Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Cursed Clothing
Answer me a question. Do you ever think clothing can be cursed?
I can hear you now –"Ah, Bucko!, what the flip do you think you are talking about man? Wasn’t it the great philosopher Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche* who remarked that only the highest living form, created in God’s own image, may possess a soul, and therefore emotions such as anger, love or, indeed, that metaphysical conundrum that we do, in times when logic and circumstances run against all normal parameters of explanation, call luck? Clothes are inanimate objects bereft of soul and purely functional in their exsistence, and therefore cannot have human attributes attached to their being. To suggests otherwise would be foolhardy in the extreme and counter to all natural thinking on the matter, and to broach such things could be seen as the raving of a madman."
Well, of course you would say that, wouldn’t you?
But look, have you never owned a coat, which as soon as you walked outside in it, got shat upon from a great height by the world’s previously most constipated bird?
Or a pair of shoes which, the second you put them on, seemed irresistibly drawn to the biggest, juiciest, steamiest dog turd in world?
Or perhaps a pair of gloves that everytime you put them on, forced you to leave your house under cover of darkness and lurk in the shadows waiting to squeeze the life from the next worthless soul who happened to surf the random tide of fate into you clutches? Errr………….well, maybe that’s a more limited example than the other two but you get my drift…..
Despite Mr FWN’s assertions, I’m starting to think that certain apparel in my wardrobe is, in fact, possessed by some of these characteristics.
Let’s take exhibit A)
This is a T-shirt I went to great lengths to own. When the band Rush came over here to tour last year, for the first time in ages, I wanted a souvenir. This proved difficult as I wanted the shirt in Large, and due to the popularity of the "natural" colour, it had sold out by the time I’d queued for three hours for it. No worries, the internet could help. A quick scout around secured the shirt, but for the astronomical sum of £40. This is the most expensive item of clothing I own. But it’s got to the point where I dare not wear it.
The first time I wore it managed to cover itself in chocolate ice cream. No amount of rubbing could get it out, in fact it made it worse as it simply helped grind the Belgian Dark Chocolate chips in it further into the nap. This has left a rather obvious, to me at least, stain on the shirt that even the best biological efforts of Lever Brother’s has failed to remove. Fortunately the "natural" cotton colour of the shirt is a sort of beige shade and so it didn’t stand out too much.
Then I wore it to a party. The red of a good Argentine Malbec and the amber nectar of a decent aussie larger left me just a crème de menthe away from leaving the place looking like a set of traffic lights.
And then there’s been the exploding curry incident. No, I wasn’t stupid enough to wear the shirt while cooking the curry, and I had a big napkin ready for when I sat down to eat it, so all bases were apparently covered. Or so I thought. Unfortunately the luck of the shirt had other things on its mind. As I went to remove the lid from the bubbling pot of Lamb Madras I’d lovingly prepared for my tea, the bastard thing refused to budge. So I gave it a bit of welly and let me tell you, the bugger came off then. But with a wet pop and a shower of curry sauce in the process. Turmeric, chilli and coriander issued explosively forth all over the by now rather shabby looking T-shirt. My wife’s best efforts with all that resides under our kitchen sink have failed to made any dent in the kalidescope of coloured stains which have changed my once stylish reminder of a great night out into a stoned hippy’s tie-dyed dream. It now resides quietly in the back of the cupboard.
Exhibit B)
A pair of Levi’s finest sand coloured jeans. Very nice. Wear them to work on a Friday and no one can say for certain they’re jeans and send you home, and all because they’re not blue. Woo-hoo, one over on The Man!!!
The first time I wore them, the tomato sauce from a sausage and egg torpedo from Benjy’s squirted from the bottom of the bun all over them.
Then, having washed them so much to try and get that out they’d virtually gone white where the sauce had been, I got on the train with a Copy of the Metro. By the time I’d got to Cannon Street the full colour photo and football-scandal headline were no longer residing on the back paper but had taken up residence on the front of my jeans. At least on the way home I could do the crossword on them.
And then they caused a full cup of coffee to be knocked off my desk and into my lap. I don’t even drink coffee at work.
Still not convinced? Well let’s fast forward to last weekend. I’m to cook for the evening and the missus is going to watch Antiques Roadshow. (Remember, every time they say "veneer" you have to have a drink.) "Right," I think to myself, "enough of this cursed bollocks, I’m wearing the T-shirt and the jeans tonight. I’m a enlightened soul of the 21st century, and don’t believe all this 12th century cursed hocus pocus, and no mistake!" Have I mentioned I was making Italian? Have I mentioned it needed tomato sauce? Need I mention that in lifting the pan to tip the sauce on to the spaghetti that the handle was hot, twisted in my grip and deposited the contents of the pan over both the devil’s own T-shirt and his accursed trousers?
That Nietzsche**, he knows shit, doesn’t he?
