I am, in general, a really nice person. Promise. But there have been several visual attacks on my eyeballs lately which have resulted in this blog.
1) Tracksuit bottom wearers, when wearing tracksuit bottoms is not necessary. More specifically when people who wear them have massive genitalia.
In a nut shell (pun intended) I firmly believe that all joggers should be burned to a cinder. The clothing item, not the running people (I’m not that evil). More specifically perhaps, the eye bomb I was witness to the other week when at the boys’ football lesson. I am sure this man is a good man. I am sure he has a nice heart and donates to Children In Need and is the person who leaves the penny in the “don’t worry about the odd penny!” pot at the petrol station. ALL WHILST HE IS WEARING TRACKSUIT BOTTOMS THAT FRAME HIS MASSIVE NOB. I am sure he is lovely. A lovely man, who doesn’t own any mirrors and has zero understanding of how the world really has no burning desire to be able to see the protruding bulge of his crotch bouncing up and down as he runs about. Sitting on the football pitch side-lines I had to physically restrain myself from catapulting my body off the bench, snatching a football from a 4 year old and hoofing it at his daddy nuts.
I can sort of (*squeezes eye lids shut and pops a brain cell with effort*) understand why he thought he could get away with wearing tracksuit bottoms at a football lesson. Football being a sport and all and tracksuit bottoms traditionally being associated with sport. In his brain, 2 synapses called “sport” and “what should I wear?” recognised each other and tried to connect. And failed. It resulted in him strutting about in an ill-fitting, once-was-black-now-grey, soft brushed cotton second skin. He looked like a very old elephant. With a massive willy.
Tracksuit bottoms are the Loch Ness Monster of the clothing world. They are the scary space under your bed of the clothing world. It’s suggestive. They cling to the lumps and bumps of a stranger’s body you don’t want to be thinking of, forcing you to think of what terrifying things lurk beneath the surface. The hints and suggestions are always a million times scarier than what is actually there underneath. At least if people were naked I would know exactly the demons I was facing and I would be able to cope. The truth is never as terrifying as what you imagine.
Just when I think it cannot get worse, it does.
He tucks his t-shirt in them. And puts his hands on the back of his hips and thrusts his hips forward. He is having a little rest. FROM DOING NOTHING. He doesn’t even need to be wearing tracksuit bottoms at this sporting event because this isn’t a sporting event. Because it is a TODDLERS’ FOOTBALL LESSON. The extent of their skill base is “shakey shakey bottoms” and “put your tummy on the football” and falling over and staring into space whilst picking their noses.
I am sure there are a lot of people reading this who love their tracksuit bottoms. My brother in law being one of them. He has a black pair that I think he thinks make him look like Jean Claude Van Dam when people were supposed to fancy Jean Claude Van Dam (a brief period in the early 1990’s). But they don’t.
2) The mother wearing sunglasses, inside a building, on the indoor football pitch. Indoors. Did I mention it was indoors? Where’s my football again? I need to hoof it at her shaded-bespectacled face. Don’t get me wrong, I totally understand wearing sunnies outside, even on a cloudy day. I have a problem with light and glare, makes my head ache, plus I find wearing sunglasses lessens the visual impact of my massive five-head on the public, so I wear sunglasses a lot. I even once made a man feel bad about it. Just because I could (I was having another bad day and I felt he was being rude heckling me in the street). I walked past him having a fag outside the pub, on a cloudy (yet note, a glare-y day) and he went
“Not exactly sunny is it love?”
I stopped and looked him right in the eye (albeit from behind some brown tinted plastic) and said in a quiet voice
“Sorry, but I have a visual problem”. (technically, not a lie)
His face fell.
But I know for a fact Old Spice’s eyes are fine. I have seen her eyeballs working perfectly well on other times. Maybe she was horrifically hung over on this occasion. Maybe she had conjunctivitis. I don’t know. Maybe now I feel a bit bad in case she did have either of things (I do) BUT, regardless, make a joke about it. Say
“Oh god, yeah, need THESE bad boys today! Phew! My eyes look like piss holes in the snow!”
or just don’t come to a place where you have to wear sunglasses indoors.
Trouser Snake, meet Old Spice. Now, please stop assaulting my eyeballs.
Oh no, wait, please don’t go before taking with you…
3) The posh woman at Softplay with a massive designer handbag full of money.
Whilst crammed in to the café area at Softplay, my table one of a billion rammed so intimately against the next that if we were in Iran I would be forced to ask for this woman’s hand in marriage, I overheard her say to her kid;
“Darling, here you go. Have some money for the mechanical play-bus”.
Oh. Thanks a bunch Flash Harry.
Rumours of the play bus actually working spread round Softplay at the speed of a naked crotch tweet of a Z-list celeb on twitter.
“What? You mean it isn’t broken today? My mummy say’s it is always broken”.
And when little Tommy pops the pound coin in the play-bus slot, suddenly out of nowhere a gazillion under-8’s leap on to it! Hanging off the roof! Hanging out windows! It’s like one of those trains you see in India with a million illegal travellers dangling off it. Amongst them my own 2 little Hobo’s giddy and drunk on the bus-rush and screaming
“IT WORKS! IT REALLY WORKS!”
and then begging and screaming at me for money for the next half hour before I drag them home because
“Softplay is closing now boys! Yes it always shut at 1pm! Those other children are still there because their parents own it. Yes they have a lot of brothers and sisters.”.
So there you go. I am horrible, aren’t I?
But to be fair, I’d hate “me” too if I was looking at me and my accessory the other day. I would totally have bitched about “me” in my blog. I was that parent at Soft Play this week who just watched her kids play about and didn’t interact with them. In my defence, I realised when we arrived, and too late to do anything about it, that I had a massive hole in the crotch of my leggings and giant purple knickers on. And I was wearing a short dress. I could run about but to do so would have meant showing people a lot more than I was willing to (and if this were Iran everyone in Softplay would be forced to ask for my hand in marriage). So, instead, I made myself look even worse by hiding behind my book. Which was this.
Which, at a glance, looks like a self help book for singletons.
So I turned it over to the reverse cover. Which, at a glance, with it’s trendy orange and blue colouring, made me look like a pretentious wanker. One who doesn’t look out for or play with her children but is too busy and important reading.
So, yes yes yes. Maybe Trouser Snake was wearing his joggers because all his other trousers were in the wash because he had just got back from a trip to help build a school in Africa and his willy is soooo big (mazel tov Mrs Trouser Snake) he can only feel comfy in his last remaining, washed pair of trackie bums. Maybe Old Spice has a bad case of pink-eye and is embarrassed about it and she had to bring the kids to football because her husband ran off with someone with perfect eyes. Maybe Money Bags just won big on the lottery and after living in a squat for the past 4 years wanted to treat all the children in Softplay and she had such a massive designer handbag because she needed a lot of space to carry about all the manky cats she just picked up from the RSPCA.
So yes yes yes, I am horrible. Are there any items of clothing, any accessories that cause you to instantly judge people on? Or I am Han Solo – the only cowbag in the Universe?