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.

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.

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?

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

It was nice to hear that in its usual over the top fashion the Daily Mail had described the execrable My Chemical Romance as a ’suicide cult’ band and in one article had even said ‘no child is safe from the sinister cult of Emo’! Top stuff indeed.

However it was even more of a delight to hear that as a result of these inflammatory statements that truck loads of Emos were planning a march on the Daily Mail’s offices.

This is bound to lead to some quality images, I thought. And sure enough I wasn’t disappointed.

That image is too juicy to pass up without comment. Let’s start with the lack of apostrophes in we’re, come on whiner, if you want your gloomy world view to be taken seriously make your point using decent English.

The message that sign is conveying is, unbeknownst to you, that you are a cult. You see what that sign says is ‘were not a cult’, which is the same as saying ‘we used to not be a cult’. Which indicates quite clearly that you are in fact a cult now.

I’m not going to get into the layout of the text on the cardboard sign, but let’s just say that next time you should use a ruler to plan out where all the letters are going to go before you get your chunky marker out. After all you’re not homeless, I’d imagine that Mummy and Daddy, who probably drove you to this protest in the Range Rover, do have access to stationery supplies?

Still your mind’s on hair bleach and eye-liner though isn’t it, not typographical clarity.

C’est la vie, I’m sure when I’m wealthy and a man of leisure that I’ll have more time to get my hatred on screen, until then though as a special three-month-anniversary-treat you can have a post about Emos marching on the Daily Mail offices.

Now drainpipes ain’t my thing, as you’d guess, but by Christ not only were they wearing drainpipes but they were braying, braying about their achingly cool band and what they were doing on Saturday night. Look at them.

Now I have no problem with people talking to each other on the street, I’m not a psycho, but when they do it at an ear splittingly loud volume intended to ‘impress’ all around, I do. I really don’t need to hear about Jake’s band, nor do I need to hear about the ‘random shit’ he does. Ok?

Ok.

I also thought the bottle of white wine sticking out of the back of the Blake Fielder-Civil wannabe’s bag was a nice bohemian touch.

Enough said.

Two little Emos, gender not clear, sitting in the middle of the ice cold pavement with an umbrella up.

Now is it me or is that a really pointless thing to do? Why are they doing it, what is the purpose of sitting in the middle of a thoroughfare with an umbrella up on a cloud free afternoon?

I started to try and formulate a few reasons for the umbrella but didn’t do too well.

For starters the umbrella is see-through so would afford no protection if it was being used to hide them from some unspecified assailant. Other thoughts were that it was being used as a shield against the vicious tanning rays of the sun, but once again no, it’s transparent.

The only conclusion that I can reach is that they’re doing it to fuck with people’s minds.

Which, thinking about it, has worked.

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?