Google ‘what is the whitest thing in the world’ and the first thing that comes up is an entry on Quora from a man named Raaj Bansal who studied at Times World School (is that the Internet equivalent of ‘School of Hard Knocks/The University of Life in one’s Tinder bio?). The whitest thing, according to Mr Bansal, is not Mike Pence or sliced pan or even snow. It’s ‘the light from the sun in the morning that feels like energetic as well as it is believed that it also kill microorganisms around us.’ I beg to differ (I’m also just going to skim over the poor grammar there because I don’t want to induce cardiac arrest). I offer a counter argument that the whitest thing in the world, is, in fact, my skin, unmolested by any orange lotions or potions. Just look at my hand in the picture below. White and withered as Wilhelm III.
CHINTZY FLORALS FOR THE WIN
So, how would a pasty-faced Paddy like myself rock the new chitnzy florals on offer on the runway, high street and beyond (back alleys and truck stops, I’d imagine also dabble in chintz. Oh, there’s a dark side to all fashion trends)? Blooming (sorry) fake it, is what. Now, I’m not saying go full on Japanese like the Zen boys of Galway, chanting the Fukan-Zazengi like it’s Rosary season in ’93 and your zealous aunt is watching you like a hawk. Or to adopt a full metal jacket approach to your oriental ode and turn up for pre-drinks in your mate’s gaf wearing a floral kimono, replete with obi belt, wooden footwear and a 6 pack of Californian rolls you got down in the local Supervalu (scarleh for yer ma). Nah. Simply a nod to Asian chintz is enough – you don’t want to look like you’re in costume (nobody ever wants to look like they’re in costume, do they?) – Harajuku girls, look away.
I’ve gone for some strategically placed cleave action with a silky camisole underneath because as I told my Mam in the car last night, ‘a bit of boob never hurt anyone.’ Those hurt by boobs, please do not stand up. You’re not welcome here and I won’t have you in my life. Paired with some faux leather paperbag waisted trousers like these ones from River Island, this look says I’m ever ready for a pyjama party or motorcycle drag race. I’m down for some divilment but I carry muslin cloth bags of green tea with me at all times because I refuse to drink the brew of the proletariat like some common street urchin with crack-cleavage (we all know what crack I’m talking about here).
I’ve long coveted a pair of leather trousers, dreaming of being a rock chick with bleach blonde hair and a boyfriend that looks better than me in a catsuit. I did, in fact, date a rock star for 9 years but I still wore an Adidas coat like a badge of uncool pride because I hate to fit in. However, we all remember Ross’s debacle with leather trews – a beacon of warning for any fashionista who has ever expanded and diminished depending on the temperature. Pleather pants might seem to you like settling for Dawson when you’re dying to shift Pacey, like preferring percolate-slow drip Joey to red hot fox Jen, like donating blood and getting paid for it (remember when Jen’s boyf did that – kind of defeats the purpose, wouldn’t you say?) but consider this. Wearing an entire pants made out of leather is slightly gratuitous – like wearing assless chaps to a Christening – there’s plenty of alternatives, so why do it? These River Island bad boys have a gorgeous paperbag waist and now that I’m looking at them would probably look better with a bodysuit but you’ll forgive me, won’t you? Coz I’m cute, like. And gas. As in funny, not full of gas. YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.
River Island trousers
Red Herring, Cordelia blouse
Earrings, Capulet and Montague
CHINTZY FLORAL BLOUSES I LIKE
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CHEAP AS CHIPS (€10+)
MIDDLE OF THE ROAD (€40+)
MID-HIGH END (€200+)