The Champion of Bad Taste (Part 2)

As you know I have a penchant for all things low brow. It’s really quite a delicious and ironic paradox when taken into account I also write a fashion blog. In my own defence though, fashion is art and to quote Marilyn Manson in (s)AINT, “I’m not an artist I’m a fucking work of art”. I’m not sure how referencing a 90’s antichrist of non-descript gender supports the point I’m trying to make- actually I’m failing to grasp what point it is I’m making but as they say, “if you can’t convince- confuse.” Moving on, I begin my tale of bad taste with a proposition: Have you ever asked yourself the very profound question of, “If I were ever asked to do an impromptu performance at Eurovision, WHAT would I wear?” No? Oh. Well if I were to ask myself that question, then this particular article would be my most obvious answer.

Behold:

(The vest I mean)

It came to me on a sunny autumn afternoon, just after I had finished work. I’d been good with my spending that week and therefore had a budget to blow! I figured I’d scour through the shops in Paddington near the cafe I work at. [Wow, I just read over that and saw what a horrible cliché I’m shaping up to be- working at a cafe in Paddington, writing fashion blogs, wearing kitsch for the sake of kitsch... someone please stage me an intervention?] Anywho, there it was in Side Street. I tried on my vile delight, bustling into the small change room, hardly a care for the curtain that didn’t quite close properly. My departure from the change room was not quite so festive- much less to do with the rancid fart the former occupant had left me and more to do with the impracticalities of the vest. I looked helplessly at the shop assistant and sighed, “But what would I wear it with?” He struggled with feeble suggestions, though he knew as well as I that the situation was dire. As I left the store, what happened that afternoon my friends, was a little thing called “divine intervention”.

The Stooges started playing on my iPod. Search and Destroy. The shrieking guitars and Iggy Pop’s angst-ridden wails answered my question in a heartbeat: “What the fuck wouldn’t I wear it with??” I turned on the spot and marched myself back to Side Street. Done. Bought. Sold. Fuck yeah.

That afternoon I rode off into the sunset dripping with rock n roll, a strut in my step, ready to get all Joan Jett up in this bitch. You know how it is. I arrived home brandishing my holy grail in the quest for bad taste. In my head it was one of those rare garments that straddles the fine line between totally awesome and totally eurotrash. You know- one of THOSE. Sure, in my head at least. In reality it was more like the vest downed 9 shots of tequila, tripped face first over that “fine line” and then tried to have sex with eurotrash’s cat. This is the kind of vest I’d hope to find myself wearing teamed with leopard print tights after emerging from a week long punk rock festival in Tokyo. I can’t imagine when else it would be acceptable, but of course in the name of vulgarity, there lies the source of my passion!