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.

Feathered-mullet board shorts MUST be better

Boyos, take it from me. Chicks fear a few things in life. Finding a new hairdresser and purchasing new togs are two of them. For some reason, I chose to do both of these things to myself within the space of two days.

Let’s just say that if you see some dizzy cow wearing a hat and eating a crapload of lettuce, that would probably be me. Hurrah for fat arses and lousy haircuts, eh?

The new togs were yesterday’s horror. I haven’t had bathers for quite some time. A couple of years ago, I was stupid enough to purchase a bikini. Ask me not the reason why, mine is but to do and fry. I wore The Bikini twice and felt an utter twat both times, so the last time I was collecting up clothes for the Goodwill, the barely-worn twatkini was the first item in the bag. I hope someone with less of a bargearse than I have is wearing it and feeling happy with herself right now.

I should probably point out that while Bloke and I live roughly 90 seconds from the beach, I don’t swim. I have a small blind spot when it comes to water. OK, fine, call it a Marlon-Brando-sized phobia. That’s fine. I can deal. But whatever the case, I do not swim and I do not put my face in water. Period. However, in a coupla weeks, I’m getting’ on a jet plane. Bloke said, “They have a pool here. You need bathers.” There was a lot of whining and growling on my part, but yesterday I did my duty and went looking for bathers.

Oh, farrrrk.

Apparently, most bathers are itty-bitty triangles made of old ice-cream wrappers, nylon strings and hibiscus flowers. Pfft, who knew? The ones that weren’t made from tropical-flavoured Calipo papers and thread were all size 28 and made of tent-lengths of ruching and tucking. For the love of Ford, is there nothing in between? Why must all bathers be pink, orange and brown beer coasters held together with dental floss, or a floral couch cover? Whyyyy?!

Shopping for swimwear is soul-destroying. You have to spend a lot of time looking at all your jubbly bits in a very brightly-lit mirror. I would be far happier in a 1920s neck-to-knee cossie. Or a burqha. Hurrah for the burqha! Dateline or some such program showed some Muslim girls swimming at the beach and, all religious allegiances aside (especially since I'm an atheist and have none) I would very much be in for the beach sheet. Can I please, please have a beach burqha? Please?

I spent a good hour and a half hunting through various racks of swimwear. Needless to say, I had little joy. Finally, after much searching among floss and discarded ice-cream skins, I found a pair of black boy-leg shorts and a black-and-white halter top that covered most of my jubbly bits. Actually, it looked like something Paris Hilton would wear to a nightclub, but about 12 sizes larger. They were acceptable – quite cute, even – but before I can wear them, I must lose the equivalent of a Brady-sized bucket of K’fuck off my arse.

At least I HAVE the damned bathers. I can starve myself over the next fortnight, right?
Eating nothing but cucumber and parsley will be fun.

But I had barely recovered from the trauma of looking for togs when it was haircut time. (Rocking, drooling, whiny-noises etc.) My old hairdresser was a lovely bloke. Actually, he still is a lovely bloke. The only problem is that he sold his salon so he could sell home loans instead of haircuts. More importantly, he sold his salon to a chick who painted the whole fucking place hot pink, turned it into a “style lounge” and hung dippy chandeliers in the windows.

I cannot walk into this place without feeling like a girly idiot. I am so girly.

I coped for a few months, since Old Owner came in on Saturday mornings. The final straw came on the day when I went in to see Old Owner and had my hair washed by a 12-year-old Paris-clone. It was Wrong.

Me: “So, are you Girly-Pink-Dimwit's sister?”
Scrawny Hair Washer: “Everyone asks me that! No, I’m not. I totally wish I was, though! That would be, like, so hot!”
Me: “Er, that’s “I totally wish I were”, not “I totally wish I was”. So, why are you washing my hair?”
HW: “I totally want to be a hairdresser when I finish school! That would be so, like, totally hot!”
Me: “Erm, hm, plenty of time for that sort of thing, eh, yeah? Since you’re 12, yeah? You know, I did actually wash my hair before I arrived here… (Please! Please! Stop massaging my scalp! You’re 12! It feels like child exploitation!)”

