Spleen Venting: Fashion...

I once went to a party with some fashion people. It was on the same day that British troops had gone into Iraq but the only topic of conversation at this party was fashion. Clothes and fashion; fashion and catwalk shows; designers and fashion; models and fashion... You get the picture.

And even though this major event had received wall-to-wall coverage in the press and the radio and the TV, fashion was all these cunts could talk about. And with their beautiful ways and their beautiful clothes, and their interest in only themselves and their stupid fucking opinions about their beautiful ways and their beautiful clothes, I quickly realised I probably didn't like fashion. Or them. At all.

Now let's be clear: liking fashion is not a crime. It clearly should be. But it's not. Elevating it to an art form and pretending it's something of global significance, however, is. And that's entirely what these vacuous shit-for-opinions arsewipes were doing. Now I don't really mind vacuous arseholes. The world's full of them. But at least some of them realise they are vacuous arseholes and make an effort not be. Sometimes... And that's pretty commendable in my book.

But after giving it some consideration I've realised that pretty much everyone I've ever met who's worked in fashion is a vacuous arsehole who doesn't know it. They think they're interesting and chic when actually they're just fucking dullards and a bit thick.

But thinking like this made me feel slightly ashamed. I'd lost my ability to empathise and I realised I was probably giving them a bad press... so I promised the next time I met one I'd try to be more compassionate and not imagine throwing them in a cage with several starved pitbulls and enjoying the bloody spectacle of:
a) them dying horribly and brutally.
b) them dying horribly and brutally and their fave clothes being ripped to shreds in the process.

So I realised I needed a coping mechanism to conjour some empathy and I figured I'd think of other people who had a bad press and try to remember that they were also somebody's son or somebody's daughter. That way I would find compassion in the most unlikely place and simply replicate that process for the fashion people.

And this week my chance to try my new coping mechanism finally came after I met a couple of new people from the fashion world.

Make no mistake, they were utter shitcakes-for-brains oxygen thieves, but instead of adopting my default position of contempt and hatred I used my coping mechanism.

Sadly the only people I could only think of who'd been the victims of such vitriol in the press were Peter Sutcliffe and Myra Hindley. And I started feeling sorry for Sutcliffe and Hindley to be compared to this pair of wankstains...

I clearly need a new strategy. Gun anyone?