Fully Fashioned War Machines – Why T Shirts and Hoodies Are Part Of A Sinister Plot To Reduce The Population And Make Telly More Exciting
I’m seeing teenagers walking all around me and I just want to grab them and shake them. Especially the boys with this weird girly hair thing they’ve got going on. It’s so tempting to just take a Polaroid, thrust it in their hands and say “Keep this. When you look at it in five years time, the skin on the back of your neck will be trying to crawl off the top of your head. You’ll truly know the meaning of the word excruciating.”
The reasons I do not do this are threefold:
Teenagers don’t know what a Polaroid camera is, but they have seen a lot of Harry Potter. They would probably think I was trying to trap their souls in some sort weirdly shaped plastic Horcrux.
A middle aged man taking unsolicited photos of teenage boys is very suspect and almost certainly illegal
You can’t buy film for Polaroid cameras anymore.
As for the girls: footless tights? Leggings? Oh my! It’ll be liquorice allsort earrings next. These girls need to be plonked in front of a telly and shown “Desperately Seeking Susan” from start to finish. And someone should shout at them afterwards “You see? Do you. Do you fucking see?”
Given enough time, leggings for women can only lead to one thing. Leggings for men. No one wants that. Visually speaking a man’s junk is precisely that : junk. It should be kept firmly under wraps until it’s needed. That’s why the Prince Albert piercing was invented. To avoid spoiling the cut and drape of tight Victorian cavalry trousers.
But then of course I stop myself from thinking any of this because it’s wrong. Because I remember that having stupid hair and wearing terrible clothes is what being a teenager is all about. I had big, girly hair, wore eyeliner and had silk scarves dangling from my studded leather belt. Plus the teenagers won’t listen anyway. I certainly didn’t.
These youngsters will be fine; it’s all part of sliding down the razor blade of life. The women in their late thirties and – god help us – early forties, who remember the eighties and are wearing footless tights again need a bloody good kicking mind.
This is all just smoke and mirrors though. There is something far more subtle and disquieting going on which no one seems to have noticed. Except me, obviously. The young people who I’m really worried about are the Chavs and the T-shirt Wearers.
I see the T-shirt Wearers everywhere, and at first they just made me a bit nostalgic. Then the thought occurred: why the hell do I recognise these things in the first place? Now, I’m not exactly intimate with old age yet, but I’m certainly at the same party, and it’s winking at me knowingly from the other side of the room.
These boys are all wearing Iron Maiden and Slayer and Misfits artwork across their chests. They’re fifteen for crying out loud. I shouldn’t even understand their T-shirts, let alone recognise them. I certainly shouldn’t be able to recite the track list from the albums and regale them with tales of when I first heard each track live
Then there’s the Chavs. Groups of young men and women with no respect whatsoever for their fellow humans. They are being bred to be fearless, cocky little wankers- and wankerettes. Toerags who’d glass you or stripe you at the drop of a hat. There was a name for people like this in the old days. They called them something else way back when.
As Wellington famously said on the eve of Waterloo: “I know not whether they frighten the enemy, but by god they scare the hell out of me.” And he was really fucking hard.
The way fashion is going can only lead to one thing: Wholesale slaughter on a scale never seen before. Which all raises the question: if the Chavs are being engineered to be the perfect warriors, why are they hanging around on council estates drawing the dole, dealing drugs and impressing each other with ostentatious wheel trims? And what have the apparently peaceful T-shirt wearers got to do with it. Well, I’ll tell you.
Every needless war needs a group of hormone stuffed saps to be senselessly butchered and a group of impassive faceless bureaucrats to send them away and sort out the paperwork. The T-shirt Wearers think they’re rebelling, but they’re really just whipping themselves into conformity. They all seem to end up at college, which is because they’re all just on the bottom rung of a new civil service ladder.
The Chavs don’t know it, but they’re all part of the biggest and stealthiest military recruitment drive ever. They go on exercises and war games (burgling and happy slapping) and they even get little campaign medals to keep them sweet (ASBO’s). Our city streets are merely a huge open air annexe of Catterick Garrison.
It’s taking years to set up, so it should be huge when it all kicks off. I’m looking forward to seeing it all on pay per view. It’ll knock The X Factor clean off the top of the reality ratings that’s for sure. And there’s a chance I might be able to stroll out for a quiet pint without the danger of my demise at the hands of a pack of Lord of the Flies extras. The last thing I want my epitaph to be is a video of my death posted on one of the darker corners of YouTube.
© Copyright Michael Grimes 2013