Chino-no.

A beautiful array of middle-class muck.

Chino-no.

Splisss…splassss…splossss…splusss…. The sound of an untamed water hose snaking round my mate’s drive like a feral beast; unkempt and displaying visible signs of trepidation we flee for shelter. But, all is not to be feared for out steps the size 12’s of our saviour! 6ft3in, or thereabouts, and on the crueller side of 50, he grabs hold of the animal by the scruff of the neck and wrestles it in the direction of his BMW…what a hero! what a gladiator! No heavy-plated armour needed, only a cap, polo and CHINOS?!

Hold the phone, how be it that someone’s dad can be sporting the latest trend of trousers for young men? I mean, no offence but since when did Mr. M suddenly become a fashionista? A guru for all the Spice Girls Boys?

Call me a contrarian but I cannot cope with the smallest of glances at these eyesores. I don’t know which is worse: the sagging crotch or the horrendous colour they come in! For God’s sake if I wanted my legs to look like E.T’s scrotum I would have poured a jar of Colman’s mustard over my unsuspecting loins myself without the help of Topman’s racks. Yet, sadly, that’s not the worst part, oh no! For me, the worst part about the Chino is the legs that are filling them. Like a muster of peacocks, your average Chino-wearer struts about with so much hubris you think they’d be best mates with Dr. Faustus (incidentally I must add, however, that a C-w does not normally possess the same amount of intellect as Dr. F…glad we cleared that up). The fact that they think combining Stephen Fry’s slacks with a jacket that wouldn’t look out of place on a member of Salt-n-Pepa is beyond ludicrous therefore I conclude that all men (below the age of, let’s say, 45?) should not be seen wearing such obscenities and, if found guilty of such a crime, they should be forced to live in exile with Buzz Killington until the end of time.

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