I’m obsessed with America’s Next Top Model.
20 cycles in (that’s seasons to you and me) it has become one of the most ridiculous televisual events being broadcast.
I’m hoping for dear life that Tyra Banks is really taking the piss out of herself.
Because if she isn’t she’s a massive tit.
However, I’m leaning towards the brilliant bright business mind that knows she has to act a little cray-cray once in a while to get the ratings going.
The last season broadcast in the UK certainly made me sit up and take note with the addition of 8 male contestants. That’s right. The last season featured 8 gorgeous men, all in competition with each other to become the next great supermodel.
I was hooked.
‘You look marvellous darling, what’s your secret?”
‘Good lighting, shit loads of photo-shop and never letting the world see my bacne. You?’
It certainly got me thinking about the cycles of fashion for men in a way I’d never contemplated before. In particular, it got me thinking about the fact that gay men are often seen as trendsetters. You know the old mantra; first come the gays, then come the girls and finally everyone else catches up?
Well I think we owe the world a massive apology.
Not just for being far too lethargic for most of the noughties to contribute anything significant, but for the fact that when we finally did get it together we seem to have taken our inspiration from Frida Kahlo self portraits, J-Lo videos and lumberjack tattoos (this part at least I love).
Now this might not seem like a big deal, but I assure you, the gay scene is currently crawling with desperately lonely Sylvia Plaths with penii.
You see, you can have Justin Clynes’ body and Ryan Guzman’s face, but if you’re wearing parachute pants, ballet pumps and have a knot on the top of your head, no one is going to want to fuck you.
Let’s not event start on your vapour pipe and MUJI fanny pack.
Or the fact that a friend admitted yesterday that his beard is now so long that an entire crisp fell out of it when he was walking down the street. I shit you not.
You see; fashion is a fickle bitch. Sometimes she gets it spot on (see 1983-1984) and sometimes she plays on all your deepest insecurities and has you dressing like a total bell-end trying to keep up with the Joneses. The problem is, the Joneses more often than not, are also monumental douchebags.
So here are some handy hints to help you get laid.
Wear clean jeans and a t-shirt.
And cut your hair hippy.
Also, if you want to look like Jimmy Dean, it’s not going to happen sucking on a little metal pipe exhaling sandalwood and lavender perfume. It’s 20 filterless Woodbines a day or fuck-all.
Now I’ve set the world to right, I’m off to watch the Walking Dead and contemplate how zombies are influencing dance moves at lesbian house parties.
Barry Church-Woods has no good angles when taking a selfie and if you seen the state of him, you’d be wondering what qualifies him as a judge of fashion. He lives in Edinburgh, Scotland with his husband Josef. He works for the largest arts festival in the world and is usually sick when he goes to the gym. Today he smells of Issey Miyake and cheap whisky.
Follow him on Twitter.
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