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Society has become sick with some nameless malady of the soul. We have become the playthings of corporations intent on converting our world into a gargantuan shopping mall. Pleasantness and civility are being discarded as the worthless ephemera of a bygone age - an age when Men doffed hats and held doors for ladies. Small children could be counted
upon to mind One's Maltese while One took a black and tan in the local hostelry. Instead, we live in a world where children are huge hooded creatures lurking in the shadows, the local hostelry has been taken over by a large chain that specialises in chilled lager, whose principal function is to aggravate the nervous system. Needless to say, the Maltese is no longer there upon One's return.
I proposes to take a stand against this culture of vulgarity. We must show our children that the things worth fighting for are not the latest plastic plimsolls but a shiny pair of brogues.
We must wean them off their alcopops and teach them how to mix martinis. Let the young not be ashamed of their flabby paunches, which they try to hide in their nylon tracksuits. We shall show them how a well-tailored suit can disguise the most ruined of bodies. Finally, let us capitalise on youth's love of peculiar argot only replace their pidgin ghetto-speak with fruity bons mots and dry witticisms.
It is time for U/us, from all walks of life to stand up and be counted. But fear not, ye languid and ye plain idle. Ours is a revolution based not on getting up early and exerting
oneself - but a revolution that can be achieved by a single raised eyebrow over a monocle; the ordering of a glass of port in Buffalo Wild Wings; the wearing of a particularly fetching cardigan upon a
visit to one's bookmaker. In other words: a revolution of panache. We shall bewilder the masses with seams in our trousers that could cut paper, trilbies and fedoras angled so rakishly that traffic comes to a standstill; and by refusing the bland, watery substances that are foisted upon us by faceless corporations, we shall bring the establishment to its knees, begging for sartorial advice and a nip from our hip flasks. |
