NFC Whatsoever

Here we go again.  In this, Chapter Eleventy-Eleven of my rants about grooming comes a fresh atrocity.  At a stupid awards show [some redundancy]  in Britishland recently, we were greeted by the following appearances.

Of course, Carol Vorderman looked lovely, as always:

…as did perennial hottie Nicola Roberts:

Then we have this totty, who was clearly in the back of the “Class” handout line:

But mostly, it seems, the other ladies got the picture (names, mostly, are irrelevant from here on):

Her date, on the other hand, looked like this:

Are you kidding me?  A formal affair, but without a tie and no socks?  Brace yourselves, folks, because it gets worse.  Much worse, because the “she lovely, he unspeakable” trend is going to continue.

For an afternoon garden party, his outfit might do (apart from the “dress shoes but no socks” thing, again), but for a formal evening occasion?

Then there’s this moron:

Ummm… light-brown shoes with a dark-blue suit, in the evening?  (Although he does get some kudos for the belt-shoes match, which seems to be all but forgotten nowadays.) But he’s positively sartorial compared to these three twits:

A shiny light-blue suit, a suit of menstrual-red hue (neither with socks), along with a snot-green outfit (with a collarless shirt, and We Will Not Discuss The Shoes)… I bet their mothers are all very proud of them.  

It gets worse.  Try this pimp outfit:

Now we’re reduced to wearing our bedroom slippers to formal occasions, are we?

The parade of foulness goes on and on, but nothing — repeat nothing — can prepare us for Simon Cowell’s appearance at this glittering occasion:

And lest you think that I took that pic from somewhere else, herewith the proof that I didn’t:

It’s not enough that some day (during the reign of World-Emperor Kim), Cowell will be tried and executed for Crimes Against Music, without having Terminal Fashion Rudeness added to the charges.  I don’t care how much money he has, he’ll always be a bloody peasant.

I’m sick of it, this ongoing display of No Fucking Class (see title for acronym).  It’s high time that these events instituted a dress code, and enforced it.  If people like the ones below got the memo (more or less), there’s no excuse for dressing like utter boors and slobs.

(I know, Robbie Williams needs a suit that’s a size or two larger, but he’s a former pop idol, so we make allowances, yes?)

And of course, Holly Willough-Boobies looked lovely, as always:

…although she needs to find another hair stylist.

I’m never going to quit banging on about this stuff, because it just gets up my nose.  All  the above men can afford to have tailored suits made — and proper suits for formal occasions, especially — which makes their slobbery all the less excusable.  And women need to stop enabling this behavior, and must refuse to go out with them dressed like that.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to stick pins into that Simon Cowell doll.

No Shit, She-Lock

You have to be utterly self-absorbed and narcissistic to post something like this:

Apparently some things are too much, even for the French, and I can see why.  Fucking hell, I’ve seen more demure clothing on the midnight shift during Fleet Week.  From now on, every new edition of the dictionary will feature this woman’s picture under “Trashy”, and rightly so.

And of course, every bloody barracks-room lawyer is going to whine that the Louvre’s rules (note the capitalization, idiot) technically allow any outfits, even one like hers inside the building.  Yeah, fine, and I’m quite aware that the museum isn’t a church too.

But:  let’s hear it for the Louvre guard who didn’t want the priceless works of art inside his building sullied by this whore I mean “influencer”.  (Oh yeah, she has X thousand “followers” and groupies, so that excuses everything.  Not.)

Of course, she is Australian so it’s understandable that she would have no class, manners or sense of decorum, but that just makes me all the more satisfied that someone would actually step up and say, “Non!”

There should be more of that.  A lot more.

Much Better

After my rant last week about men who shame their wives by dressing like slobs, I’m glad to report that at least some men have got the memo.  Here’s someone apparently named Alyson Hannigan at a recent awards show, with her hubby:

Now that’s how a man should look.  Absolutely faultless appearance.  And she’s combined sexy with demure, with excellent results.  Well done, both of you.

And these guys get kudos as well, all dressed like grownups:

Maybe there’s a glimmer of hope…


A couple Readers commented on Anne Hathaway’s outfit in this post, pronouncing their dislike of the style thereof.

Given how women of this ilk dress nowadays, if her boobs aren’t hanging out and her vag isn’t flapping in the breeze, I’m satisfied.  Allow me to illustrate the point with recent pics of two whores celebrities on the red carpet:

Miss Hathaway’s dress is quite demure by comparison.


I’m not talking about your mouth when the smell of steaks grilling over the fire hits your nostrils.  Nor am I talking about Harvey Weinstein’s reaction to seeing a fresh young actress who wants a part in a movie.

