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…

Standards

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.

Slobbery

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]:

Ugh.

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.

Clearout

After having spent nearly all of the past six months living out of a suitcase — and quite comfortably, too — I’ve come to the realization that I (still) have too many clothes — and this after a major pruning of the old wardrobe after selling the house and moving into Doc Russia’s guest quarters.

I read an article somewhere that gave a good guide to deciding which clothes were necessary and which weren’t, involving hanging one’s clothes with the open part of the clothes hanger hook facing forward, and after wearing the garment, replacing it with the open part towards the rear. At the end of the year, those still facing forward (i.e. had not been worn for a year) would be candidates for Goodwill.

I’m not sure I need that, because I’ve also discovered that having gone from size 44 to size 39* trousers over the past year, that part, at least, will be easy. As a good friend said, when seeing me in my old 44 baggies, “Kim: it’s time.” And it is. I’m still overweight — another dozen or so lost pounds is definitely on the agenda — but  at least I don’t look like a beach ball trying to hide under a handkerchief anymore. Which means a bunch of the old tent-y shirts are going to have to go, too.

Fortunately, I was able to replenish my shirt collection in both Britain and South Africa. I discovered that Marks & Spencer’s XXL casual shirts fit me, which wasn’t always the case, and they actually had colors which don’t make me want to spew. On the advice of a friend, I bought in addition two pink shirts — one wag called them “aggressive salmon” — because the style was excellent and the color doesn’t make me look like Elton John on safari. In South Africa, prices were astonishingly low thanks to the USD : ZAR exchange rate, and it being summer in the Southern Hemisphere at the moment, the several shirts I bought there are going to be perfect for the north Texas heat come July and August.

Likewise, I found some excellent trousers at M&S and all those baggy cargo numbers I’ve been wearing for the past dozen-odd years are going to find a new home, either in the trash can or at Goodwill.

I know, I know: all this talk about clothing makes me sound like Perez Hilton or one of those other fegelehs, but I don’t care. The plain fact of the matter is that I enjoy dressing well — always have — and my two-and-a-half decades’ worth of corpulence took that small pleasure away from me.

“Dressing well”, of course, means “no short pants ever, regardless of the weather”, which is why I was able to resist buying a pair of these magnificent things in South Africa:

No man should.

I did, however, also purchase some fine footwear in both Britain and South Africa, viz. tan half-boots in London:

…and a pair of magnificent veldskoens in Pretoria (where they’re as common as slip-slops in Brisbane):

The essence of the latter is that they should look battered even when brand new, and I think you’ll agree that these are a perfect example thereof.

I love good shoes (I know, I’m sounding gayer by the minute), and in addition to the cowboy boots I bought before my trip Over There and the wellies I bought in Hardy Country, these will be excellent additions to the old wardrobe.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to the closet. (Oh, shuddup.)


*Yeah, I know: still too fat for 38 and too skinny for 40.