History never repeats... pfft! Who am I kidding?

Sorry to those of you who just brought up you your breakfast/lunch/evening bucket of gin and tonic at the sight of that picture. I realise that it looks like chicken bones wrapped in black cling-film and jammed into some Barbie shoes. Believe me, I feel your pain, but it was the first picture I found and in my usual fashion, I said, "Fuckitthatlldo". In any case, scrawny models, though rife, are not the reason for the big bundle of wild I'm carrying around at the moment.

The problem is leggings. Of course.

I know that in the scale of world horrors, leggings are fairly minor. I know I should be worried about human rights abuses in Dafur and people starving in Zimbabwe, and I am. But I also realise that those problems are too big for one blogger to solve with the application of some angry, even if it is applied with a shovel. Leggings, on the other hand, aren't. Or at least they shouldn't be. There's no reason why I can't rid the world of skanky footless tights if I just concentrate hard enough. ("Use The Force, red..." Oh, thanks Obi Wan! Does it matter if I'm on the Dark Side, though?)

There's also the small matter of the number of times in a day that the leggings problem is thrust under my over-large snotter. Strike me down, but I usually only think about Dafur and Zimbabwe when I'm reading a newspaper or having a thinking sort of discussion. Leggings, on the other hand, I can't seem to escape.

I wander out at lunchtime and what do I see? Leggings. On the train into work, mildly hungover and in need of a bacon and egg roll? Leggings. On the way home? Leggings. In the lift up to my unreasonably high-off-the-ground new desk? STINKING LEGGINGS!

I should point out that I have no problem with opaque stockings. I love opaque stockings when they actually hide a person's feet and are worn with a skirt of crutch-covering length. And I love knee-high boots. They're great too. In fact, I love all boots. A girl can't have too many pairs of boots.

But leggings. I was there for leggings the first time and I was rather attached to them then. Huzzah for leggings in the late '80s and early '90s. Sadly, they sort of lost their appeal after the 894th time that I saw them stretched across an arse that was wider than my fridge and attached to a tundra of rippling thigh jubbles. But then, mercifully, they vanished, apparently banished to gyms, where the sun don't shine and I don't visit.

But just when I thought we had moved on as a society, up they bobbed again like that fibresome turd that just won't flush no matter how much bum-fodder you put on top of it or how many times you jab the button. Footless tights, 3/4-length tights, tights with little bits of nylon lace, patterned cropped tights, full-length leggings that are solid enough to hide your minge if you've gone commando - damnit, they're everywhere!

Why is this happening again? Isn't this like introducing the cane toad to Queensland - didn't we learn the first time? And why are footless tights being layered up with just about every random wardrobe item anyone can think of? Formal shorts? Check. Hot pants? Check. Mini skirts. Boots. Shorts and boots. Tunicky things worn over mini-skirts worn over three-quarter leggings worn with knee-high boots and one of those under-tit back brace belts and a floppy newsboy cap thrown in for good measure. The permutations are horrifying and endless.

Apparently, every time a child claims to not believe in fairies, a fairy dies. So if we all say together, "I don't believe in footless tights!" then perhaps pairs of leggings will start to spontaneously combust on Hill's hoists all over the country.

I really hope it works. Otherwise, the only option is loading up the flamethrowers and heading for Supre and Sportsgirl and no-one really wants to do that. All those synthetic fibres could produce a firestorm on a similar scale to the Great Fire of London and I don't want to be responsible for that crap.

Oh, and while I'm venting my grouch, could all you girls with cutesy little pirate delusions please stop tucking your skinny jeans into your knee-high boots? Even if you are tiny, you do not look like Keira Knightley and you will not be shagging Johnny Depp or Orlando Bloom any time soon. You just look silly. And if you are my size or larger, you will never be shagging Johnny or Orlando because skinnies make you look like a barge-arse, yet you obviously haven't twigged to this.

This has been a community service announcement in the name of fashion sanity.