Not that I'm advocating wearing formal shorts with leggings

Today smacking: Ye with little fashion interest

Last night as I sat on the bus heading for home, I watched a not unattractive, but stupendously boringly-dressed woman making her way off the bus, and I asked myself, “Why do some people not give a flying fuck how they look?”

Let me start by clearing up your first standard argument; the one that’s been flogged so many times there are bloodstains on the courtroom floor. I know we’re not meant to judge a book by the be-duffel-coated cover. I know there’s supposed to be this big ideal that if we all stop caring about, and judging people for the way they look, then the world will be a big happy fairyland free of, at the very least, the pre-judgement that comes along with exterior appearances. But you know as well as I do that the world doesn’t fucking well work like that. Every single one of us, every day, judges people by how they look. Whether we judge them harshly or favourably is down to circumstance, but we are always undeniably taking subtle (or unsubtle – thanks, Burberry-clad chavs of Britain) hints about a person based on how they look. It’s human nature; it’s essential for survival. How would we even function if we did not take and process social information from the visual cues we are given?

So it staggers and astounds me that so many people dress and in general present themselves as though, when pawing through the wardrobe in the morning, they were attacked by Dame Edna wearing a fuchsia, paisley-patterned frock and cracking a whip fashioned from woven gladiolas, crowing, "Pink is the new black! Pink is the new black!" so loudly that they were forced to silence her by stuffing her own wig into her mouth, after which they fell into the foetal position – the only way they could erase her visage from their assaulted eyes – and were so traumatised by the whole incident that they vowed never to let fabric in any shade other than black or brown touch them again, lest the memory of the Dame be painfully rehashed.

Where’s the fucking imagination? The world is not going to collapse if you wear something just a tiny bit outlandish, or that at the very least suggests you have more personality than a wet sponge. People like Trinny & Susannah from What Not to Wear and that severe-looking waif from 10 Years Younger are making a mint from the fact that there is a whopping demographic of women out there who are so busy/depressed/daunted by maintaining their own appearance that they cover themselves in black sacks disguised as all-weather jackets, top it off with nondescript brown, stuffed-to-the-brim handbags (for fuck’s sake, STOP PAIRING BLACK WITH BROWN. Black does not go with everything; in fact black goes with almost nothing except maybe red or white, and even then black should only be worn sparingly, or at night) and slink about trying very hard not to be noticed or acknowledged as human beings.

That song, Mr Cellophane from the musical Chicago comes to mind:

"Cause you can look right through me
Walk right by me
And never know I'm there"

What really disgruntles me (getting to the point, four paragraphs on) is how many people are in fact discrediting themselves; writing themselves off as unworthy of notice and unremarkable, simply by the way they dress. Every single episode of 10 Years Younger includes a scene where Nicky Hambleton-Jones (see severe-looking waif, above) pushes her latest victim – usually a middle-aged woman whose will to live has been so trod upon by the horrors and tribulations of life with four children that she no longer ceases to see her own reflection let alone allow interesting fabric anywhere near the body she has all but abandoned – in front of a huge mirror and asks, "Why do you dress this way? You have a decent body under there and you’re hiding it in layers of oversized, beige man shirts and baggy jeans!"

At this point the victim usually dissolves into tears (Nicky’s eyes shoot lasers) and sobs, "I guess I’ve been trying not to stand out, because I feel so fat and ugly and I don’t want people to look at me."

Then there’s this whole bit where Nicky shouts at them about how they are not as fat and ugly as they think, and the only way to feel better on the inside is to brighten up on the outside, and there are more tears and usually some sob music until the sarcastic narrator returns with some stupid and insulting pun, and, fuck her – as much as I hate/am jealous of her skinny little waist-belt-wearing ass – Nicky’s right. How can anybody expect to be seen as a vibrant and interesting person if they’re not presenting as potentially vibrant and vaguely interesting?

The world sees what you choose to present. You want people to think you’ve got less on your mind than a dead squid, then go ahead and wear a beige t-shirt and shapeless jeans for every occasion. Sure, there are time when it’s appropriate to dress down, but there’s ‘dressing down’ and there’s ‘oh, are you supposed to be at an archaeological dig today?’ and let’s face it, if you were an archaeologist then this outfit would be the perfect presentation of yourself – understated, functional and hardy – but you’re not, so think about what you’re putting out there. Is it you? Do you want it to be you?

I’m not advocating that we all wear purple velvet blazers and tulip skirts and big, garish flowers pinned in our hair (unless that’s an accurate reflection of your personality, in which case, get on with your bad self, etc.). I’m just so fucking stunned by how many people out there are literally terrified by wearing anything with colour or shape, and what it might say about them if they do.

Me, I say stop being a simpering coward about the person you put out there in public. Embrace who you are, and for fuck’s sake, show the world who that person is. Show some pride and show some fortitude. If you find that the world doesn’t like who you are and what you show, start up a ranting blog and tell the world about it. And you know what the world can do then? It can just back. The fuck. Off.