Jan. 2022; We can’t all be David Bowie

Pirate. Ninja. Astronaut. Bounty Hunter. Assassin. When you’re a kid, there must be a thousand times you dream abut what you want to be when you “grow up.” You look forward to your life being one constant, exciting thrill ride, never expecting to end up a bank clerk or shoe salesman like your parents are. But then the years roll by, and along with most other childhood fantasies, fragile dreams are shattered. By about the age of 9 I realised ninja and pirate weren’t going to be on the suggested lips of the school careers advisor. Soon as I hit high school I understood I was never going to be smart enough to be an astronaut, and there wasn’t exactly much “bounty” to be hunted in my down-trodden area of South London. (But, to this day, I still hold on to the fantasy of assassin. Every time I watch the movie Leon I cry, and want to kill people.) But it was around the age of 14 or so, I had the heartfelt decision that I wanted to be a fashion designer. Yep. I always liked clothes. I liked colours and matching styles. I admired the look of the outrageous new romantics and the punks, the goths and the rockabillies and the teddy boys. Fashion it all was. I took textiles (clothes and material and shit) as a chosen curriculum lesson at school, (Not meaning to sound dinosaur old, but at that time some ladies were still making their own clothes at home instead of the cost involved in buying them) whilst every other boy took more masculine subject offerings (woodwork and metalwork being firm favourites then. Yes, boys went on to do physical jobs, using their hands and brute force.) I was even pretty happy to be the only boy in the class of 30 girls. It all went swimmingly well, until one particular teacher, with the charm and subtlety of a hippopotamus, quietly told me one day that “only gay boys become fashion designers,” and then called my mother in to the school for a private meeting, asking her to seriously question my “unusual life choices.” Textiles class hence, was over, so I went and pursued something far more machismo (art and dramatics.)

Just a few years later, and my choice of “career” (HA!) would morph into musician-stroke-bartender, but I always kept a close affection for clothes. Or perhaps that should be, style. I love style. I love individuality. I love scars and tattoos, and girls dressing like boys, and boys dressing like their girlfriends tell them to. They call the 1980’s “the decade that fashion forgot,” but I beg to differ. I think the styles of the 80’s are a thousand times more individual than the weak, copied, American-esque dregs that most youth in the western world adorn their frames with now. I swear, if they saw a music video with someone wearing a steaming turd on their head, they’d go copy it. (Although, to be fair, when the Beastie Boys were a big deal in my particular part of the Waterloo Bronx, there wasn’t a Volkswagen in sight with the name badge in-tact.)

But to this day, I still love clothes. I love to spy someone walking past me with their own, cool, chic, independent and individual style just bursting out. As we get older, it seems clothes and fashion and style become less and less important to most people. In your teens and twenties, it’s all about sexy-attractive-cool. In your thirties it’s about practical-slash- doesn’t look awful. From 40 onwards it’s just about comfortable. Does it squeeze my belly too hard when I sit down and make me want to pee. Does it pull tight up my arse when I bend over. Does it make me sweat. Does it make me need to sit down and take my shoes off. Does it make my stomach look even bigger than it actually is. Yes, younger readers, this is what you have to look forward to. You may mock, you may laugh, but you’ll get there, one day. And sooner than you think…

And so, this weeks Sunday Scribble is one I’ve had in mind for some time, on a subject that’s quite dear to me. And I can almost guarantee, I’m going to offend some people. But hey, as the saying goes, “you can’t make an omelette without breaking some eggs.” So, let’s begin, shall we? Alright, so put your phone down for a second, and take a good look at what you’re wearing today. Oh dear. You could have chosen so much better. But don’t let me be mean. If you’re wearing outdoors-ey type clothes and you’re about to/have been out on a hike or whatever, then bravo. You chose wisely. Same goes for golf attire, chefs apron, MMA shorts and gloves, or full rubber body suit with high heels and gas mask. If the activity requires it, then dress accordingly. But, if you’re looking down at yourself, and you just see tired, old, mis-matched offerings that have been dangling from the hangman's noose in your wardrobe for years, then perhaps it’s time to reconsider your outfit.

