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.

Generation Y In Love: Curse

“Should I text him back?”

“No”

“How long has it been since he sent that text?”

“Two minutes”

We as a human species, need to get a grip. What ever happened to old-fashioned romance? Love letters, flowers and a romantic meal - they’re on their way out. The reason: Technology.

Children of baby boomers, born into a world of machines and gadgets – it would appear the Gen Ys are blessed. With our lives gradually turned around by technology and the godsend that is the Internet, our generation has the world at its fingertips, or thumbs. Perhaps this is true, and we are blessed. Yet underneath that sugarcoated blanket of technology, is a curse that’s been overlooked.

We are cursed when looking for love…

Some would call love the greatest feeling on earth, finding your soul mate and becoming intertwined as one for the rest of your lives. I know this because I am inundated with this message every single day. Endless films (He’s just not that into you being the leader), television shows (SATC) and media articles force us to believe that we have one person out there for us, aka The Soul Mate. Just one. Pretty unfair considering the level of online and global dating websites available to us, don’t you think?

He's just no that into you, CNN article: 100 coffees dates to find 'the one', Charlotte and Harry - from Sex and the City

The curse is all too apparent when viewing the courtship process.

Situation A: Baby Boomer Generation – Set in a bar/club 1960s-80s

They meet, they dance, they like each other.

Due to lower global levels of international alcohol trade, intoxication symptoms remain dignified. They arrange to meet in a given place at a given time. Or go home with one another, person and situation depending. If they like each other, they will make every conscious effort to meet. They can’t cancel – they have no phone, perhaps a landline, which their mother may answer. They just meet up or they don’t. Gradually they court, arranging the next date at the end of the current one. The gap between meetings is enough to spark off thought processes of gradual infatuation, easing each other into a relationship. Slowly but surely they figure out if they like one another and the relationship gradually progresses or ends.

Situation B: Gen Y – Set in a bar/club 2000s

They meet, they dance, they like each other.

Due to international trade in alcohol advancement and countless advertisements: the chosen bar widely stocks a tempting and irresistible array of beverages thus making our couple a little worse for wear. They kiss and swap numbers. Now begins the courtship – this can happen instantaneously, they may even start texting across the club or in the taxi on the way home, dignity at the texter’s mercy. The morning after the texts continue, now accompanied with fuzzy memories of the others face, unless the presence of a digital camera occurred and thus allowing instant recall. Texts then become scrutinised for punctuation, spelling, grammar and of course: wit.

Flirting by text is entirely different to flirting in a bar. You can’t use your good looks, dress sense or the ability to buy the other a drink to win them over; you have to charm through the buttons on your phone. If I ever receive a text that read:

“Hi, woz gr8 2 mEt u lst nyt, wot u up2 l8r??”

I wouldn’t even bother texting back. Clearly this idiot was the result of too much imported beer and not worth seeing again. We won’t get along as they can barely string a sentence together. However, it might be the case that this method of texting works for them – who knows, I have never bothered finding out. This could have been ‘the one’. Gone, tossed aside, purely for the reason they’re using a different texting language. Each text is carefully constructed, usually with the help of an accomplice to assure each message gives off ‘the right air of mystery’. Ce la vis?

Even when the courtship through text is in full swing, the whole thing may stop quite suddenly. One member may get distracted; this could be because they’re visiting their grandma, saving orphans or because they simply can’t be bothered. A correspondent writes:

'Technology has really killed old style courtship, it just makes it all so fast, everything can change with the mis-interpretation of messages on mobiles in a nano second.

I know a guy who if I did not respond immediately thought it was all off, he just thought that because he was free to text I was too, it's all too messy'

Social Networking Sites: A Whirlpool of Doom for Gen Y...

Don’t get me wrong... I love them. I use them all the time but when it comes to meeting ‘the one’ or even someone to date – they are down right dangerous. Example: - we meet someone and they ask us to become their ‘friend’ in cyber space. This opens up the cyber world of their profile and allows us to see endless photos of the other – a behavioural characteristic commonly termed: ‘the stalk’. Through these photos and by reading posts from others, we can determine if our lifestyle will mirror that of theirs. Shallow it may seem, judging another human totally on what image they portray with us online, but it happens. And we’re all guilty of it. Facebook alone has over four hundred million users worldwide, with over half accessing their profiles every day; I would predict half if not more are submerging in a good stalk-session. On most profiles you can see individuals and their friends, and in some cases, their families. What background they’ve had, their family home, even their dress sense. It’s all up there for us to form an opinion, either dampening or heightening feelings of lust for the other person. Baby boomers will have just taken the person on face value, met them and gradually learnt their characteristics, perhaps finding themselves in-too-deep to cast them aside by the time they realise they have fallen for a hillbilly. Now, it’s all about marketing yourself: work, friends and love included. Not only can you view a potential partner but also a past partner (depending on how the relationship ended). According to Facebook, people spend over 500 billion minutes per month on Facebook.

Through the social networking sites, adverts for dating agencies sit alongside images of your lust after beau. ‘Still single?’ ‘Looking for the one?’ ‘Alone?’ Well, maybe not the last one but you get the gist. It’s all pressure.

Even if you aren’t friends with this person in cyber space, a friend might be or they may have one of those rare profiles where anyone can view them, known as an ‘open profile’ – these are pure gold when one is in ‘stalk mode’.

But the question remains, how do we rectify this problem? Do we cut back on all technology or are we the lost generation, leaving the mastering of the dating technological world to our successors? Surely this will be a smaller generation due to lack of successful partnership in the Generation Y. Or, do we submerge ourselves in the how-to self-help literature out there? Do we join these online dating agencies and hope that somehow, we can desperately master the art of catching our significant other? Do we sit and stalk our friends’ weddings and happily married lives or do we enter a frightening realm of staging our own wedding, just so we can publish photos on our profiles? Slightly dramatic perhaps, but lets face it, someone, somewhere will carry out this act. Lets just hope they have an open profile for us all to view it on.

The Art of Texting - Available from Amazon RRP $11.69 - God Help Us All.