding out.  He went out with a sort of gothic doll looking chick, who was like a really pretty version of Edward Scissorhands.  Another was one of those neon geeks who should have been called Nate or Daryl, but was actually called Seamus.  They were educated, dry, witty people.  Next to them I was vanilla and so, consciously or otherwise, I tried to fit in.

It started with a few waistcoats, bought in a vintage shop of course.  Then I was wearing vests and peaked caps.  These were all tolerated by my older friends, but it wasn’t until Karen and I went away to London for the weekend that my metamorphosis was complete.  We had spent the entire trip digging gaudy crap out of bargain bins in Brick Lane and by the time the plane had touched the runway I was a fully-fledged hipster.  I loved it.  We went to a café in town to meet our fashion friends and they ooh-ed and aah-ed at my new purchases.  The homeless guy declared me the hippest man on the planet.  I was thrilled.  It was a short lived ecstasy though; it turned out that the real world wasn’t quite ready for the new me.

Karen and I left the café and walked down to the pub to meet my friends for a birthday bash.  When the door closed behind me, it was almost cinematic.  There was a vacuum of silence for about 3 seconds before a deafening wall of laughter nearly knocked me over.  It started off with my close friends and then actually spread around the pub and I found myself standing there like an idiot, the Emperor with ridiculous clothes.  My outfit? A pair of bright red new-romantic boots (a la Adam Ant), an authentic seventies Karate top, jeans and a Sherlock Holmes-style cape in houndstooth motif with a blue corduroy collar and an orange satin lining.  I still have it in my attic, a memoir of my utter humiliation.

The moral of this story?  Well, there are two.  Firstly, fashion’s not for everyone.  Secondly, never, ever, ever wear a cape in this town.