Now, I’m not going to use the word “fashion”today, except to absolutely tear chunks out of Shenzhen fashion week (we’ll get to that soon.) But I am going to talk about style. What’s your style? Now, as a photographer, we debate the internal question of what’s your style frequently. And an important question it is. To me personally, the most important point is, not to be fake. Don’t be walking down the street in 6-inch stiletto heels, fishnet stockings, with them humble B-cup wonders squished together made to looks like enticing C’s and a skirt so short you can see what you had for breakfast, when soon as you get home you’re straight in your Spongebob pyjamas and watching cartoons. Nope, that ain’t you. (But, in juxtaposition, I wonder how many people wear some old brown dress and grandma flat shoes in the street, then go home and get out the whips and chains and don the strap-on dildo. It’s always the quiet ones…) Just be real. It’s not about what you like, it’s about who you are. And who are you?

I remember reading a long time ago that to be successful, you have to purvey success. And this I agree with wholeheartedly. If you want to be seen as, and taken as, a successful person, then you should dress that way. That’s your suit of armour that empowers you to face the world head-on. And it absolutely works. Some clothes do that, they empower you. Some make you feel like the baddest, hottest, coolest, most irresistable piece of walking sex appeal on the planet right now. And of course, it works both ways. Some clothes can make you feel awkward, silly, ugly, unattractive, just plain ridiculous. I’ve personally never liked wearing suits. I feel uncomfortable, and I feel downright idiotic. I’m too tall, and I’m too skinny. If you’re tall and muscular and you wear a suit, you look like a mobster or a nightclub doorman. If you’re tall and skinny, you look like an undertaker. Neither of which particularly reflect who I am. But, give me a pair of Dr Martens, jeans, and a leather motorcycle jacket, and I’m feeling like a happy cross between James Dean, and Sesames Streets’ Big Bird.

Clothes are also vitally important. Not just in changing your own personal psychological confidence and happiness, but also in how others treat you. It’s true. You only get one chance to make a first impression. People judge you on how you dress. Hell, I’ll admit freely that I judge people on what they are wearing. Because it says so much about you, in so many subtle ways. Over the years I’ve interviewed scores of people for job positions in bars, and the two main things I go on are; What are they wearing, and what are their hobbies. That’s it. Of course, they need to be able to string a sentence together, and I’m a stickler for personal hygiene, but clothes speak to me. May it be in an interview, on a date, or just people watching in the street, I judge. And I like it. For an example of just how bitchy I can be, let me give you some examples of my own discriminatory fashion disasters;

The standard middle aged-man uniform of scruffy black or brown shoes, paired with nylon/polyester dark trousers and short sleeved shirt (Always either plain white, or with hideous patterns); Oh my god, you boring, unimaginative, sheep of a man. I feel sorry for your wife. I bet you are the reason she day dreams of exotic, sordid holiday flings with dark skinned strangers, passionate midnight hotel room romps with bearded Latin men in tight trousers named Juanito or Pablo.

The standard Guangdong aged 20-30 lady outfit of denim shorts (always too baggy,) un-ironed wrinkled t-shirt, and either Crocs (Ugh, probably fake) or flip flops; Look at you. What a sight. Did you wash your hair in the last week? No. But did you complain about being single for the 100th time whilst you parade about the streets, shuffling your shoes like a polio victim and eating junk food with your mouth open? Yes, you did. Why did you spend so much money on those delightful multi-coloured fake nails, instead of some decent shampoo and moisturiser? That bright red lipstick doesn’t make up for the rest of it, you know. And with that white-face powder that disappears around your jawline, it just makes you look like a less-than-skilled-in-cosmetics version of the clown from IT.

