I’ve noticed a worrying trend amongst the stamped-out-carbon-copy-youths that parade around Nottingham.

In the last few weeks I’ve seen at least three young ladies wearing large black framed glasses.

What’s so wrong about that you might ask? Nothing I might answer – after all I’m afflicted by bad eyesight myself – these young ladies are obviously suffering from some type of deficiency in the vision stakes. You might then go on to say; yeah, you need to button it mate. To which I may possibly respond; how could I have been so…

Hang on!

There are no lenses in the frames!

That’s right, the imaginary dialogue played out above would be completely moot, the dizzy bints all had one thing in common, their glasses had no glass. What is the point of that?

I know I’m slowly becoming a bit of a curmudgeon but really, no lenses? Since when has it been cool to parade around dressed like a bag of cloth samples, wearing a corrective appliance for an imaginary handicap?

What’s next neck braces? Callipers?

Am I to expect to see a group of emo youths hysterically propelling themselves towards Rock City in wheelchairs, their spindly little arms frantically pushing at their wheels?

Will I witness herds of illiterate, badly coiffured, androgynous boys fiddling with imaginary hearing aids and talking like deaf people in the Market Square?

This is a slippy slope my friends, mark my words, a slippy slope.

Christ, not this tired old bullshit again please. Didn’t we exhaust the I-pretend-to-be-gay-to-be-cool thing with the death of Suede and Brett Anderson’s faux-gayness?

Seemingly not, for in order to appear all windswept and interesting, Pete Wentz has made wishy-washy claims of bisexuality. Before we go any further this is he.

He’s the lead singer of the intolerably awful Fall Out Boy, themselves named after a character in The Simpsons, Millhouse’s starring role as Radioactive Man’s sidekick. So straight out of the blocks he’s made himself unpopular with me for his paint-by-numbers pop culture reference.

In addition to this he’s married to Ashlee Simpson. Why would anyone marry that miming, barn dancer? Look at them, it’s painful.

So we’ve established he’s an attention seeker (why else would you marry Ashlee Simpson), which makes the following statements seem rather obvious.

…anybody above the waist is totally fair game.

Apparently this an allusion to the fact that he’s kissed boys, but no more! Like some kind of bisexual prom queen. Yawn. Though wait, no. It’s simply because…

I’m not a fan of penises.

Phew, glad we cleared that up. What else could this arse possibly say to dig himself further into his let’s pretend world?

How about this gem from the front cover of Out.

Yeah, I am a fag.

Right, so you’re a fag that just doesn’t like cock. I know exactly how you feel I’m a world class tightrope walker, it’s just I’m afraid of heights is all. Dick.

Still let’s save, the rather contradictory, best for last.

I would never come out and say I’m gay, because I’m not gay. There’s part of me that kind of wishes I was gay, and I think that comes from anybody constantly wishing they were in the minority and constantly wants to be fighting everybody off.

What a fucking tit. Why would you say that? What a pointless human being.

It sucks to be left behind in the race to be hipper than the rest.

Being into The Scene doesn’t mean you have to like anything, rather you have to know more and know it sooner.

What one man finds new and cutting edge must immediately be sliced in two and declared passé, that is if you are truly to be considered on the edge.

You have heard of all those bands haven’t you?

You wouldn’t believe how excited I was at the prospect of browsing EMO Direct’s website.

Pity it’s not quite what I thought it would be…

What the fuck is going on in the world?

I mean seriously, what? Look at this photo and tell me what you see.

Legs like pipe cleaners, hair bleached to within an inch of its life and jeans that sit just below the, well, er, arse line.

A nice touch that this boy-thing added was the bit you can’t see, every three or four yards it would eject a stream of watery spit onto the pavement. Literally, it couldn’t move more than five paces without a fountain of its mouth juice hitting the deck. Nice.

Anyway back to my real moan, look at those jeans! My jeans sit somewhere north of my hips, not dangling gently round my thighs. How do those fucking things stay on?

We need a closer look.

Right, see that loose collection of blackish material at the top? That’s his underpants. You can tell they’re his underpants because you could see the crack of his arse as he walked.

See the bit below? That’s his jeans. Skinny girl jeans. Jeans that are made for skinny, no, not skinny, anorexic girls. He’s wearing jeans that were designed to be worn by a person that had no cock and lived on laxatives and warm water. I think that says a lot.

Anyway at what point did The Youth™ start wanting to dress like this? When did I become so out of it that I didn’t notice this seismic shift towards ill-fitting clothes and a desire to let people see your baggy gruts?

What happened to lads wanting to look like men? I doubt highly that 300 would have been quite as exciting if it concerned the story of men that dressed like this plum, flopping around, foppish fringes blowing in the breeze, whining on about how life was unfair and nobody understood them. Tossers.

Bring back National Service!

Actually while I’m at it on the ‘fashion’ thing, why does every girl in Britain under 21 wear the same combo of hair band, smock, footless tights and flat shoes? Ok, they all mix up the colours from a pallete of around nine retina-searing, eye-fuckingly-bright shades, but essentially they all wear the same clothes, right? Why?

Witness the most pointless two minutes and forty six seconds on YouTube. How to have Scene hair.

If you didn’t manage to make it to the end you will have missed the stunning message from the site this was created for, it goes a little something like this.

Our small community you’re welcomed to join :]

Well done for using the contraction of you are but I’m going to have to strip you of the award for the all out weird phrasing of that sentence. I mean honestly, it doesn’t make sense does it?

It’s also interesting to note that the young lady in charge of the hairspray remains remarkably mute throughout the entire demonstration. She might as well just have mimed the whole thing.

While I’m at it, does the ironing board in the background have any signifigance?