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...