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Thursday, 5 January 2012

Hangers On
You want company?
I’ve a question for womankind: what in the fuck are you thinking of when you take your male partner clothes shopping with you? Is it not enough that you have to shove yourself into teenage fashions that you have to be accompanied by a miserable, be-knackered fellow bill-payer who’d rather be beating one off in the comfort of his own home?
It’s no fucking wonder blokes look so bored when they’re hanging around changing rooms like consumerist perverts. Wouldn’t you? If Conjugal 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 look big/ no, the colour doesn’t suit him/ can we go the fuck home yet, I’d be the most po-faced bastard in the world too.
Why, women, why? Why do you need to take non-Gok men rummaging for chunky knits? Fuck me, even if you needed help forming an opinion about some dress or other, surely you’d take someone better informed about the last spring/ summer collection than your old man? Fair ‘nuff if your bloke is Marc Jacobs Jacobs but from yesterday’s sales foray the men I saw looked more like Jacob’s crackers.
See, women always moan about how shite their men are when they take them clothes shopping, but I blame the women, not the men. If you’re dull enough to expect them to enjoy watching you root through the fashion wasteland that is Next then you deserve all the moaning you get. Hasn’t it crossed your mind that a) he doesn’t give a shit about hemlines, b) when you ask him about whether your bum looks big he says “no” for a quiet life, c) you’d get one fuck of 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 way that he doesn’t need mine. Otherwise, how the fuck do you think I managed to get dressed in the 32 years before I met him? Can we just assume that I’m able to pick out a t-shirt in the same way that he’s able to pick out a packet of pants?
So spare me the sight of arse-faced men hanging about changing rooms will you? Let the poor sods off the hook for once and just go clothes shopping on your own. You know, like grown women are meant to do. Revolutionary, I know.

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