Tourist Magazine

"At a point back in the summer of two-thousand-and-nine, a voice yelling 'trousers' pierced the collective consciousness of fashion." - Harriet Quick, verse 08:10.

In the beginning, there was the word, and the word was 'trousers'. Granted, you might have heard something slightly different at Sunday school, but oh, dear reader, let me set you on The Right Path - trousers is where it's at, muthafucker.

If the new issue of Vogue - which is basically like The Bible, but with better shoes - is to be believed, trousers are the peak of sartorial evolution, gifted to us by the twin gods of Phoebe Philo and Stella McCartney in the hopes of lengthening our legs and, to quote from the great tome itself, 'accentuat[ing] a sexy bum' (coveting thy neighbour's ass seems now to be actively encouraged, assuming one's neighbour is Lara Stone). Had the voice been allowed two words in which to make its heavenly proclamation, presumably it would have uttered 'A trouser!', as is befitting of Vogue's love of the fashion singular. We can only speculate; all that Quick will reveal is that 'it had to yell'. Yea verily, It moves in mysterious ways, does this big, trouser-obsessed bastard.

Vogue magazine itself moves in equally mysterious ways, existing as it does in a separate orbit from our own; an orbit in which it's perfectly acceptable for a gold-plated fur to exist, if you can imagine such a thing (the curious amongst you will be pleased to hear that the good people at Fendi have already imagined it on your behalf several seasons ago, at a cost of $24,000 - a price which should, to wit, 'make the hairs on the back of your neck stand to 'coatly' attention').

In one recent issue, par example, the magazine offers us the somewhat cryptic message that 'Cascades of ruffles and billowing fabric scale new heights of romance', though it's unclear whether this truism is aimed at an eighteenth-centruy swashbuckler, a romance-novel Duchess or, worst of all, the perpetually unlucky-in-love Jennifer Anniston, in the hopes that a 'kicky' new dress might be an appropriate salve to her woes. 'Kicky', I needn't tell you I'm sure, is another Vogueism, but it's one that I can't bring myself to explore her without the aid of a stiff drink.

While it may seem hopelessly outdated, it seems churlish to question our Sartorial overlord, of course; its flowery and antiquated articles are, after all, written thus to appeal to The Wimmins, whose delicate natures and comparatively small brains mean that they require constant protection from the real word, Lord love 'em. Its adorable attitude to financial investment - in which an embroidered Chloe cape somehow substitutes for shares and bonds – is also good value for money, so to speak. I couldn't tell you why so many women are in thrall of a magazine which seems to treat them with such disdain at almost every turn, but we are, nonetheless; the bloody thing's become like a second emotionally-abusive mother to women all over the world . To try to fathom why exactly Vogue is the way it is is like trying to make sense of the weirder passages in the Bible, though if we may compare the two for a moment, I have a feeling that Vogue may be the lesser of two evils:

Deuteronomy 23:1 ESV No one whose testicles are crushed or whose male organ is cut off shall enter the assembly of the Lord.


Vogue, August 2010, Handle With Care

FROM DOLCE AND GABANNA'S SALT-AND-PEPPER BOUCLE TO EMPORIO ARMANI'S COBALT CROC, SINCE WHEN DID A ROOMY BAG PROVE SENSATIONAL? SINCE NOW!

See? It's not all bad. If anything, Vogue's far more all-inclusive. I grant ye, they may frown on the poor, the non-caucasian, the overweight and the terminally style-less , but as far as I can tell, they're more than willing for a man to shelve his Cajones – if a bag isn't a Chanel 2.55, they couldn't give a toss about its whereabouts.