*no, it wasn’t…………………………
** Who the fuck is he anyway?
I can hear you now –"Ah, Bucko!, what the flip do you think you are talking about man? Wasn’t it the great philosopher Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche* who remarked that only the highest living form, created in God’s own image, may possess a soul, and therefore emotions such as anger, love or, indeed, that metaphysical conundrum that we do, in times when logic and circumstances run against all normal parameters of explanation, call luck? Clothes are inanimate objects bereft of soul and purely functional in their exsistence, and therefore cannot have human attributes attached to their being. To suggests otherwise would be foolhardy in the extreme and counter to all natural thinking on the matter, and to broach such things could be seen as the raving of a madman."
Well, of course you would say that, wouldn’t you?
But look, have you never owned a coat, which as soon as you walked outside in it, got shat upon from a great height by the world’s previously most constipated bird?
Or a pair of shoes which, the second you put them on, seemed irresistibly drawn to the biggest, juiciest, steamiest dog turd in world?
Or perhaps a pair of gloves that everytime you put them on, forced you to leave your house under cover of darkness and lurk in the shadows waiting to squeeze the life from the next worthless soul who happened to surf the random tide of fate into you clutches? Errr………….well, maybe that’s a more limited example than the other two but you get my drift…..
Despite Mr FWN’s assertions, I’m starting to think that certain apparel in my wardrobe is, in fact, possessed by some of these characteristics.
Let’s take exhibit A)
This is a T-shirt I went to great lengths to own. When the band Rush came over here to tour last year, for the first time in ages, I wanted a souvenir. This proved difficult as I wanted the shirt in Large, and due to the popularity of the "natural" colour, it had sold out by the time I’d queued for three hours for it. No worries, the internet could help. A quick scout around secured the shirt, but for the astronomical sum of £40. This is the most expensive item of clothing I own. But it’s got to the point where I dare not wear it.The first time I wore it managed to cover itself in chocolate ice cream. No amount of rubbing could get it out, in fact it made it worse as it simply helped grind the Belgian Dark Chocolate chips in it further into the nap. This has left a rather obvious, to me at least, stain on the shirt that even the best biological efforts of Lever Brother’s has failed to remove. Fortunately the "natural" cotton colour of the shirt is a sort of beige shade and so it didn’t stand out too much.
Then I wore it to a party. The red of a good Argentine Malbec and the amber nectar of a decent aussie larger left me just a crème de menthe away from leaving the place looking like a set of traffic lights.
And then there’s been the exploding curry incident. No, I wasn’t stupid enough to wear the shirt while cooking the curry, and I had a big napkin ready for when I sat down to eat it, so all bases were apparently covered. Or so I thought. Unfortunately the luck of the shirt had other things on its mind. As I went to remove the lid from the bubbling pot of Lamb Madras I’d lovingly prepared for my tea, the bastard thing refused to budge. So I gave it a bit of welly and let me tell you, the bugger came off then. But with a wet pop and a shower of curry sauce in the process. Turmeric, chilli and coriander issued explosively forth all over the by now rather shabby looking T-shirt. My wife’s best efforts with all that resides under our kitchen sink have failed to made any dent in the kalidescope of coloured stains which have changed my once stylish reminder of a great night out into a stoned hippy’s tie-dyed dream. It now resides quietly in the back of the cupboard.
Exhibit B)A pair of Levi’s finest sand coloured jeans. Very nice. Wear them to work on a Friday and no one can say for certain they’re jeans and send you home, and all because they’re not blue. Woo-hoo, one over on The Man!!!
The first time I wore them, the tomato sauce from a sausage and egg torpedo from Benjy’s squirted from the bottom of the bun all over them.
Then, having washed them so much to try and get that out they’d virtually gone white where the sauce had been, I got on the train with a Copy of the Metro. By the time I’d got to Cannon Street the full colour photo and football-scandal headline were no longer residing on the back paper but had taken up residence on the front of my jeans. At least on the way home I could do the crossword on them.
And then they caused a full cup of coffee to be knocked off my desk and into my lap. I don’t even drink coffee at work.
Still not convinced? Well let’s fast forward to last weekend. I’m to cook for the evening and the missus is going to watch Antiques Roadshow. (Remember, every time they say "veneer" you have to have a drink.) "Right," I think to myself, "enough of this cursed bollocks, I’m wearing the T-shirt and the jeans tonight. I’m a enlightened soul of the 21st century, and don’t believe all this 12th century cursed hocus pocus, and no mistake!" Have I mentioned I was making Italian? Have I mentioned it needed tomato sauce? Need I mention that in lifting the pan to tip the sauce on to the spaghetti that the handle was hot, twisted in my grip and deposited the contents of the pan over both the devil’s own T-shirt and his accursed trousers?
That Nietzsche**, he knows shit, doesn’t he?
*no, it wasn’t…………………………
** Who the fuck is he anyway?
# posted by Bucko! @ 2:28 PM 
