As Carrie Bradshaw would lament ‘A woman can never have enough shoes…’. In a feigning interest in fashion affairs, I hear the the wedge is in and the heel is out. As a man I don’t get it, what the hell are they talking about? Shoes are shoes, no?
To fully explain my plight against this feminist underplot, I must first explain my hatred of Belgium. As an Erasmus student in the past year, I had the misfortune to live in Liege for a month, taking a detour to learn French, before the main piss-up arrived (oh how wrong I was). Right now, place a pencil in between your index fingers on the top, with your middle finger on the bottom side. Now think of a famous Belgian, if you thought of Jean Claude-Van Damme push your index fingers down. You may of noticed that his hurts, good.
The problem with the Belgians, is that they have no national identity or country esteem. Come on, how low does a countries esteem have to be, when it calls its national food after another country – ‘French Fries’ – you start wondering more about them. The fact they’re a tad arrogant as well annoys me, you see when the French do it, especially hot French women, it’s cute, and you get that little warm feeling that they’re doing the stereotype, so you feel less guilty when the Germans are marching in the shade.
When the Belgians do it’s like genital herpes, but not cute when you’re first exposed to it, it’s bloody annoying, makes you wish someone should of done a proper job in the past. So shoes, my problem with shoes, and the women becoming more fashionable, is that it seems that this trend is catching on with men, and real men, rugby players – Gavin Henson, is rarely seen with a head of hair that Lawrence Llweliyn Bellend would be envious.
With skinny jeans, and skinny cardigans, pink adorning all, what is the future for the British gent around town, what was wrong with jeans and chino’s, instead we now have TKMaxx, Primark, Peacocks, and every-time I visit, there is a worrying amount of guys milling around, mixing styles, seeing what went with what and – not that I was paying that much attention – but avoiding from the general matra that had seemed to have done man well in the past. Walking into said midrange, midpriced fashion outlet, looking at what the mannequin is wearing, finding it in his size, then departing.
This demasculinity I blame on the femininity movement, we haven’t found the equilibrium, we’re gone past it, so I call on you all, men of the world, put down your cocktails, loft your brew into the air and declare, Mr Big dies in SATC: The Movie. Payback’s a bitch ain’t it?