However, I’m nothing if not a lazy cow so I put off finding another haircutter. I’ve let myself go for a few weeks. In fact, until this morning, my hair looked like an otter that had had sex with a coir doormat. Rough sex.

Sigh. Would that I still looked like an untrimmed doormat/otter hybrid.

Since I couldn’t get a haircut with Old Owner, I decided to try Place Across The Road. Mistake. Bi-i-i-g-g mistake.

I ended up with Rhianna (Who the hell is called Rhianna? I mean, really?! Rhiannon is bad enough, but Rhianna? That’s so SBG that it’s not funny!). Needless to say, Rhianna was wearing a dress and leggings. She was also about 15 and weighed four stone. I took one look at her and thought, “Ooooh, this can’t be good.”

By the time Rhianna had finished with me, I looked like my hair had been cut with a broken beer bottle. Or possibly with a knife and fork. I even had to remove a few chunks over my left ear with the nail scissors, for Ford’s sake.

I guess all I need to have happen now is for my underwear drawer to catch fire. I just bought me some new dacks yesterday, so I guess that would be the final straw. Or the toilet to back up. Again. Come on, bring it on, bitches! I’m ready!

Edit: Actually, the pants haircut was the third crap thing to happen. I forgot that the tumble dryer already turned to putty, curse it. Hmmph. Now I'm going to have to get one of those Today Tonight-unapproved repairmen...

Short and sour

I'm declaring war on shorts. I'm not quite sure how to go about it, though. Does it have to be done in writing through the UN? Do I have to make some sort of grand gesture, like Hitler did when he invaded Poland? Or could it be as simple as walking up to Bec Hewitt and slapping her face with a glove?

Shorts: just say no

I'm not suggesting all shorts are bad - just most of them. Shorts have their place and that's called the beach. And if you're exercising or involved in some sort of sporting activity, then by all means wear shorts. I don't want anyone to be deprived of the sight of nice fit young AFL boys in their shorts, nor do I wish anyone to die of heat exhaustion because they've been forced to run a marathon in sweat pants.

Similarly, I don't care what you do at home. Wear your shorts, if you like. Hell, you can wear a Star Trek uniform, full Klingon make-up and a pair of legwarmers, for all I care. However, if you are going to leave the house, please, please spare a thought for other people.

There were shorts around in autumn and spring, much to my disgust, but now the first flush of summer is here, there's an absolute rash of them. It's not a pretty sight. Hot pants, athletic shorts, formal shorts, cargo shorts, severely abbreviated trousers - each is worthy of a fashion crash tackle in its own right. Take tailored formal shorts, like those egregious white things Bec wore on Cup Day. As far as I'm concerned, it will never, ever be appropriate to wear shorts to the office unless you've been called in from a day off and have been forced to come straight from the beach. Neverthless, girls all over the place are wearing shorts to work with high-heeled pumps. Or, even worse, with boots. The horror! The horror!

Even comparatively inoffensive items such as drill shorts can become lethal weapons in the wrong hands. A few days ago, I saw a girl wearing a pair of black drill shorts that would have been perfectly appropriate for a day hiking. They had cuffs and tabs and pockets and metal buttons and suchlike, but had she teamed them with a Bonds T-shirt, a pair of hiking boots and a nice shady hat? No. She was wearing a pair of what could only be described as lace bicycle shorts underneath the drill shorts. The only thing I can think of is that she must have had some sort of psychotic break when she got out of bed that morning.