And one style that unfortunately never seems to die; wearing your nightclothes out in the street; Seriously? You cannot put on normal day-clothes to go to the supermarket? Are those fluffy slippers really that rain proof? To me, this would be an immediate and emergency call to the fashion police. “Arrest that imbecile, they seem to be unable to dress like a normal day-dwelling human.” Let’s repeat after me; Day time means day clothes, night time means sleepy clothes. Mingbai wo?! Mingbai!

Other fashion disasters include;

Reasonably nice shirt and trousers, worn with sandals/flip flops (Often the chosen attire of taxi drivers.) Or in contrast, tracksuit and sports clothes, worn with brown slip on dress shoes (Often favoured by Russian men.)

Old lady tights. Wrinkled, baggy, colouring meant to resemble skin tone, but actually looks more like a Golden Retriever wearing sausage-skins. Ladies, no. Just no. Black stockings, yes. Legs looking like they are wrapped in 1930’s war-rationed condoms, no.

T-shirts with English slogans on them you don’t understand; Please, double check before you walk out the door wearing these potential face-palms. A shy and well mannered 17 year old young man wearing a shirt that says “I AM A SLUT” is not the done thing. If you want to see more examples, check the internet. There are thousands. Please, double check.

Fake bags/shoes/clothes where the name is spelt wrong; You may think you’re the talk of the office with your “Luvvos Vitoon” handbag, or you “GVCCU” shoes, but no. You look a bit silly. No labels, please, unless you’ve got the real thing.

Shoes with the back heel part pressed down inside so you get to slop slop slop as you walk; For gods sake, just buy some shoes that fit. Walking normally is really quite simple, it goes “heel, toe, heel toe.” Not this disabled schloppp schloppp schloppp…. If you can’t execute the simplest of tasks like buying shoes that fit, then go buy yourself a wheelchair and stop annoying me.

High heels clearly 2 sizes too big that you bought in the sale, but every time you wear them your feet fall forwards like they are Jack and Rose in the sinking Titanic; No. No no no. You are not a circus clown.

Overweight men in skinny hipster jeans; You look like a human turkey.

Ladies in knee-length leather boots that are way too oversized for their calfs; In London we call these “slag wellys.” I’ll leave it at that.

Suit jackets/shirts with stains on them from after-work hot pot or barbeque feasts; We know you work long hours. We know you’re hungry after your 14 hour day. But please, just make an effort. Some apartment agents I’ve encountered look like they’ve found their office clothes on a landfill site. Dress for success, not dress like a homeless person with a sense of pride.

Grown women wearing cat-ears; You don’t look cute. You are not a cat. You look sad and childish and a bit mental and clearly trying to be 10 years younger than you actually are. You are too old for this. Stop it now.

Bigger people wearing massive oversized clothes to somehow hide their size; Hell no. You make yourself look even bigger. Be proud of those curves. And same goes for skinny people wearing waaaay-too tight clothes; You look like you’ve just appeared in the Auschwitz catwalk special. Slim is considered, by many, as attractive. Skinny in tight clothes, on the other hand, makes you look like a greyhound in drag.

Fat blokes in sports clothes; Seriously, dude, you ain’t fooling anybody. You don’t even jog to the fridge.

Baseball caps worn back to front; Not joking. You look like you have downs syndrome.

Thankfully, clothing choices here in Shenzhen have (somewhat) improved over the years. I used to think that people here got dressed in the dark, with no second thought for colours, patterns, occasion or finesse, but it’s improved now. Yet still there’s the people you see who clearly woke up and thought “Right, time to get dressed. Now, this is my favourite jumper, this is my favourite skirt, these are my favourite shoes, and this is my favourite bag.” Which ends up culminating in an ensemble ala Josephs technicolour dream-vomit. Which leads me to a point that every year, makes me seethe with discomfort, laugh out loud at the so-called knowledgeable attendees, and bring home the excruciating realization that my part of the world, is still, very much under a rock in certain ways; The dreaded Shenzhen “fashion” week.

