I can see one now. (They’re hard to miss.) Face the colour of mayonnaise, Gameboy dangling from one ear, gerbils for shoes, an alpaca for a hat, glasses the size of a window frame. It’s what we call in the profession an arse.
Don’t mock him. Hold that snigger. He may be an arse, but he’s a important arse. A vital member of our community. An engine room of creativity. Future fashion norms – norms that you and I will take for granted – will be developed and stabilised by this sad, desperate, sex-starved arse.
Like Jesus, their sacrifice is for mankind. Ridiculed, jeered at, shunned, they must forgo the possibility of making friends, getting laid and meeting anyone without them laughing their face off. Every day they must rise and clothe themselves in something suitably dickish, just so that one day they might hit upon something actually half decent that the rest of society can copy and benefit from.
Comments
Join the debate for just $5 for 3 months
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for $5.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just $5 for 3 monthsAlready a subscriber? Log in