In addition to the fashion horror, there's the arse factor. It's a sad fact, but in these days of chips with everything, very few people's bums are worthy of being seen in shorts. If you're my size or larger, I don't want to see you in shorts. I want nothing to do with your cellulite, your thigh dimples or any rolls of jubbly fat that you may have decided to show to the world. Of course, if you're thinner than I am and/or have a bum like Kylie Minogue, I don't want to see you in shorts either. You'll make me feel like a barge-arse, so bugger you.

Then, of course, we have boys and shorts. Sigh. One of the chief offenders is the tradey shorts that ride far, far too low. (Speaking of which, ever read Douglas Adams's marvellous little book, The Deeper Meaning of Liff? Adams and his pals used to play an after-dinner game with an atlas. You let it fall open at random, close your eyes and put your finger on the map, then try to think of an appropriate meaning for the place name. For example, Ravenna: the poetic term for the crack of a workman's bottom that is visible above his trousers. But I digress.) Tradey shorts are bad, but who could forget those enormous baggy abominations that come past the knee, are available in a wide variety of camouflage patterns and come with sufficient pockets to carry an entire slab of beer? Are they long shorts? Short longs? Whatever they are, it's a sad fact that they make most men look like dwarves. They also seem to be the sort favoured by guys over 40 who wear Crocs and labour under the misapprehension that their young attire makes them look hip and cool.

So please, for everyone's sake, think before you short.

Frankie says vote for Pedro

Look what I found over at everyone's favourite bit of bitchery, Go Fug Yourself. The Fug Girls were most concerned with the raggy hemlines on the poor, underfed little thing's jeans, but I've cropped them out because they weren't what caught my attention.

Forget about whichever Olsen twin this is - after all, who knows or cares? And she's obviously on her way to haunt a house somewhere, after counting all the money she's made from convincing six-year-olds they need bras, so who are we to get in her way?

The important thing in this photograph is her T-shirt. She's not old enough to know what "Frankie Says Relax" means, bless her little chicken bone wrists, but while that's sad, it's irrelevant.

The important thing here is that if Frankie T-shirts are back, then Choose Life T-shirts can only be a fluorescent sock away. Hurrah!

Brownblog

I had thought of blogging the Brownlow red capet, but one of the first people I saw was Andrew McLeod's missus. Sorry, haven't a clue what her name is, but she must have realised she'd chosen a drab gown. "Hmm, what shall I do to brighten it up? I know! I'll play down my bony, bony spine and shoulder blades by glueing sequins to them! Brilliant!"



It's so classy, isn't it? One presumes that 23 might be the other half's on-field number, though I'm just taking a wild stab in the dark. Missus Andrew also seems to have chosen to accessorise with an albino panda arm piece in place of a handbag. I probably would have chosen a beaded clutch, but that's just me.

She said the stylist came up with the idea for the sequinned number "to have a bit of fun" with the outfit. Sweetie, when most people want to have a bit of fun with an evening gown, they wear groovy bling or cute shoes.

Anyway, after that, I lost a good deal of my will to live and had to mix myself a good, sturdy cocktail. Oh, the horror, the horror.

Leggings for the legless

I spent 10 minutes loitering in Rundle Mall at lunchtime today. I never fail to be bemused by watching my fellow humans.

For example, have you ever noticed that some days you see a lot of people with no legs? Obviously by "a lot", I mean "two or more", since most days you don't see anyone with no legs. Is the increase caused by one of those nasty diseases the cigarette packets keep banging on about? (Speaking of which, is it only me, or do the gangrenous toe and the cancerous mouth make other people feel ill? I'm not usually of such weak constitution, but I can't stand to have a pus-adorned ciggie box on the table at a cafe when I'm eating. And I don't even smoke! The clogged artery doesn't bother me, but the asthmatic child is my favourite - she just looks slightly tragic and consumptive a la Emily Dickinson. Actually, can't you see freaky little kids trading the packet tops like football cards? "I'll give you a festy toe for a manky mouth." "Nah, I've got four festy toes already. Don't you have a bloody eye?" But, yet again, I digress.)

