Hangers On

You want company?

I’ve a question for womankind: what in the fuck are youthinking of when you take your male partner clothes shopping with you? Is itnot enough that you have to shove yourself into teenage fashions that you haveto be accompanied by a miserable, be-knackered fellow bill-payer who’d ratherbe beating one off in the comfort of his own home?

It’s no fucking wonder blokes look so bored when they’rehanging around changing rooms like consumerist perverts. Wouldn’t you? IfConjugal Kraken leapt out of a changing room and  demanded sartorial advice from me every five minutes for six hours, but then quibbled when I said that yes, his arse does lookbig/ no, the colour doesn’t suit him/ can we go the fuck home yet, I’d be the mostpo-faced bastard in the world too.

Why, women, why? Why do you need to take non-Gok men rummagingfor chunky knits? Fuck me, even if you needed help forming an opinion aboutsome dress or other, surely you’d take someone better informed about the lastspring/ summer collection than your old man? Fair ‘nuff if your bloke is Marc JacobsJacobs but from yesterday’s sales foray the men I saw looked more like Jacob’scrackers.

See, women always moan about how shite their men are when theytake them clothes shopping, but I blame the women, not the men. If you’re dullenough to expect them to enjoy watching you root through the fashion wastelandthat is Next then you deserve all the moaning you get. Hasn’t it crossed yourmind that a) he doesn’t give a shit about hemlines, b) when you ask him aboutwhether your bum looks big he says “no” for a quiet life, c) you’d get one fuckof a lot more done if you were on your own and d) quality time together cannot,I repeat, cannot, be found in a snaking Debenhams queue.

Anyway, I don’t need CK’s sartorial advice in the same waythat he doesn’t need mine. Otherwise, how the fuck do you think I managed toget dressed in the 32 years before I met him? Can we just assume that I’m ableto pick out a t-shirt in the same way that he’s able to pick out a packet ofpants?

So spare me the sight of arse-faced men hanging aboutchanging rooms will you? Let the poor sods off the hook for once and just go clothesshopping on your own. You know, like grown women are meant to do. Revolutionary, I know.