...You can always judge a person by their shoes

An introduction to the devil shoes -

If you own any of the photographed, question your alcohol consumption...

The Vilest Shoe of All: The Croc

He-Who-Observes has forever noted the comments for the sartorially struggled that those items in wardrobes and on the shelves and racks in our beloved stores that offer a classic style or a high fashion twist to ones ensemble simply can’t offer the wearer the comfort they so desire. [Insert Yawn]

“Comfort first, comfort first!” You know exactly who you are, and to be perfectly honest, unless you suffer from a bad case of gout, there’s no excuse. He-Who-Observes is sick of observing those nasty trainers on the street, those worn out Ugg’s (you know the ones that flop unflatteringly to one side – making the wearer look physically impaired), and please…do not get me started on Crocs.

Does this social group genuinely believe that these are the only shoes / boots for them? Really? No seriously, do you? I think its time the shoehorn came out and knocked some sense into a few heads, don’t you?

Cobbler, dim the lights darling…

Exhibit A

The trainers with the office suit. Are you running to work? Do you have to cross the moors, and tough terrain for your office job? Move over Moses.

Funnily enough I cannot find a picture of this with a suit, as unsurprisingly, no one wants to photograph this look - pretty black and white, don't you think?

Really ladies, the shoe makes your calves look like hocks of ham, and the white in your trouser brings out that 80s pinstripe in your suit. Either walk to work in your full gym gear and switch to something more professional in the office, or: research your shoes.

Swap the Sketchers for something more classic. A pair of brogues or loafers.

Exhibit B

The Ugg. I will only forgive Chelsea Sloane’s and New Mothers on this. For both are totally helpless. However, the rest of you…

The Ugg cuts your calf at its fattest point – in turn making your legs look larger. As you wear them every day, dragging those poor suffocated feet around, those little suede boots get mucky very quickly, and don’t even get me started on the stench that those lamby’s kick out. As you wear them down, you begin to walk a little funny don’t you? Yet, you don’t even seem to care. It’s bizarre. Um, yes they are easy to shop in because you take them on and off quickly, but to be honest, that’s no excuse as you tumble into free standing units in shops due to your totally f*cked sole. In the grande scheme of things, you look like you’re wearing slippers in public, and no: You don't look like some Norwegian blonde babe.

Swap the Uggs for something with practicality, yet warmth. Think outside the box. A pair of riding boots or something with shearling lining perhaps? If you’re legs are bigger, fear not: look at biker boots or lace ups and drag yourself into now, love.

Exhibit C

Men. Man oh man. You think you’re slipping through the net? No way…José. As your Missus is strutting herself in her new riding boots, do you think your worn out trainers – actually made for the track, are going to cut it? I don’t think so. Too many times He-Who-Observes has noted holes in pumps, frayed laces and shoes that make me want to order you a Fosters.

Sharpen up, or she will. In summer, wear your boat shoes and leather sandals, you don’t need a yacht to look good, and a nautical style is timeless. If your mates take the piss, stand strong and be your own. Be a man.

For evening wear, don’t pull out those god-awful pleather’s, splash out a bit and pull out the guns – the look she gives you in a decent pair will pay off when the champagne has kicked in…cowboy. If you’re an understated kind of guy, get a simple pair of loafers, if you’re feeling fruity; add a tassel or a SIDE buckle. Brogue details are in in in, and they’ll be around forever.

Please Press Eject...

Knowing that He-Who-Observes has already blogged on PDA – Anger, could make this post a small wisp of contradiction. However, contradiction is what makes things a little more interesting and can cause an upheaval of emotion, so ring that bell. Round Two.

He-Who-Observes enjoys a public row, but from a distance. Well, I mean from an emotional distance, in the way that the third party is strictly observing in terms of not knowing those involved. Recent occurrences have tilted this balance of perception and belief somewhat, leading one to tighten the reigns of meaning upon this matter of public arguments and anger.

Its just plain awkward when one watches, or hears a tiff between two or three people when the observer is involved, in terms of knowing those participants in the row, but not knowing the situation or the relationship well enough for one to take part in, or pass advice.

It’s the singleton with the couple syndrome. The third wheel. Watching your friend(s) behave in mannerisms you deem completely ridiculous. Sitting across the dining table or during an attempt at seduction on the dance floor, and suddenly becoming part of a drama in which you simply did not wish to debut. From nowhere (it would seem) a snowball escalates, a row begins and you observe those who are usually so positive and wonderful, become beasts in a brawl in which you cannot complete. Issues you know nothing about start flying around in the air like bullets, and the etiquette one must assume is to become the bystander, the neutral ground, the ‘I'm not listening’ loyal friend.