Back on topic, what about guys wearing hair bands? I know it's a bit gender-Nazi, but that one bugs me. Today I saw a guy wearing a stretchy black hairband, similar to one I used to own in the late '80s. He was of beautifully exotic complexion and very nattily turned out in a suit, but there it was: a hairband holding back a luxuriant 'fro and ruining the whole effect. Metro really has gone too far. Please, Ford, don't let the boys start wearing Alice bands! I will not be able to cope. Watching cinch belts, leggings and bubble skirts come back into style has been traumatic enough. Next it will be fluro socks, Choose Life T-shirts, lace gloves and legwarmers. For boys.

Speaking of horror couture, there were, as always, fashion victims aplenty in the Mall today. More like fashion roadkill, really. I probably should preface this torrent of abuse by admitting that I have zero fashion sense and no idea of how to look edgy and cool. After all, I did get trapped in a dress not so long ago. I can match black with black, add some funky earrings and that's about as far as it goes. I really only like wearing jeans, boots of varying lengths and black stuff.

Anyway, despite me being a fashtard myself, I still have enough:

• sense to know what not to wear (hopefully);
• sense to know that frou frou always looks crap; and
• arse to say that chicks who make questionable clothing choices deserve what what one of my mates refers to as a fashion crash tackle.

Don't like the look of that dress worn with jeans? Think a white balloon skirt with a heavy leather belt, knee-high fishnets and gold pumps is just a bit beyond the pale? Reckon those pink ugg boots look crap with a skimpy summer frock? Can't stand this whole trend for formal shorts? If you're still not sure what I'm talking about, visit the Fug Girls for some celebrity examples. If, on the other hand, you know exactly what I mean, see it every day and are duly horrified, then you too can be an honorary member of the Fashion STAR Force. It's great being a Fashion Starrie. You get a little silver star for your handbag and everything. Now you've got the badge, it's your duty to take out fashion offenders with a flying pounce, much like what Hobbes does to Calvin when he's not looking.

But sorry - you're not allowed to crash tackle the legless, even if they are male and wearing hair bands. Come on, it's just not nice.

Frock horror

Today I became trapped in a dress and had to be cut out. With scissors.

I was wandering through Target (that’s pronounced Tarjaaay, dahling) when I saw this dinky summer frock. It was blue and white floral with no sleeves, a knee-length A-line skirt and a tricky little tie belt. In short, it was just as cute as a button. "Hmm," I thought craftily. "That doesn’t look like a cheap frock." So off I flitted to the fitting room.

There was no problem getting the dress on. The zip went up nicely. Once on, however, it did look rather like a cheap frock because it gaped unattractively around the neckline. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained," I thought, trying to undo the zip. It jammed halfway. "Spiteful cheap frock!" I thought, yanking at the zip for a good minute before admitting that help was needed.

Mum was waiting outside, so I said, “Psst! Mum! I’m stuck!” She dragged at the zip for a while, but still no cigar. I tried to yank the dress over my head, but that wasn’t working either (boobs can be such a problem). Admitting defeat, I went to the fitting room lady and told her I had a zip problem. She came over and helpfully did it up for me.

“Nooo,” I whined. “It won’t go down. I’m trapped!” “In a Target frock!” I added in a silent wail. Not quite believing that anyone could be dumb enough to get stuck in a dress, she also dragged at the zip for a while. Ba-bow. She fetched another lassy who took her turn struggling with it. Meanwhile, I was wishing I’d shaved my underarms and was feeling like that jar of olives that everyone passes around at a party but no-one can open.

The two women went off to consult the manager about what to do with a customer stuck in a frock and one returned with a pair of scissors to “unpick” the zip. Predictably, this didn’t work, since scissors tend to be more suited to cutting. There was yet more consultation. Finally the first woman returned and said, “We’re just going to have to cut you out.” So she did.

Now let’s never speak of this regrettable incident again.