Clarky Vs. Posh Spice

I'd be the first to admit that I was perhaps not the most fashionable kid in the playground.

Back in the heady days of Year 8 (I think I would have been 13?) my Dad bought me a coat which I thought was 'cool' - it was from Debenhams! (Well, once. Being my father he had bought it for next to nought from a 'factory clearout warehouse' or something of that ilk).

It was only when I wore it to school that someone kindly pointed out that it was actually a girl's coat.

Unfortunately, Metrosexuality wasn't exactly endorsed in the Penistone Grammar School dinner queue and for the rest of the winter - you don't realise how long winters are in Penistone until you've experienced them - I was subjected to daily ribbing/dead arms for the crime of wearing a 'gay coat'.

This was the first of many crimes against fashion I have made, some of the more memorable including:

Cream drainpipe jeans,

Hawaiian Shirts,

Hats, generally,

'That' skintight girls t-shirt at Leeds Festival...

Hell, even my haircut (2001-recently) was probably illegal in 34 states.

As a contrast, Victoria Beckham, who most people consider well versed in all things clothes, has recently spent £250,000 on a walk-in wardrobe for her new pad in Los Angeles. Yes, a quarter of a million pounds. More money than I have ever had, and depressingly, more than I can ever imagine having.

Instead of nipping down to Ikea (although, given her wealth, I'd forgive her for going to Habitat), the artist formerly known as Posh has incorporated NASA style technology to create what is technically known as a 'bitchin' wardrobe'.

Whereas Proles like you or I may consider a wardrobe to merely be a cupboard for clothes, Mrs Beckham clearly views it as some kind of Mission Control. As well as containing a leather floor, a Baccarat crystal chandelier, and an £40,000 Andy Warhol show print, the wardrobe is also fitted with a computer system that scans and archives Posh's thousands of outfits and allows her to view herself in a 360-degree image on a plasma screen. It will even keep a record of how many times an outfit has been worn.

I have two plastic crates on my floor which contain all my clothes. Except my coat, which I keep on the back of a chair.

I'd be the first to say that plastic crates aren't ideal for storing clothes (especially given the continued rodent presence in Chez Clarky) but I can't help but feel that Beckham's gone a bit too far.

But then, I would say that. After all, what does a bloke who wears 'gay coats' know about fashion?

Monsterist Tattoo

You may have spotted that the Tom Cruise/Scientology post has still not been completed. This is primarily because what began as a cheap joke at Cruise's 'religion'* has morphed into a life-consuming quest to expose the Scientologists for the corrupt, brain-washing extortioners they really are.

This may take me somewhat longer than anticipated.

So as I continue to research the Cult of Cruise, here's a a question for you to answer for me.

Those who don't know me might not be aware of the fact that I am a dedicated (some might say anorak) fan of a band called Super Furry Animals. Recently, I've got in touch with the guy that does their artwork, Pete Fowler, and he has agreed to design a tattoo for me. All he would like from me is some kind of idea as to what I would like.

This is where you come in. Any great ideas? To get an idea of the style Pete works with, check out Monsterism Island. I'm currently thinking something along the lines of a film noir, private investagtor monster, but any input is appreciated.

Given that nobody reads this blog, the time I have spent writing the above is quite probably a wasted 10 minutes, which I will never get back.

Ah well.

*In the UK, Scientology is NOT a religion in the eyes of the law. Scientologists have tried to argue against this, but in a statement by the Charities Commission it was made clear that the 'Church' of Scientology was not a religion because it 'was not established for the public benefit' and does 'not promote the moral or spiritual welfare or improvement of the community'. (Source: http://groups.google.com/group/alt.clearing.technology/msg/8d2c5dea466b647b?dmode=source&hl=en)

Tom Cruise & Scientology - My Theory

***************COMING SOON!***************

Kriss Akabusi

Here's a quickie:

Remember Kriss Akabusi?
I found out today that he is unofficial mascot for Stenhousemuir Football Club.

Seriously, he replaced Pat Sharpe!

http://http://www.stenhousemuirfc.com/Fangroups.htm

Stenhousemuir = my new favourite Scottish club.

Tour de France

I have never really got the Tour de France.

Maybe I've been missing something, but as far as I can make out, it's just a pack of lycra-clad blokes ploughing through some (admittedly beautiful) French countryside. It's like the 'Holiday' programme, without the catchy theme tune. (I really hope I'm not the only person who finds himself whistling said tune from time to time).