Well, we have news for you. We are listening, we-are-observing, and what we see is completely and totally ruining our Sunday lunch. Eyes metaphorically roll and the eject button on your seat isn’t working.

We look from one corner to the next, gosh that shelf needs a dust, is it that time already, my beer is getting warm, will they notice if I go to the bathroom…again? Abort mission.

And then there are the lines you want to laugh at, to say “c’mon mate, you’re being totally unreasonable” – but you risk taking a bullet and nose diving yourself into a black hole of no return.

Perhaps this is youth; perhaps in time the rows and tiffs will stop. Is it so desirable to wash your dirty linen in public? Well, if it is, please remember that we are not your detergent or fabric conditioner – there to smooth out the fine lines and make everything all soft and fuzzy again. No, we are your friends and you look like an idiot.

Table for one please…actually, I’ll have this to go. Alone.

Fashion Police – No training required. Just ignorance.

Well, its about time He-Who-Observes has a good old rant. After a weekend of socialising and schmoozing, the same topic of conversation came up among the male members of the different groups of which this butterfly was present.

Dress code.

We’re not talking about the Black Tie; Smart Casual; Funeral kind of dress code, no. He-Who-Observes is taking note of how one is ‘supposed’ to dress in some so-called bars and clubs. The sartorial male would throw (term used loosely) an outfit together to complement and reflect the current trends of society, the looks of the fashion world and to achieve some form of style differentiation between peers. Its important to look and behave your best when out in public, you never know who is watching and, in most cases, the goal is to hopefully get a cheeky phone number and a bourbon at the end of the evening – all while being groomed to perfection.

So, at what point does a young male's inspiration of Tom Ford’s style, mixed with GQ’s cheat sheets and sprinkled with a snippet of lust from the catwalks suddenly become totally and utterly 100% useless? The moment that disgusting pig headed troll of a man in a black coat at the club door deems so. There is your fashion police, in his polyester viscose mix trouser, his scuffed and pleather finished shoe and his wool mix coat that surely if the music from the venue weren’t so loud – one would undoubtedly hear the retched thing rustle. That man; those men, are the ones who mock we-who-tried. The ones who know more about how-to-dress than that group of boars that just entered the club before us. Eurgh.

Now, lets all be a bit honest, normally one wouldn’t end up at such venues – but sometimes it just can’t be helped. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not at the worst places by any means – some are rather delish. We are at this bar because a friend has chosen it for an event. Photos will appear on Facebook and everything needs to be just so, to upkeep yourself as a brand. But for Pete’s sake (Pete being the gentleman turned away for his patent loafers), clubs need to slap these ogres into shape. Give the man a copy of GQ Style and have him learn the rules of the road. Who is this fellow telling us we cannot enter a venue because of our drop crotch trouser? Does a drop crotch mean we are going to start a fight? Surely this is judgement at its finest.

But don’t mistake this from a one sided rant. A fellow male confessed the emotions of panic and worry upon approaching a doorman. The male was built like a hunter-gatherer: an alpha male. A shaved head, studded earring and a collared button jumper, but the face and temperament of a saint. He confessed the loathing of a bouncer for turning him away just for how he dressed, presuming he was trouble. This man would not hurt a fly. Its ridiculous.

Don’t get me started on shoes. He-Who-Observes catches too many mock leather loafers with protruding stitching and a squared point nestled underneath sand blast bootcuts. Is this fashion faux pas the act of the Bouncer? I am observing a straight yes. When will the YSL resort look take off? Maybe it can’t because of the skinhead bruisers. Hark!

Due to the nature of ‘protecting the innocent from the drunken’ there are less female bouncers than male. This wonderfully leads to a wave and influx of girls in nasty high shoes with skirts shorter than a face cloth. Badly tanned legs support a cleavages one cannot fathom how those pups got into that top and war paint thicker than cement – these madams are a crime against the swarve. This look of cheap and easy appeals to the needy and desperate bouncer, so in the girls go.

These small ‘yes’ ‘no’ acts from the bouncer increase how many badly dressed people can be in one place at one time – am I in a bar or at The World's Worst Dressed Convention? Thus this increases the demand for the eye-sore garments and therefore the constant level of badly constructed items on the market today. This simple trip-up from the idiotic could perhaps prohibit fashion from ever truly moving on.

He-Who-Observes could go on and on and on…

The solution – a course for bouncers in true style, and a briefing of seasonal trends and looks. Now, who to have as the doorman for this event I wonder? Oh, I simply couldn't...

