2006-09-05 - 12:47 a.m.

There are so many sunday newspapers delivered to Gannymede Towers that they don't even fit through the letter box. They are left on the door-knob, hanging forlornly. I hear the paperboy gets a lift from his mother, so heavy is his load, which rather defeats the point of earning money independently. If they keep adding supplements at this rate he's going to need a van by 2008. The fashion pages are always bewildering, though I suspect they might not be aimed at guys like me, especially when I read sentences like these:

"Once you're a member of the multiple cardigan-owning classes, you can experiment with layering, or double-cardiganing. Martina suggests teaming a tasteful Marni grey and caramel cashmere cardi (£499) with a thicker grey belted plunging Dries van Noten (£259) number [see above: fag in ridiculous patterned tunic] - 'The pattern reminds me of carpet,' she says.

The smugness of passages like this annoy me almost as much as the mystifying conclusion that I share the planet with men who not only read this without laughing, but would willingly spend seven hundred and fifty pounds on an outfit that currently looks overly-twee on the tutting old ladies of Morningside. The staggering wrongness of spending so much money on functional garments scarcely needs pointing out. Don't get me wrong, I've got nothing against a bit of dandyism here and there. It'd be boring if everyone dressed in uniform. I don't mind splashing out on something that looks truly fabulous, darling. Fuck, I own a fez, a smoking jacket, and a cane. A bit of novely goes a long way. I await eagerly the day that capes and fedoras come back. But. Even if I had infinate money I would still balk at spending £500 on a fucking cardigan, never mind repeating the stupidity.

I own more than one cardigan. They cost me single figure sums from local retailers and I often pair them with tracksuit bottoms when I feel a bit of a chill at night. I don't see them as a statement so much as a comfortable and handy thing to drape myself in - a warmth with pockets. It's at moments like this that I feel the icy presence of Death. I'm moaning about the price of cardigans. My hair is thinning. I find young peoeple in their tracksuit tops scruffy and loud. I don't have or want a mobile phone. I wince at the price of a pint in pubs. I find it hard to tell the difference between the Arcade Monkeys and the Arctic Fire. Get a haircut! Being a crusty old fucker isn't so bad.

previous - next