Invisible Stranger

Invisible Stranger

Collecting Crises on Old Compton Street and Beyond

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Little Tinker

Currently clicking:
- bboyblues
- bitful
- blue witch
- diamondgeezer
- glitter for brains
- london calling
- naked blog
- troubled diva

Usually Playing:
- ute
- neil and chris
- peter and anna
- june
- kurt

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Friday, September 10, 2004
Suits You, Sir
As a single gay man, with a disposable income and a subscription to Arena magazine (sorry), I should be every fashion retailer's victim dream, the style-conscious Pink Pound in person, prime Patsy in designer jeans and 2(x)ist knickers, shopping till they drop and charging to plastic anything which is on a Harvey Nicks hanger.

Only I'm not. In fact, I am so adverse to the whole clothes-shopping experience that doubts have been raised in some quarters as to whether I am, indeed, a fully-paid-up and card-carrying member of the homosexual community. (I'm worried too: only the other afternoon I was watching a game of football played on the pitch opposite my flat and found myself appreciating the skills and the mechanics of the game, rather than ogling the barely-started-shaving eye-candy on display.)

On the other hand, I love spending money and buying things for myself, and only yesterday signed away bundles on Amazon as well as on on-line theatre tickets. And therein lies my problem: it's not the shopping I can't stand but the shops, and especially the store assistants, themselves (only I think we're supposed to call them "fashion consultants", these days).

As far as I'm concerned, like children these creatures should speak only when spoken to. And it should be an offence, punishable by their entire wardrobe being replaced by something from Mister Byrite, for them to smarm and sidle up to this Stranger yesterday enquiring whether Sir would require any help.

No, Sir doesn't want any help, thank you very much, and if Sir had wanted any help, then Sir would have bloody well called out for some. Sir likes to take his time and hates being pressurised into buying anything he might really want, OK? And that, my black-clad, bolshie and patronising beauty, is precisely why Sir is now flouncing empty-handed out of your shop, and spending his silly amount of cash in the bars instead.

And furthermore, if you really think Sir looks nice in this, then Sir will just think you're taking the piss.

Anyone got a copy of the Freeman's catalogue handy?