Its all a bit xXx Rated…

Whether its X, xx, xXx or xoxo – decorating a message with this letter (aka the kiss) is somewhat the norm for most of us in today’s texting typing society. But, why is it when people don’t use them or when they over use them, mixed messages are sent?

We don’t kiss each other at the end of every statement in conversation so why should we at the end of a text or email? To show we’re not angry or annoyed? Surely we don’t need to resort to Xing or not Xing: To X or not to X! Is it all a bit ridiculous?

Send an email to your boss with one and you are over stepping the mark, but don’t put one to your best friend and you enter a ‘why are you mad with me’ message war.

Does XXX mean more than xxx? – apparently so as its capitals. What’s the difference between x x x and xx. If someone doesn’t x are they playing it cool in flirting? If you over use the X are you coming across as too keen? He-Who-Observes has definitely typed out xxxxx and then back tracked it to a casual and smooth xx. Don’t pretend you haven’t done it, this is He-Who-Observes remember…

“He’s definitely not keen”

“Why?”

“He’s not putting kisses, and when he does its just one”

Oh.My.God. Slap me with a wet trout and call me Susan.

He-Who-Observes is going to attempt to not give a fxXxck about all of this nonsense and just get on with day to day messaging.

xx

Winter Nights – Couple Up, Nanna Up or Perish…

The winter nights: full of soups and homey meals, lamp lit rooms, red wine, smooth jazz and getting snuggled up with your beau… Ahhhh.

The couples have it good. The dual heat under the covers help keep the other from dropping dead half way through the night. Sleeping is effortless due to the constant warmth from the other and in-turn, getting out of bed is no task as the couples can act as a team, motivating the other to get-the-hell-up and go to work. Day to day routine carries on as normal and both members of the couple seem to be on top of their work load and in higher spirits than some of their colleagues. All in all – the winter months are good.

Poor singletons are faced with bone chilling evenings flying solo through the night – each evening colder than the last, questioning their very own existence with every spine chiller of the untraceable draft. Their must-have’s consist of flannel twin sets, thick socks, electric blankets and a coco for one – the Nana style inspiration has never been more popular, the only difference (perhaps) is a smutty novel to take the edge off the harsh air of reality. Desperate times call for desperate measures, Snuggie blankets all round? Due to sleeping alone, the singleton’s bed in the mornings is bitterly cold. There is no other to motivate the singleton to get out of bed, therefore leading to lateness in the workplace and an increase in sick days. Due to poor nights sleep, no thanks to the now formed cricked neck – the singleton is falling behind at work. Heating bills are higher due to the depressive nature of living alone and a questionable alcohol problem has arisen.

Twin Sets from Peter Alexander

He-Who-Observes has solved the problem. Singletons must form sleeping partners. A solely mutual friendship and sound understanding of ‘no sex – just sleep’ will allow body temperature satisfaction and sleeping optimisation. Its either this or regression into old-age during your twenties. David Attenborough / Robert Winston would undoubtedly observe and document such behaviour – leading to countless ‘Sleep Ads’ on Gumtree and a united single race as we know it. Try and feel the perks.

Death by cold lonely nights? No thanks. We will not be beaten - nor will we sacrifise our in-home style needs...

You know you've hit rock bottom single life when you're walking around the house in one of these...

PDA – Where “A” is Anger… and amusement.

He-Who-Observes just loves a good public display of anger. I’m not talking your 3am street brawl between those members of society with rocks for brains, no. I’m talking those in arguments with their other half, the pensioner waving her stick in the air and tutting, and the man with the gut and moustache shaking his head after walking past a group of squealing gay men in ripped denim jeans.

It’s hilarious. Fact. And it’s a big ray of sunshine in a thank-god-I’m-not-involved kind of way.

My personal favourite are those in the couples category. Such displays of emotion can be found in locations such as: home-furnishings/electrical/gardening stores, and in café’s on weekends. Arguments are expectedly fuelled with a hangover – the spoon stirring the short fused mixture. Perfection.

“Baby waby, which cup and saucer set do you prefer for Pete and Kate’s wedding? The one with the gold trim and pink flowers, or the one with the silver trim and purple flowers?” Whiney tone. Painful to the eardrums.

“Do we have to get them these cup and saucers?” Uninterested tone, slumped expression from male.

He-Who-Observes detects an argument and carries on inspecting the overpriced casserole dish, ears prick up, eyes hover above the display fixture – you all know the drill.

“You don’t even care do you?!”

He doesn’t care at all. Give the guy a break, it's the weekend. He’d happily smash that plate on the floor in front of you.

“Yes I care”

Liar

“No you don’t, you don’t care about any of my friends do you?!”

