It Wasn’t Like This In My Day

“Something shocking has and is still happening on the streets of London. We have no power over this new movement. It is here and it is here to stay. While we may avert our gaze and try to deny this new horror, it will all be in vain. The Government, in a desperate bid to save those who have escaped this plague upon our green and pleasant land, has drawn up evacuation plans.

The Skinny Jeans are here and they are multiplying. When out on a night in London’s trendy bars and clubs, I am mobbed by skintight jeans worn by spotty art students and music industry gurus. Fashionistas have dumped their comfortable off-the-hip ripped hipsters. The crusties are trading in their flares and bell-bottoms. The GAP kids are no longer satisfied with their 40-dollar pair of drainpipes made in the sweatshops of the Philippines. The tides of fashion have come full circle. Once again, the evil skinny has washed up on the shores of the Thames and has been crowned the King of Denim.

Why? Why? Should I have such a problem with this new fashion? Why should I have such a hang up with variation and change? Well, I’ll tell you why. It means I am getting on, no longer one of the new kids on the block; I really am closer to thirty than twenty. Nothing to date has made me feel this more than the re-birth of the skinny pair of jeans. My fashion sense is no longer cutting edge (it never was that hot to begin with). I no longer represent the youf of today, my generation has been pigeon holed, a type no longer able to be flexible to create and re-create our self-image. That is all for the young spotty people to do. That may be our only recompense; I am acne free and enjoy reading the paper on a Sunday.

This is the new me – the non-smoking, responsible drug taking adult that my former 19 year old self would be mildly ashamed of.

“”Where is your sense of irresponsible recklessness?””

? says the 19 year old me. I reflect silently on the question from the comfort of my armchair, kick off my slippers, and take a sip of my chamomile tea before responding.

“”Youf is wasted on the young and permanently wasted,’ as Wilde said. ‘Everything in moderation.””

The 19 year old me sighs as he looks at the figure of his future and shakes his head muttering his reply.

Wilde also said, “”We are all born in the gutter but some of us look to the stars.””

With that, I jump out of my armchair, stop all this existential self-questioning rubbish, grab a bottle of Bourbon (Wild Turkey aged 12 years) and head off to my mate’s Halloween party. I will never wear a pair of skinny jeans, but I still have the right to enjoy the multi-flavoured merits of debauchery. (Just so long as it’s not on a weeknight.)



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