And Lance Armstrong. Fair enough, he overcame cancer and was nobbing Sheryl Crow for a bit, but does that really constitute a sports 'legend'? He's a cyclist: he's just got strong legs. Riding a bike takes physical fitness, but it's hardly a 'sport'.

Watching cycling is like watching any crap sport (athletics, motor sport, ice skating..) - it's only fun if it goes wrong. The sight of 50 cyclists crashing onto tarmac because some joker wobbled too much is timeless comedy, like Mr Bean, or Ginger babies.

However, despite my general indifference to the Tour de France, I will definitely be watching the opening leg this weekend. Not for the cyclists, not for the spectacle, but for the definite possibility of apocalyptic terrorism.

I mean, bearing in mind that the UK is currently on Severe (AKA 'shit-your-pants-and-hide-under-a-desk') threat levels, and given that the biggest cycling event in the world is taking off from London - I reckon there's a fair chance that what's normally a mind-numbingly dull spectator sport could potentially turn into Die Hard 5.

I'm probably not brave enough to go down and watch it in the flesh (I'm quite attached to my face), but I may well crack open a tinny, and watch from the comfort of my flat. If I only ever watch replays on YouTube and I Love 2007 in 20 years, I'll be gutted.

The Smoking Ban - The real winners and losers

Unless you've been living in a cave (or Wath-under-Dearne) for the last few months, you'll probably be aware that as of yesterday (1st July), smoking is no longer permitted in enclosed public spaces and places of work.

As a man who counts smoking as one of his favourite hobbies, this historic decision is hardly welcomed with open arms. I have unwillingly smoked my final fags in the pubs, clubs, greasy spoons and coffee shops where I spend what little disposable income I have.

Never again will I be able to lean against the wall of a discotheque, fag in mouth, trying my best to look like the Fonz....
(On reflection, this could well increase my chances of success with the fairer sex. I do tend to look like the bastard offspring of a chimney and a mental.)

When conversations get awkward, what will I do now to avoid eye contact with the other party? Stare at the place on the table where the ash tray used to be? If I over-use the other classic 'how-can-I-avoid-talking-to-you?' technique of popping to the toilet, it will probably be assumed that I have bowel cancer.

Perhaps the most jarring of all the changes is the dubious decison to ban smoking on train platforms. What the hell are you supposed to do while you wait for the inevitably late locomotive? Every smoker knows that cigarettes were invented to be taken with alcohol, coffee and to kill time whilst waiting for public transport. Yesterday, as I was returning from a rave in a somewhat (as the French say) twatted state, I was informed by a smug looking train official that if I didn't put my fag out I would be fined £80. Today, as I caught the train to work, a solitary Community Support Officer (henceforth known as Flidpigs) kept watch in case anyone had the audacity to smoke in the open air.

So, all in all, despite the numerous health benefits for the British population (which are undeniable), it's probably fair to say that I'm not desperately keen on having to nip outside for cancer stick come rain or shine. It is a good idea, but my inner five year old is longing to scream 'It's not fair!'

But who are the real winners and losers of the Smoking Ban?

The winners are surely the homeless. How many times have you witnessed some poor guy searching the streets for a fag-end to smoke? As of July 1st, those less fortunate than ourselves will be presented with a cornucopia of half-smoked Marlboro, Richmond and Benson, begging for a naked flame to give them second chance; redemption. Perhaps this was part of the plan all along - the redistribution of cigarettes from the rich to the poor; the classic story of Robin Hood, albeit cancerous. The systematic removal of the homeless could well be the most audacious of all Blair's legacies. But, until the tumours develop, the lives of those sleeping rough on the streets will be improved - our loss is their gain.

And the losers? Well, I reckon that'd be the Chinese and Tawainese. Think about it: who will need ashtrays now? Charity shops will be filled with ex-boozer ashtrays, and with the exception of the cretins who buy head-shop novelties, nobody will be in the market for a new receptacle to catch the ash of the cigarettes they can only smoke at home.

The Chinese probably won't be too concerned though. After all, they have the fastest growing economy in the world, and it'll mean more time can be spent on planning how to destroy Western civilisation.

And now reader, I will bid adieu, don the jacket of resignation and smoke the first of many post-ban cigarettes on the streets of South East London.

Until next time...
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