“Yes”

Liar

“Well, you didn’t seem that interested in Caitlin’s break up story last night”

Male lowers his voice and speaks through his gritted teeth

“For god’s sake” He says

“Here we go again, you always do this…”

And off it goes. All the while We-Who-Observe lurk and meander around the aisles, smirking into our frying pans.

Praise single life. Pity the other half. We will not become this couple. The weekend is too short to go floral plate shopping. Order online love. It’s only you who cares.

Floral plates available at cathkidston.co.uk - Always one step ahead of a brawl.

PDA – Where “A” is Affection… and annoyance.

“I love you”

“No I love you”

“Noo I love youuu”

Pass me the sick bucket and push the eject button. Now!

Whether it’s couples kissing (or attempting to choke each other using only their tongue) on the escalator, groping each other at the pedestrian crossing (presumably conducting some kind of genital examination) or lying in an un-orthodox position in the park: its plain rank.

For one minute, He-Who-Observes would love Not-To-Observe this display of overindulgent affection whilst on route with a dinner for one. He-Who-Observes requests all couples to think back from a time when they were in a similar state of ‘grey’ single life and become a bit considerate of others, if this is even possible.

The worst, and I mean, THE WORST is picking each other’s skin: I’m talking blemishes. If I had a $/£/¥ for every time I’ve experienced this, I’d have enough to buy my own private island. At what point does it become OK? And when does it become OK to do this in public or in front of your friends? During one observed blemish correction procedure I text a friend asking for guidance, the reply simply read “Throw a boot at them”. Sound advice if you ask me.

Another friend came to visit He-Who-Observes from a country far away, enough for a nine-hour flight. After our hug at the airport – no irony here please: – it wasn’t a hip grinding embrace, I asked her how her flight had been. “Awful” She replied. “I sat next to a couple who, from the moment they sat down, gazed into each others eyes and snogged for the entire flight juration”. She rolled her eyes and gagged.

Mushy talk at the checkout queue, sloppy kisses in cinemas, snuggles on bar sofas that may as well be in bed – Give it a bloody rest! When did the human race become so inconsiderate and selfish? Don’t answer this.

I’m over it, and I’m guessing many others are too. I just don’t think I have enough boots to throw… sadly.

Trend Watch: Fantastic Mechanic…

He-Who-Observes loves a good trend that could potentially transform the male fashion street style and in-turn alter the style opinions in those outback signal-less holes.

The all in one – its wham bam here’s my statement: ABSORB IT. Sauntering down the catwalks for the SS '11 menswear collections are a number of one-piece-wonders for us boys. Pockets, elasticated cuffs, the works. Fingers crossed for essential zippers – otherwise a full strip down at the pub urinals could lead to black eyes.

From topleft: Jean Paul Gaultier, Adam Kimmel, Givenchy - All SS'11

Thoughts: Incredible trend that could and should alter the menswear world as we know it.

Predictions: Rejection from the market and in turn a cramming of the sale rails come winter.

Roll on discount shopping I say...

Topman.co.uk - Sale rail bargain.

That Number...

We all have one – whether it’s two, eight, twenty-four or three hundred. In today’s ‘free and socially excepting’ society: your Number can deter another instantly. Does it all really matter or are we socially programmed to judge? Surely it’s just plain biology and maths.

When one friend announces they have only had three sexual partners, they say it with a level of embarrassment. The other friend over one hundred: but no shame. The confessions could be broken down into the first friend with three sexual partners having encountered the act of sex much more than the other, who may have just had over one hundred one-off one-night stands. So which one is to be heckled or judged? The one that has had the most sex, or the one who has had potentially the least sex, but more partners?

He-Who-Observes has listened to countless discussions on the number. Men are proud when they have conquered more than their friends, spreading their seed like a bull in a heard of buffalo. But the moment the topic is flipped to a female who has mirrored the male’s sexual actions: she is the village bicycle, everyone’s had a ride. It’s the same old same old – and this endless cycle is something that baffles. She has every right in life to do the same, we all live once – there’s no dress rehearsal: and in our society, the rights of woman were equalised decades ago. Is it purely because men are afraid of their pride? Or does this reflect the animal kingdom (say a pride of lions) – the alpha male has numerous females to mate with – but the female only has her one male. Does this mean our social norm on the number is stressed and determined by our co-habitants of this planet in the animal world? Somewhat cave man don’t you think? Come on human race… catch up!

Does it really matter? He-Who-Observes finds it irritating when one person is termed something they’re really not. The men that judge the woman are just afraid of their own performance not matching up. The women that judge the men are simply intimidated by a number that in reality: means nothing.