Nope, I’m back to my old gripe about people who dress like slobs.  Theodore Dalrymple takes up the cause:

Indeed, if there is one thing that unites mankind today it is casual slobbery in dress.
This is rather odd, considering that so many people seem to spend a lot of their spare time shopping for clothes. The fact is, though, that however much time they spend on shopping, they will always look just as much a mess as ever. They choose, but they do not discriminate.
Our unwillingness, and increasing inability, to dress elegantly represents the triumph of self-esteem over self-respect. We dress to please ourselves, not others, and not looking like a slob takes effort, especially keeping it up through the day. Convenience is all, and it is easier to throw on a few casual clothes than to dress well.

What sparked Dalrymple’s ire was his experience at a couple of airports:

Sitting in two airports last week, in Paris and Riga, it suddenly occurred to me that I had not seen a single person who was smartly, let alone elegantly, dressed.

Now I seldom disagree with Teddy about much, but I do on this occasion.  Imagine this scenario:

You get dressed to go to an important business meeting, so you do it properly:  ironed shirt, tie, decent navy-blue suit, leather belt and shiny black lace-up Oxfords.  You check yourself in a mirror and damn, you look good.

But did I mention that the important business meeting was out of town, and you’d need to catch a flight there?

Now go back and reflect how difficult it’s going to be when you’re confronted by the surly TSA apparatchiks at the airport.  Belt? Take it off.  Shoes? Unlace them, and take ’em off.  Jacket? Run it through the X-ray.  And that gold tie-clip?  We’re going to pat you down and run you through our Magical Cancer-Generating Full-Body Scanner, bub.

All of a sudden, a tee shirt, sweatpants and slip-on moccasins make a lot more sense, don’t they?  And the net result is that you look like a slob, because it’s a big enough chore to dress properly in the first place without having to do it all over again at the airport in front of hundreds of people.

However, while I may make a (grudging) allowance for looking like a slob under the above circumstances, the next scenario is absolutely unforgivable.

You’e married to one of the most beautiful women in the world — an actress, as it happens — and you have to attend a promotional red carpet event with her, to hype up her latest movie.  So you both get dressed and let the limo sweep you off to this important event.

Your wife, of course, looks sensational:

You?  Not so much:

It’s even worse when you look at the pair of them together (and small wonder she’s not looking at him, I imagine, out of pure embarrassment):

This is “dressing up”?  A shabby cardigan, an untucked golf shirt, too-short casual trousers, socklets and sneakers?  Are you fucking kidding me?  

What bemuses me (and I’ve had this thought before) is why Anne Hathaway didn’t take one look at this slob and tell him either to change into a tux or stay the fuck at home.

I don’t care how “fashionable” this little fart thinks he is, or how important he may be in the business, or any of that crap:  there is no excuse for this.

What this is, folks, is a total lack of respect;  for the event, for the occasion, but most of all, towards his wife.  In the old days, he would have been horsewhipped for looking like this outside the home — which is one of the many reasons I hanker for the old days.

Now:  where did I put that sjambok?

Fashion Stakes

As my Longtime Readers all know: like a doomed moth to a searing flame, I’m helplessly drawn to the spectacle of women dressing up to attend horse racing events. (I just can’t help myself, Doctor, please help me — no, don’t.)

Anyway, a couple of races have gone by and I was too busy Ubering to do them justice, but now that the weekend is upon me, I’m ready to rock and roll.

As British horse races go, Cheltenham is about as different from Aintree as single malt Scotch is to moonshine — they both contain the same basic ingredient, but…

So this year at Cheltenham was pretty much the same as it’s always been:

And even when the booze flowed, it wasn’t at all Aintree-like:

And of course, my latest obsession object of desire would-be girlfriend Carol Vorderman put in an appearance:

The men also looked quite dapper, especially ex-Top Gear Token Dwarf Richard Hammond (with wife Mindy):

…and even his partner-in-crime, the usually-disheveled Jeremy Clarkson (with his latest Irish squeeze) did his best:

…although recently-fired-from-Top-Gear Chris Evans failed dismally:

(Don’t even get me started on all the fashion faux pas in just that one outfit…)

The ladies, in general, looked quite lovely (with lots of un-PC fur, worn quite unashamedly):

This was in steep contrast to their Australian cousins at some race in Oz, who showed the class for which Strine women are famous:

But wait! How did this vision of pulchritude get in through the gates?

Ah yes, of course [sigh]:


Ladies: if you want to be thought of as classy (at least for a first impression), you need to cover up your cutaneous mutilation with clothing such as worn by cycling gold medalist Victoria Pendleton:

The last time I looked, even the pretty Olympienne has a tiny one on her inner forearm [deeper sigh]. But in her earlier days:

I’ll never understand the self-mutilation thing.

Anyway, speaking of regrettable decisions: Aintree’s coming up soon, which means… Train Smash Women!   One can only hope they do as well as they did last year.

Watch this space.