[Before I start off, might I add as a disclaimer that just because I hate some clothes you happen to own doesn’t mean I hate you, or the way you dress in general. I might do, but I assure you that will be a complete coincidence. Peace and hugs.]
1. Stuff from Hollister
Yeah, I realise this is not an original stance to take. The Hollister debate polarises people in the way that abortion, the legalisation of prostitution or active euthanasia do (Did I really just make that analogy? Did that just happen?). Everyone and his hamster has an opinion on the Californian brand, and it’s usually strong. But really. I can’t actually work out what I hate most…
Is it the fact their employees are not called “shop assistants”, but models, perhaps? Yes, okay, you’re hot, but just simmer down there. Us mortals don’t need it rubbed in our faces that you are naturally perfect, skinny and graceful while we woke up covered in empty crisp packets wearing one contact lens and a pair of slightly too short teddy-bear pyjamas.
Or is it the vile shop itself? Once I went in, out of pure curiosity, like Alice falling down the rabbit hole, if the rabbit hole made you line up like cattle until you are beckoned forth. It’s an actual queue, behind a rope and everything (there are few things worth queuing for: Space Mountain is one of them, Hollister is not). So there I was, jostling with Aberdeen’s most glamorous tweens, their fake nails tapping away on diamante encrusted iPhones, making sure their scabby little mates wouldn’t miss a second of such an adventure. And when we finally got in, it was dark, loud and sinister, giving me the distinctly uneasy feeling that if you try to leave you’ll be hit repeatedly with a flipflop until you’ve sold your soul for a vest with a pigeon on it.
Which brings me to the clothing itself. Firstly, if you’re reading this, you probably do not live on a Californian beach. Therefore I see no practicality in dressing as if you do – surely your mother taught you that. Secondly, I just googled the price of a plain t-shirt with that wee duck thing on it, and promptly dribbled my Pepsi all over the computer screen. £24? Get oot. And thirdly, as the nail in this sartorial coffin, the website divides its clothing sections into the categories named “Dudes” and “Bettys”… Jesus wept.
2. “Disco” Pants
You’re fun. You go clubbing and drink Jaegerbombs and take photos in bathroom mirrors. Sometimes you fall over and your friends tweet about how you were soooooo funny on your bum. At the end of the night you buy chips and cheese and whimper about how Darren isn’t replying to your incomprehensible texts. You wake up still in your tight, bright, shiny trousers and vow that was the “best night evah!!!!!!!”. You’re wild. A real party girl. #yolo.
Maybe it’s a genetic default I can blame on my long suffering parents, but my simple little brain curls up and dies when I can’t fit items into a pre-existing schema. This is where the humble body warmer confuses me. Aside from their ability to make girls who are young, pretty and rich look like the Michelin Man, I simply don’t understand. It’s not a jacket, because it doesn’t have arms. But it’s not a top either because it’s thick and padded. Do you wear a coat over it? Or do you just neglect your arms in the name of the holy god of fashion and leave them to freeze? Answers on a postcard please.
4. When People Dye Their Hair Red To Look Like Rihanna
5. THIS MUSTARD YELLOW CORDUROY SHIRT
There are few people I assign positive attributes to, having learned during my utterly miserable schooldays that most people are intrinsically rubbish (this is usually down to their bad haircuts, bad breath or lack of respect for the LAD that is Oscar Wilde). However, I can often be found singing the praises of my good friend Mr Clark, one of the few people who have actually dared to go on holiday with me and didn’t come back ‘broken’ in some sense of the word. Michael is a good writer, a good musician and, most importantly, doesn’t usually wear things that make my eyes bleed out their sockets.
Usually. Enter exhibit A. That’s right, it’s mustard yellow – a colour named after a pungent and altogether revolting condiment. It’s also corduroy – a fabric which is sometimes acceptable in the form of trousers, if you can pull off what I affectionately have dubbed Grandpa George Chic. But as a shirt? What the hell happened? I lament the day I saw this garment draped nonchalantly across Michael’s chest. Things will never be the same.
Images 1, 3 & 4: Wiki Commons
Image 2: Chiara
Image 5: Yuchen Shang