Trail Blazers

One of my all-time favourite jokes involves a man entering an imminently exploding Port-a-Loo in a jacket and trousers and retreating back out in a blazer and flares. A BLAZER and FLARES!

This joke often, unfortunately, involves quite a bit of explaining- the ultimate death-knell for any gag- but I'll wager there's almost nothing funnier than a detonating toilet and some cheeky word-play. That's tantamount to a Friday night in my book.

What is deadly serious however, is my inability to shake myself out of a crush after one has taken hold. Not for me the casual fumble at the school disco before studiously ignoring each-other on the school bus for weeks- I have a terminal inability to be cool or aloof.

Thankfully these infatuations are mainly aimed at pieces of clothing these days, since I've grown out of queasy hormone-fueled, Enrique-Iglesias-backed pashes (who am I kidding, 'growing out' implies they ever happened in the first place...) and anyway I've got a nice beardy man to live with now instead.

It's an excellent substitution, it turns out. Garments can't give you chlamydia or bonk your best friend and it isn't creepy to stare at them and/or stroke them. Clothes can give serious pleasure, enhance your life, present something to ponder over and delight in. And I don't take drugs or go travelling, and you've got to spend your money somehow right?

The fixations are (mercifully) relatively few and far-between, but, as previously documented, when I fall I fall hard. The latest thing that set my heart ablaze (eh? eh?) in the most opposite-of-cool-and-aloof-way was this absolute bad-boy of a blazer.

I saw it on Instagram and fell in love. It happened the way it happened to your grandparents, recounting the story misty-eyed, of when they caught a glance of each other at a party in 1939, and 'that was it'. I was hooked, I was smitten- I HAD TO TRACK IT DOWN IT HAD TO BE MINE. (Incidentally another perk of having the object of your crush as exactly that, an inanimate object, is that you can say stuff like that in capitals without sounding super-duper creepy. A touch materialistic and shallow- perhaps. But not creepy).

I tracked it down in the Asos Men's Section (sound familiar?) and having been pondering how to wear it ever since.

I mean, it is fabulous, isn't it? Fab-u-lous. In the old fashioned click-your-fingers-in-a-Z-formation way. Fabulous with a capital F. It's VELVET for crying out loud. The print is something for which words will never do justice, but if I had to try I'd probably say Villa Tile meets Moroccan Getaway. The colours make my crotch hot- orange and green are my naughty clash jam right now. It's a genuine 'party in 1939', eyes locking, pulse quickening with this monstrosity of deliciousness.

Because it is also monstrous, I'm not denying that. It's kinda freaky-deaky. It's a brave fellow that gets this sent next-day delivery, tries it on for size, nods and (crucially) allows himself to leave his house wearing it. It's arguably an even braver lady that attempts the same thing, adding (as she is) into the mix an over-sized flourish of quite American-Footballian proportions re. the mahoosive shoulder pads.

But hey, it's extreme, it's what I signed up for. And if you can't stand the heat, get out of the Port-a-Loo is what I say.

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