So let’s think about the word; Fashion. Simply put, it means popular now. That may be clothes, movies, languages (“Studying French is so fashionable!” Urgh..) or anything else that’ll pass, soon enough, to be replaced by something better (unlikely) the same (possible) or worse (highly likely.) Every year Shenzhen is blessed with Fashion week, but let’s look at this in all honesty. Shenzhen is about as fashionable as Scotland is tropical. Now, it’s not that Shenzhen people can’t afford expensive stuff. Jesus they can. As can be seen by any 23 year old second-generation rich clone driving a pink Masarati with a huge Pikachu sticker on the side. No, Shenzhen people have money, but money cannot buy some things. Like breeding. Like wisdom. Like charm. And most clearly, like taste.

So there comes the time when my wechat moments are utterly bamboozled by tasteless and narcissistic selfies from SHENZHEN FASHION WEEK. Now, let’s get this straight; Frequenting and attending an event, such as SHENZHEN FASHION WEEK, does NOT make you fashionable. Just like going to a formula-1 race wearing a crash helmet does not make you a racing driver, or wearing frilly undies to Victorias’ Secret does not make you a boudoir model. Going to fashion week does not mean you have any idea about fashion. Repeat after me; Going to fashion week does not mean you have any idea about fashion. Now, I know you want to. Or at least, I know you want to be seen to . But you don’t. And by just picking out the most outlandish crap you have in your closet and adorning yourself with random eclectic accessories, you still are not fashionable. You’re just trying too hard, to be what you are not. Stop trying to be someone you are not. Go put your Crocs back on.

But really, fashion is overrated. What’s way more attractive in any person, is stylish. Now that’s a thing hard to obtain for yourself. Style. Not copying what you see in shop windows, but making your clothes you. Your style. Now that’s nothing less than spectacular. Let’s take, for example; There is a lady in Shenzhen who has become very well known. She is older than she looks, she is fuller figured, and she wears her tattoos and shaven head with pride. She dresses in furs and stockings and bold jewellery, and she looks nothing less than amazing. She is truly gorgeous. But it’s not what she wears that matters, it’s how she wears it. Her sensuality and her confidence and her personality just shine through it, and her clothing just accentuates that. Now that’s style. This wonderful lady has my full admiration. The world would be a much brighter, happier, cooler place with more people like her, who were unafraid to embrace their own sense of style. She is being herself, and I applaud her.

But, “Who the hell are you?” you may be thinking, and very fairly so. I’m by no means any advisory board, but this is my way of thinking, how I venture out into the world, trying to look decent, presentable, and still keeping a hint of edgy-cool..

Every day when I’m in my morning shower, I’m already planning what I’m going to wear. Depending on the day ahead, I decide what won’t look too casual, too formal, too thoughtless, too overdressed. I dress simply, but thoughtfully. I wear only black and grey most days, with blue jeans the only occasional exception. Wearing all tones and no colours means that everything always matches. I’ve grown to learn that with 1 colour and 1 tone, you can’t go wrong. And that black goes with everything. If you insist on wearing a multitude of colours, then at least understand the colour wheel. That’ll help no end. Try not to wear more than one pattern, unless you’re blind and then it’s absolutely forgiveable (but you probably won’t be reading this article anyway.) Don’t wear too something too big or too small. Make sure it fits properly. Clean your shoes regularly. And most importantly, be yourself. Don’t try and be something you’re not, people will see through you in a heartbeat. Don’t pick a style, be your style. And if idiotic, judgemental assholes like me pick holes in that, tell me me to go to hell. :)

Now I hope this weeks Sunday Scribble hasn’t made you annoyed, but I do hope it’s brought a smile to your face, and made some people contemplate and reconsider their wardrobe choices. Clothes are important, and people will judge you on your appearance. You can’t do much about your face if you look like a gorilla, but as least you can look like a stylish gorilla. Now, I’m off to polish my shoes. Until next week, toodle-pip.