Young men around here have begun dressing very oddly.
Males in their late teens, early twenties and even into their thirties and forties have all started wearing a similar bizarre outfit that would not look out of place in a circus. It consists mostly of a Nike sports vest, three-quarter length cut-off shorts (or culottes, as I think they are otherwise called), and beach flip-flops.
What is even more surprising is that even though such a sartorial statement would undoubtedly suit a camp stage performer, a seriously ill mental patient or a West Country beach attendant, it has been almost universally adopted in the village by frighteningly ugly and threatening-looking hard men and teenage gangsters.
I pointed this out to Audrey this morning after a similarly-attired youth who was busily perfecting his multifariously complicated spitting techniques outside Mr Mishri’s shop had asked us for a cigarette as we wandered past. ‘I don’t smoke,’ I let him know in as apologetic a tone as I could muster without actually bursting into song.
‘Twat,’ he told me, and carried on spitting.
‘Another one,’ I whispered to Audrey. ‘How odd.’
‘I agree, father,’ she barked. ‘Completely ridiculous.’
The young of today need better role models. Someone fashionable and original with whom they can identify. Bring back the Spice Girls, I say.
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