Bristol Fashion

I am not what one would call a fashionable gentleman. I struggle to translate what I see on other people into what I wear. I lack fashion sense, as Iain Duncan Smith lacks a sense of empathy.

But I think I know what I want. I see other people wearing clothes I like and I think, “That looks nice. I’m far too reserved to ask where that came from." Hastily assembled plans to relieve that person of their clothes are rejected, due to the likelihood of embarrassing nudity for one or both parties.

Perhaps the problem is linked to my self-confidence. My milkshake fails to bring anyone to the yard. They feign lactose intolerance and back away. I'm left wondering why I even bothered bring dairy products to a yard. Someone should tell Kelis that there are better media for wholesale milkshake distribution. Supermarkets, for instance.

"I don't want to be completely dependent," My brain told itself, displaying an increasingly alarming proclivity toward insanity, "I'll go shopping on my own and prove I can return with material products."

I found myself wandering around Cabot Circus at five to eleven on Sunday morning. Nothing was open. Loose huddles of ovine, would-be retailees congregated by metallic shutters, waiting to be shepherded inside. I wandered aimlessly, affecting the purposeful walk of a man that knows exactly where he wishes to be.

As the shops opened, I pushed shirts and their coat hangers along clothing rails and searched through neat stacks of trousers, but without conviction. Usually, ruining the neat stacks of clothing is one of the only true pleasures that exist, which is why Primark looks like it should be a place of fun, despite the reality.

I phoned my girlfriend. She hesitantly, but politely agreed with me that the selection on offer was probably very poor; that I should use the opportunity to gather ideas for when we could shop together. By noon, I had purchased two blu-ray box sets. Sat, with a coffee in hand, I contemplated my utter uselessness and hopeless dependence.

Perhaps being dependent on someone isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Iain Duncan Smith might think that about welfare recipients, if he could feel empathy.

One To Avoid

My girlfriend played a cruel and heartless joke on me. A joke that was both humiliating and cunning in equal measure. Without warning, my girlfriend sent me a link to an article in The Sun. How was I to know? It was so innocently presented.  A kind of "Oh, take a look at what I found" levity that should never be associated with such a heinous act.

Worse, the article was about me. I am apparently top of a list of blokes to avoid. Me. Lee.

I am "most likely to try it on" on a first date. I shouldn't be too offended really, I don't get through many dates, unless I'm constipated. I'm ahead of Steve, Kevin and Darren. Darren! I can't imagine anyone more likely to stick his tongue down one's throat, without invitation, than Darren. Darren, I ask you. According to a spokesperson for the study, women would “avoid [me] at all costs on nights out”. All these years I’ve been unable to sleep with women I’ve only just met because of my name. Nothing to do with them at all. It’s an anagram of “eel”, which probably has something to do with it. Phallic.

The main crux of the article was really about shoehorning in a picture of an attractive woman - in this case Kelly Brook - as it had simultaneously been discovered that “Kelly” was the name of the most easy girls. You know, like, to have sex with and stuff. Kelly beat off (don’t snigger) competition from Carly and Lisa, the article’s author incredulous that “Essex girl favourites” didn’t even feature on the list. Because women from Essex sleep around. And all have the same names. It’s science. The author didn’t provide a source but I’m sure there’s a study.

But what good is that knowledge to me. Were I to meet a Kelly, with the obvious design of sleeping with her (I am Lee after all), hearing my name would cause instantaneous revulsion. No amount of explaining how our inclinations so perfectly match, statistically, would tempt her to my well-worn mattress.

Of course, I don’t believe that a Kelly, or Tanya, or Michelle would be any more likely to sleep around than anyone else, despite the probable scientific robustness of the poll. I’m not even sure women really avoid me on nights out. I met my girlfriend on a night. And we were both out. And I told her my name, probably even my real one. She demanded I take her on a date to Nandos, so she could eat a whole chicken, but there was no expectation of sex from either party.

So perhaps I shouldn’t worry. In the future the only person I’ll avoid, based solely on his name, would be the author of the article.