Elegantly Wasted
The fashion shoot adorning our centre pages in this edition left me remembering the days between the ages of around eight and eleven when no hint of sartorial indiscretion went unpunished by a jury of my peers. The slightest indication of clothes obtained from Oxfam, bequeathed by an older sibling or not branded with the mark of one of the six or so labels kids recognised back then would merit a campaign of harassment centred around the PE changing rooms and the application of that pre-adolescent insult de rigueur, ‘gaylord’. I was lucky enough to be first born amongst my father’s sons because otherwise my situation would have been that of Tom Brown in a nineties Essex Comprehensive. My mother’s penchant for charity shop sweep has since blighted my two brother’s school days and even now, when budget shopping is desirable and imperative to a student of my meagre loan, her ability to pick out the shell suit that even Jimmy Saville gave away, just in time for my homecomings, is uncanny.
Of course we are now inclusive, tolerant and other buzzword encompassing people to whom the very idea of what I have just described brings connotations of all kinds of social evils like prejudice and discrimination. One question, however, is whether our maturing from fashion fascists to independent adults is actually just a cosmetic attempt to hide our inner bully. Are we actually still the vacuous acolytes of fatuous fads we were a decade ago?
In youth we certainly seemed to have difficulty with the idea of fashion encompassing more than one basic format (hence the reluctance to stray from a small number of clothes brands and the one-size-fits-all use of Gaylord). We now have several themes on which to base our apparel, all of which are designed to make us look good, seem unique and feel included.
Last week on Micklegate I passed two men who could safely have been compartmentalised into the NME reading, indie-kid bracket. The jaded jackets and faded flares were present and they both sported what a friend and former housemate of mine constantly – I mean constantly, she talked of little else – called ‘trendyboyfuckmehair’ (all one word). What made them noticeable was that they had put strips of masking tape down the front of their jeans in order to preserve some form of differentiation. They both had. I could only imagine how they came to that decision. “I’ve had an idea, I’ll stick tape to my trousers!” “nice one, that’ll look so, like, different.” “Yeah, it’ll get me noticed man.” “Go for it.” “Erm… do you want to do it too?” “Good idea, then we can both look individual!”
Of course this via media approach to fashion applies to more than just clothes. Students listen to certain music, engage in particular types of politics and jump in the river all in the interests of setting themselves apart, so as to settle in. I also do not mean to suggest that all students who dress, listen to music or take part in politics do so with fashion in mind, but be honest. How many times have any of you criticised someone unknown in the gallery to your friends, based on their clothes (or at least heard someone else do the same)? How many times has this been less because they were badly dressed and more because they were dissimilarly dressed to their critic?
Anyone who has read this far might have taken enough of an interest to wonder what I am wearing? To find out watch the scene from series two of ‘The Office’ where Ricky Gervais is told he has to resign.
A Dangerous Mixture
If you are a fresher then the alacrity with which you started off telling people your name, course and hometown is likely to have have diminished almost steadily since week one.
You who have have made further progress into your higher academic career will have come to recognise the overuling and abiding question that comes to govern the aquisition of any new friendship. “What is your favourite pub in York?”
Since there are a shitload to choose from this is actually a question, the answer to which ought to change frequently during your residence here, just as it has for me.
Although I am editorialy forbidden to actually name my (recently aquired) new bar of choice, I can give the reason for my preference.
The establishment in question has a decent range of guest beers, one of which I ordered on my last visit. The barmaid’s unquestioning response was to pour me a completely different ale, while conversing soberly with the chef. Too polite to complain I accepted the mistake without comment and waited at the bar for the head to settle. On requesting a top up I received one, not of the beer previously poured, or even originally requested but of an altogether unexpected third party.
I loved it, it was the kind of appalling service I couldn’t have made up in a joke.
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