Traditionally
clothing for middle-aged men wasn’t a problem, they all looked like their dads
and they all looked like each other. Nowadays things are different, I just don’t
know what to wear. You don’t want to look like your dad, and the only thing you
want less than that is to look like your son.
I know an architect
who’s about 52 yet he dresses like an 18 year old. The latest trainers (always
Nike or Adidas); the latest style of pants or designer jeans. The latest labels
in T-shirts and sweatshirts. He even wore those strange Puffa jackets when they
were in fashion. His clothes have zips and Velcro in all sorts of unexpected
places. His trousers have all sorts of pockets in them, some of them unusable.
He has bomber jackets and leather jackets and a vast collection of trainers.
Have you ever heard anything so daft? Now because he’s an architect he gets
away with it, this eccentricity has become his trademark and probably suits his
character. I do think this behaviour is halfway to certifiable though.
Personally I’d rather join the Hare Krishna movement and shuffle down Market
Street in Manchester chanting and ringing finger tambourines than go out in the
street dressed like he does. What could possibly be more ridiculous than a man
in his 50’s pretending to be a teenager?
I might not be in my
50’s yet, but I don’t want to dress younger than I am. On the other hand, I don’t
want to dress like my dad. So what should I do? Should I wear what our dads
wore, or the alternative, which seems to involve paying ridiculous sums of
money for more comfortable clothes that have all those designer labels on the
outside? At one time, labels were things that went on the inside and were a
bleeding nuisance if they popped out. Why should I be a walking billboard for a
multinational clothes business? I also object to the ludicrous difference in
price of this reasonably okay plain black sweatshirt and this reasonably okay
plain black sweatshirt with ‘Timberland’ written on it. So most of the time I
just won’t go there, and if I have, it’s usually under duress, or it’s been a
gift.
Marks & Spencer
So what do I end up
with? I don’t particularly want to wear designer labels, and I don’t want to
wear old git stuff. So I end up with one of those sub-designer, mass-produced
but not quite total rubbish things like ‘Blue Harbour’ from Marks &
Spencers. Now what could possibly be sadder than that?
Shopping in M&S
feels like a sure sign that it’s all over. I find myself browsing the rails and
the racks, desperately trying to find something I don’t actually hate. I glance
up and all around me are a load of totally boring bastards, who look as though
they have had their spirits ripped out of them with their barbeque tongs,
almost always out shopping with their wives. He’s looking bored, depressed,
repressed and generally hopeless, while she’s rifling through a load of stripy
rugby shirts to try to find one that will make him look even more fat-headed
than he does now. And then it all gets worse because I think, ‘Oh, my God, that’s
how I look!’ and at this moment I hot-foot it out of the shop as fast as my fat
little legs will take me.
So Where To Go?
I can just about
stand to go into GAP or NEXT, but if I suddenly find myself surrounded by teenagers,
I feel a cold sweat creeping over me and can’t get out fast enough. Top Shop? –
Wouldn’t even dream of going in. Burtons? - Do they still exist? Anyway, too
boring. I find the answer is to go into one of those big department stores like
Debenhams where they have all the different ranges, so if I accidently stray
into something too young for me; I can beat a hasty retreat without too much
indignity. In Debenhams you can toy with the idea of buying something by Jasper
Conran or Rocha John Rocha, without making the commitment of going into a
dedicated store and looking daft when you see the prices they charge in them
places.
Variations on a Theme
One little problem that
I have is that I only tend to wear black, blue or grey, so I’ve got literally
dozens of tiny variations on this theme. But then, just now and again, I find
myself somewhere wondering if I should be daring and ring the changes with say
a rugby shirt in maroon with horizontal black stripes. As I’m about to
reconcile myself with what, for me, is the equivalent of coming out as gay, I
discover that it’s got the number ‘12’ written on the back. I hastily return it
to the shelf as though I’ve just been given an electric shock. The idea of
walking around with a number on my back, or on my left tit as though I was some
kind of pensioned off sportsman seems so utterly ridiculous to me that, now, I
can hardly breathe when I think about it.
Going off subject a
little, I do think it’s hilarious that the only people wearing tracksuits in
the street are usually around 30 stone! They probably order Diet Coke with
their large Big Mac meal too. What’s going on in their heads? Are we supposed
to think they are Olympic medal winners in pie-eating, or maybe off-duty sumo
wrestlers?
Anyway back to the
subject in hand. Eventually I find myself back in M&S, where I finally
settle for yet another black sweatshirt, with the slight concession that this
one has a different coloured collar. It may also have that little tag on one
side with the red flag or whatever it is on it, but at least I know I can cut
that off when I get home. Blue Harbour? Fuck right off!
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