SAVE THE GOTH – Why Goth Will Live Forever But Has A Very Short Shelf Life If You Are A Girl.
There are many sad sights in this big, cruel world. Everyone has their own personal thing which really gets to them. The sight of a spent firework unravelling in the damp grass, its brief moment of glory all gone; that always chokes me up for reasons I’ve never really bothered to delve into.
Everyone’s different, but there’s one thing we can all agree on and that’s this: there can be no more heart rending a sight than the sight of a thirty year old Goth. By this I mean female Goths, the male of the species rarely being spotted over the age of nineteen. They can’t all kill themselves. So where do they go? Science may now have an answer.
That answer lies in the nourishing purple soup which sustains the Goth, namely cider and black. It provides much needed sustenance in times of little food; which looking at most of them is pretty much all the time. Except for the Fat Goth of course. A tip for you here should you be into Goths sexually. If you can’t get hold of the attractive willowy variety never be tempted to make do with a Fat Goth in the hope that there is a slim one inside waiting to get out. There isn’t.
Never assume you can reap the rewards in aiding her liberation. You can’t. All there is beneath the clothing is a fat girl under the delusion that the slimming effect of black isn’t swatted aside like a bothersome gnat when you step outside the bounds of overweight and into the area where gravitational collapse is just a scone or two away.
The long term effects of cider and black have always been uncertain. After all, very few people drink it more than once and then usually only by accident. Most of the time it is handed back over the bar and the original order demanded. But now we have thirty years worth of field trials with the black wearing guinea pigs, and some alarming results are coming to light. There are more Goths than ever before, but nearly all of them are girls. Or are they? It would appear that the purple “Goth Broth” causes a hormone imbalance which makes the boys change slowly onto girls.
Look closely at a group of them and there is certainly more than a hint of “cocks in frocks” about some of the lankier girls in the “Moribund” (the correct collective noun}. A suggestion of dying stubble beneath the pale pancake make up. Although it can be difficult to tell through the veil of a wedding dress that’s been dyed black.
But I digress. It’s the plight of the thirty year old Goth which is the most pressing issue. Now let’s not get confused. There’s nothing wrong with a woman, or girl of any nubile age for that matter, dressing in the clothes. Let’s face it, Goth is a saucy little fashion statement with limitless potential for bedroom fun and I’m actually rather fond of it. No, the tragedy is the thirty year old who still lives the life. That’s the real problem. To understand why, let’s drift back to the Seventies and see how it all started.
Disco was going out and Punk was coming in. The clubs and pubs held a weird mix of safety pins, bondage trousers, loon pants and Perspex platforms with goldfish in the soles. It was a confusing time to be alive, never mind be a teenager. Let’s not forget how gritty and dull the Seventies were. It was a grim era.
So one day, a particularly confused and depressed teenager-i.e. a fairly typical one- saw all this sartorial jumble and thought. “Fuck it, I’ll just dress how I feel. Who’s going to notice amongst all this lot”? And so Goth was born, because all teenagers, regardless of their tastes and background, feel how Goths look.
So this little tribe banded together and made desperate attempts to be deep by spending all day listening to dark, depressing music and reading ominous poetry and suchlike. All the time not realising that what they were doing was just as one dimensional and shallow as the girls spending their day in the Mall talking about boys and make up.
Goths asserted their individuality by dressing the same as each other. I damn near filled my pants laughing when that penny finally dropped. But that’s ok, because the old Irony Gland doesn’t switch on ‘til you’re at least 21, often a bit older.
I was Metal myself. Oh hell yes. I was so Metal I interfered with compasses within a half mile radius. The local Rambling Club successfully got an injunction preventing me from venturing into the countryside at the weekend.
People kept getting lost because they were under the mistaken impression that North was wherever I happened to be standing at the time. That’s how fucking Metal I was. But the one day, checking myself out in the wardrobe mirror, strange new thoughts came unbidden to my brain.
“You,” I thought “do not really suit long hair. And those tight black canvas jeans clinging to your bandy legs are less than flattering. Wearing a leather bike jacket when you clearly don’t own a motorbike isn’t doing you any favours either. And those studded leather wristbands might explain why that forty year old bloke with the shaved head and the moustache keeps offering to buy you a drink. You look like a twat”.
It’s all very well having an attitude that says: “Fuck the world if it doesn’t like how I dress. But when you think the person in the mirror looks like a tit, the party’s definitely over.
Y’see Gothism is an affliction of the young which most people grow out of, a bit like acne. But some people don’t. The irony gene never flicks on. So your thirty year old Goth sits in judgement on her peers, never realising that what she’s doing just as shallow and one dimensional as the women who sit in the beauty spa all day talking about…..well, boys and make up actually, when you boil it down.
She might well make allowances to slightly more colourful clothes as time goes on. This is even worse. People will think she’s trying to be an Emo girl, which is after all just a Goth without the guts to follow it through. The occasional lady might actually be trying to be an Emo Girl. She is sadly beyond help
This terrible situation is, we now think, also the fault of cider and black. It blocks the process of switching on the Irony Gland which would otherwise save these girls from a life of listening to Jesus and Mary Chain albums. I’m starting a campaign to ban the sale of cider and black to anyone over 25. If the campaign is successful, there will then be a tidal wave of women suddenly thinking “Fucking hell, I’m dressed the same as my 14 year old niece”, and doing something about that fact.
Of course, there is a danger of cider and black being driven underground, of these women having to sit nervously in darkened rooms with unsavoury characters to obtain it. But I figure, hell, they sit around nervously in darkened rooms anyway, so what have we got to lose? At least this way they might get out of the house occasionally.
© Copyright Michael Grimes 2013
Tags: Acne, Barmaids, Bedroom Fun, Black, Bootsy Collins, Brewery, Carlsberg, cider, Cocks, Coffins, Danger, depressed, Disco, Disco Inferno, Dotterels, Elderly, Emo Girl, Fashion Statement, Fat, fireworks, Goldfish, goths, Guinea Pigs, irony, Jeans, leather, Lemmy, Manners, Manowar, Metal Mickey, Moribund, nubile, poetry, rambling, saucy, science, Siouxie Sioux, Slimming, Spooky, teenagers, the Addams family, the jesus and mary chain, Willowy
About thedailygrimeAt that awkward age - too young to be a grumpy old man, but just acerbic and downtrodden enough to have an opinion. Read it here.
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