Ye gods! THERE’S pink! I don’t know what the hell this dame’s wearing on her head – Carpet? Futon? Concealed slave? – but she looks, if I may be so bold, like a complete tit! Ostentatious, to say the very least!
And yet, whilst reaching for the sick bucket, there’s a part of me that rather admires such blatant ostentation, such utter disregard for anyone else’s views, such total conviction that she looks a million dollars. The matching tie sported by her Undertaker/husband/gangster friend is just too too outré, Darlings! Decidedly labial, the whole revolting ensemble!
If you’ve got it, flaunt it, they say! Whether it be tasteless images painted upon sagging boobs, or mutton parading around in designer lamb, or those repellent fascinators (which do anything but and perch on the wearer’s head like seedy parokeets), there is nothing quite like the Art of Pretentious Appearance to make the self-satisfied and obscenely wealthy person’s heart glad and head swell with specious pride!
Looking in certain glossy magazines, and seeing the ostentatious display of the Upper Class Peacocks – those with more money than sense and the sartorial awareness of a decomposing ferret – leads us into a new and dreadful world.
Call me a spoil-sport, but why would anyone in their right mind want to emerge from a plane and walk down the steps wearing a titfer so vulgar, so garish, so reminiscent of a magic carpet shop in an Arabian souk?
No. I think talent and beauty shine through without all this mesmerisingly ghastly display of parboiled materials (in various shades of baby sick and other effluvia) draped upon the often blue-blooded (and therefore riddled with all the stains close cousin marriage brings) bodies of the elite.