But the issue here is clothes shopping. No wonder those WAGS need a whole day. Men in general, and especially those who despise lounging around the vegetable sections in supermarkets, will probably recoil in dread at the thought of touring high street apparel outlets, and even more so in a big city where they are spread apart by miles.
Personally, if you have the funds and the time, I don’t see how anyone can not like it. Popping tags – buying new clothes – is scientifically proven to make you feel better about yourself, hence the term retail therapy. The problem, apart from funds and time, obviously, is finding your size, brand, and colour.
The likelihood of all these probabilities coinciding (funds, time, size, brand and colour) is exceedingly rare, in my part of the world. Yeah, I know, you DREAMED of a cardboard box. But tooting hell, why do all manufacturers only cater for large boys?
Whatever you want, they ain’t got it. Well they have, they have exactly what you want, but not in your size. Or they have your size, but not your colour. And the quality’s dreadful. It’s either crinkly or shiny or bobbly or flappy or tight. If it looks like it needs ironing before it’s even left the shop then run a mile. The really cheap stuff looks like it was made from spare tent canvas.
Supposing my 6 numbers come up. You think I’m paying over the odds for designer? Huh. MASSIVE PRICES – TINY SIZES. 50 spuds for a t-shirt? I could have 150 Snickers ice creams for that! As for high street goods, I get the feeling everything gets made in the same eastern factory and then the different labels are stuck on later, like tuna, or beans. Mainstream brands have bottomed out. You’ll be lucky to get an elastic waist or a zipper on your pocket now. Hey, if you’re not gonna put an effing zip on the effing pocket, don’t even bother making the chuffing thing in the first place!
Who can afford to carry cash or cards or keys in a sh*tty little shallow pocket that doesn’t even have a zip? F*ck me man. It’s disgraceful. Not so long ago, attire featured intricate sewing work on proud emblems and badges. Now they are glue-gunned on. XL meant enough room for 2 pairs of bollocks and at least three buttocks. Now, if they even have it, you can’t get a leg in.
Wadda’ya reckon. Do the clothes make the man, or do they just keep us warm?
When you check yourself out in the mirror (don't deny it), what do you see? Gentleman, or wasteman? Have you ever spilled some Lloyd GROSSMAN Thai Curry sauce and Wall's mint choc chip over anything new?