If I was asked to personify the years 2000 – 2009 it would be pointless to provide allegories to capitalists lambasting the plebeians and then charging them for wasting time, or terrorists angrily flagellating those who have the audacity to hold different beliefs – because that could be an analysis of any decade. Instead I would present the image of a juvenile standing gormlessly in a public space while wearing a luminous tutu, proclaiming how cutting edgily fashionable they are whilst simultaneously hanging on to Simon Cowell’s every word like every fucking Sheep and its Sheppard. Yes the decade I steadfastly refuse to refer to as “the noughties” (because it frankly sounds like a rejected title for a series of erotica novels), really did belong to the moronic fashion victim. The decade that style was taken outside, savagely beaten and forced in pink leopard skin pants. I mean the previous decade shouldn’t have been that hard to beat but we still somehow ended up looking more ridiculous then those plaid shirt wearing tossers.
The decade gave birth to some malodorous and deformed children such the scene kid, emos and just general fashion victims like Lady Gaga – whose outfits are compromised of collections that look the aftermath of CP30 making love to a cereal box to outfits that appear to be a net curtain regurgitated by a dying cat. I tend to avoid social trends much like I would ignore the cries for help from the children locked in my basement. Not conforming to any of these supposedly non-conformist fashions resulted in me once again being “unfashionable” but frankly I couldn’t give a flying piss as the less I am associated with society the better. Though I do weep when I see what has happened to the Human race – call me passé but 50 years ago these people would have been carted off to their nearest mental asylum for electrotherapy and given a shock greater than what George Michael experiences whenever he is in a public toilet and a cop enters.