Divide, subtract and place it all in a petrii dish. The end result will be no different. Numbers are numbers, and this number will always be an issue in our test tube society – however we try and manipulate our data.

Fish Tales

Upon an outing the other day, one heard a story so disturbingly alarming, yet hilarious: He-Who-Observes just had to share.

Four friends were sat around a table in a bar, chatting, catching up and soaking the others tales and tribulations of the previous week. Eaves dropping to the max, a tip of cleaning out ones Goldfish arose...

"How's Ainsley?" One friend asked, in a banter-esque tone. It is later apparent Ainsley is the fish.

"Oh, you haven't heard? I have grave news my friends, very grave news indeed" The owner announced. "I killed Ainsley"

Gasps arose from around the table. It would appear Ainsley had a bit of a fan club...

"How?!"

"Why?!"

"Poor Ainsley incurred a horrible death. I was cleaning him out, it'd been a while and his water wasn't looking as fresh as one would hope. So, I scooped Ainsley into the net and placed him in our utility sink. Carried on washing the bowl in the kitchen sink and making sure everything was perfectly spotless for him..."

The tone of care could be detected in her voice.

"When I returned to the utility sink to scoop him out, he didn't look right, but I thought 'sometimes this is just because of the sudden water change from room temperature to cool', and ignored his emotions..."

The table was tense, hanging off her every word...

"As the afternoon passed, I noticed he just wasn't looking himself. I left for the shops and returned a few hours later, and there his was, white as a sheet and foaming at the surface of the bowl..."

"Oh my god!" A friend exclaimed.

"Well, I waiting until my housemate returned home and told her the news. After describing and re-enacting my actions of cleaning him out, my housemate screamed, and then giggled... She'd only gone and bleached the utility sink that morning! I had bleached Ainsley to death!"

Screams of shock and laughter came from the table, the RSPCA would have shivered.

"Its OK though, I was given a free fish on the back of my food shop receipt so Im picking one up tomorrow"

The topic was completed and changed in a milli second.

Life on the back of a coupon? So 2010.

Choose Your Hairdresser Wisely

The following is an experience that should never happen to a Sartorial Male. Let this be a lesson to us all.

After a tough day and with a weekend of socialising ahead of me, I needed a quick, cheap and tidy hair cut. On my way to a train station, in an area that cannot be name, I was greeted at the last corner to turn with a barbers.

All I wanted were the sides taking shorter and the length on top leaving exactly as it was. A simple procedure that I have had performed many a time. Nothing quite like what you are about to hear has ever, and should never happen to anyone…ever.

I walk into the salon and see the barber sat on his bench. The place is empty and so one is immediately directed to the chair. Over the cloak goes and I explain what I want. Very clearly. I notice that as I am telling this, the man has a somewhat lazy eye and glasses that resemble triple glazed windows. I gaze over his attire and he is donning an old faded and slightly tight charcoal (previous black) polo, black jogging bottoms that finish at his ankle – not elasticated: so one would presume they had shrunk, white socks and black hiking sandals. The moment I reached his feet I was filled with dread and my acquaintance looked equally as nervous and hid behind a back dated copy of Heat.

The clippers began and off went the sides. It was all going well. He trotted away from view and I thought great, I must be finished. I also noticed a queue of Lebanese men had formed – a style of man that does not resemble my own. The guy trots back, making heavy, saliva echoed breathing. He whips out a shaving brush and a mug of water and begins wetting the hairline from the side all around the back and the side again. He takes out a Sweeney Todd style blade and begins sharpening up my… ‘border’.

I daren't move and can see I'm looking somewhat Italian and have now gained the thinnest side burns down to my jaw. He limped off and I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The barber took out some thinning scissors to which I outright protested! He was having none of it and went for my longer hair to ‘belend’- not a spelling, a pronunciation. Afterwards, he swooshed to cloak off and beckoned me into the back room.

What happened next happened so quickly I can barely believe my memories. He turned on the washbasin, grabbed the back of my neck and shuvved me under. I was soaked head to toe. He lifted me up, threw me a towel and proceeded to lift the tap, out of its socket and drink from it. Yes, you read that right...

He then said ‘$15’, I paid him and left, absolutely sodden. I walked around the corner and screamed with uncontrollable laughter. I couldn’t even breathe. There I was, Lebanese hair do, dripping wet and in the middle of shit brick nowhere. Well, we howled on the train home.

Thank god for the pack of Gillette razors at home - the side burns lasted 10 minutes, but my hairline was scarred for weeks.

Choose your hairdresser wisely.