Thursday, September 25, 2014

Say NO To Pant Crime

    Dungarees haven’t been fashionable in an age.

    More bereft of Come-back-round-againability even than flares, dungarees had their heyday during the Gold Rush, along with the few brief years between the late 70s and early 80s when the corpse of the 60s was devoured by the people who would later culture-vomit stuff like the iPad or call for the compulsory sterilisation of non-whites.

    These facts do not deter my neighbour King Dungarees (Hey Lookit Me) from romping about the ‘hood in a selection of especially droopy pairs of said abominations of trousery.

    Let me be clear about three things first of all.

    1) I know for a fact that King Dungarees (Hey Lookit Me) has more than one pair of strapped leggy abominations because I’ve followed him down the street.  It could have been just the one pair I saw every time — because, after all, who, who, who wears dungarees in 2014??? — but scans of his rear end from as safe a distance as reading glasses will permit allowed me to detect that his wardrobe of the damned pays host to at least six legs’ worth of indiscriminately evident HORROR.

    2) He doesn’t wear dungarees all the time. His legwear royalty credentials are thus on a par with the way the Queen of England dons her crown: he’s apt to look a pranny regularly, but his pranniness isn’t a permanent fixture.

    3) King Dungarees (Hey Lookit Me) isn’t his real name.  I think.

    As I tiptoe behind him to Tesco, eyes trained on his turn-ups, the crumples of his rear crotch, I’m often minded to ask where he purchased his supreme foulnesses of denim, stud and style.  Other questions bubble to the surface too — questions like what the fucking hell are you thinking, you total arsehole? and how regularly do children as young as 3 mock you and throw stones at your face? — but  I’ve found it pays never to overspeculate on matters such as this, just in case advocates of an Infinite Universe like Professor Stephen Hawking, Carl Sagan (and all those Hollywood would-bes who no longer recognise each other at their sorry get-togethers thanks to their excessively deforming plastic surgery) were wrong about the whole infinity deal.  To date, I’ve seen no dungaree emporiums in my local high street, and when I’ve conducted research online, my browser’s porn filter throws the power switch on the Midlands.  So maybe he doesn’t purchase them at all.   

    My current theory is that either King Dungarees (Hey Lookit Me) makes his wretched thigh n’ torso adorning offerings himself, or (most likely, I fear) he deploys his wife as some sort of beleaguered trouser  slave to weave him denim and stitch from Weird Dog Telepathy Guy’s stray dog hairs.  I rarely see her out in the street by day, but when I’ve woken in a cold sweat at dead of night, obsessing about the lucrative possibilities of inventions from hamster-cum-doilies to velcro ‘mitten, bootee and fire escape’ sets for small terraced houses, I’ve caught sight of her tweezering her way along the pavement on her hands and knees with a rucksack dangling, baby sloth-like, from her chest.

    I can’t think that my neighbour is poised at the cutting edge of some new dungaree-friendly fad and is ready to do for their unfettered horribleness what Paul Weller did for the Mods back in the day.

    So what’s his game?

    I have no desire to be perplexed right now but this ill-clad buffoon has me totally distracted...

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