Red Daddy chinos land yours truly in hot water with fashion police Let’s all ride pillion to Rio de Janeiro behind a spaced out Hell’s Angel
ALL too recently I was the victim of clothes shaming. The offending clothing being a pair of red chinos which I wore with a eye-popping white shirt, gleefully festooned with what looked like daubs of fresh paint. Having uploaded the image to my Facebook page, along with several other holiday snaps from my trip to the States last month, I thought nothing more of it. I got a few likes and then Wham! Boof! Splat!, three upper cuts to the ego in the form of comments posted under the red pants.
It wasn’t long before I was seeing red and a Facebook battle sparked to life with a councillor who I have had tame run-ins with over the years, but who really is a good guy.
You learn to grow a thick skin in this job fairly quickly so ultimately I viewed it as banter, but not before friends from across the world started lamenting, nay damning my choice of attire. ‘Dang!’ came one response, while another ‘friend’ whacked me with an accusation that I was after buying the colourful chinos before the Spanish students got to them. As someone who wouldn’t normally care less about what people think about me and my choice of clothes I still did a double take and found myself questioning myself, my choices and what I was thinking getting dressed that day. My sartorial ways have often landed me in trouble, like when, as a long haired grunger in the mid-Nineties, my hair, Converse All Stars, cords and check shirt got me into a scrape with a Neanderthal at the Atlantic nightclub in Ballybunnion in County Kerry, or when said cords and Converse canvas boots sparked the ire of my Geography teacher as our class negotiated a rain soaked mountain side on a glacier hunt in 6th Year.
I would describe my style as bi-polar, oscillating for no particular reason (but always depending on cleanliness) between dark smart casual, fun, colourful Dad and colour-coordinated modern man about town (without the deep brown leather satchel). My dress sense that day fell probably into the fun Dad category as in fun Dad at a children’s party, playing the clown!
I shop in secondhand clothes shops, but can also be found at classy mens shops. I have gone from two to seven pairs of pants in recent years and have somehow filled two drawers with shoes and boots of various colours. Taking the advice of Polonius in Hamlet who advised a young Laertes: ‘Spend all you can afford on clothes, but make sure they’re quality, not flashy, since clothes make the man,’ I’ve tried to be stylish, admittedly pushing the boat out too far at times with my choices, but then who am I not to bring a bit of colour to what can be a drab, sad world.
Last week Barron Trump also fell prey to an online bashing for being spotted wearing childrens’ clothes, shorts and a t-shirt, as he disembarked Air Force One. I’m not his father’s number one fan, but children are off bounds, aren’t they! Ford Springer, a writer for a conservative website, wrote under the headline ‘It’s High Time Barron Trump Starts Dressing Like He’s In the White House,’ adding that he has been on the ‘Barron Trump train from the start,’ but then started bashing the 11-year-old for not looking as sharp as his famous parents.
‘One thing that isn’t normal though is the way he dresses when he joins his parents for a public appearance,’ the article read. Chelsea Clinton soon jumped to young Barron’s defence, saying: ‘It’s high time the media & everyone leave Barron Trump alone & let him have the private childhood he deserves.’
Clinton for 2020? O you have your haemorrhoid cream, darling?’ I hate air travel.
It is not the actual flying which bothers me, unlike the brother-in-law who is scared stiff of anything with wings unless it also has feathers. Book the brother-inlaw on to a plane and he will break out into a cold sweat followed by days researching alternative means of transport to the nominated destination. He would rather swim through shark infested water than take to the air, rather walk on red hot sands, rather ride pillion behind a spaced out Hell’s Angel.
If ever you meet the brother-in-law in Rio de Janeiro, you may surmise that he came to Brazil by working his passage in the engine room of a tramp steamer. Or he may have hitched his way to the mouth of the River Amazon on board a series of millionaires’ yachts. He certainly did not fly.
Me, on the other hand, I believe absolutely the oft-quoted statistics which insist that commercial jets are the safest way by far of making it from A to B. The chances of being hit by a missile, of being hijacked by terrorists, or of simply dropping from the sky are next to negligible.
I do not bat an eyelid at take-off or go rigid with fear on landing. I do not resent the safety talk delivered by cabin crew who must be bored beyond belief at having to don on a dummy oxygen mask for the zillionth time. I do not mind being implored by the same cabin crew to purchase ‘food items’ or ‘gift items’ when they mean pre-packed sandwiches or unwanted perfume. And I actually quite enjoy the rackety pre-recorded trumpet solo played by Ryan Air whenever one of their planes comes back to earth on schedule.
Nevertheless, I still hate air travel. It’s not so much the being confined to an over-sized metal tube side of flying that depresses me as all the hassle, all the flim-flam, all the stuff that surrounds the medium. Stuff that starts at home.
‘Do you have your haemorrhoid cream, darling?’
I made that up. As far as I know - for I have never looked - I do not have haemorrhoids. Nevertheless it is true that dear Hermione has been relentlessly on my case during the countdown to this trip of mine.
‘Do you have your passport?’ ‘Do you have your E111?’ ‘Do you have ten pairs of underpants?’
Have I extended the limit on my credit card? Just in case I need to buy the hotel rather than merely a room for the night.
Have I downloaded the Aer Lingus app on to my phone? That’s a new one, added to the ever-lengthening list of boxes to be ticked.
Have I prepared two copies of my list of emergency contacts? The first written and the second in electronic form on the overworked phone.
The feeling begins to take root that I will be given one chance, and one chance only, to have everything right. A single mistaken digit in an airline reference number, a sloppy extra kilo in my rucksack, and the whole enterprise will come tumbling down like the flimsiest pack of cards. The tedious requirement for meticulous attention to detail means that the forthcoming journey has been preying on the mind for weeks, nagging away like a troublesome molar. The most important item on the tick list is the need to be certain that I will be roused at some horribly early hour in the morning.
Our Town is a two hour drive from Dublin Airport with the brilliant bus service. Reckon an hour for breakfast and for waking up. Add two hours for clearing security, for buying bottles of whiskey, for walking two kilometres along endless corridors through the terminal to the boarding gate. Then add another hour for luck. At that rate, it is necessary to rise at four o’clock in the morning to be sure – or as sure as humanly possible – to catch the ten o’clock service bound for Amsterdam.
So the phone is set for 4 a.m. The bedside clock is set for 4 a.m. I have discovered an alarm function on my watch, so it too is set for 4 a.m.
Enjoy My Flight? You must be joking.
Could all this stress give me haemorrhoids, I wonder.