Where Have All The Weirdos Gone?

 

No one need argue with me, Cyndi Lauper was fucking weird.

A goth that smashed country music together with the tragically familiar 80s drum machine, Cyndi Lauper was and is still a style icon. Just look at how wacky she is. If I saw someone like her, walking down the street today, I would most likely take a step out into the road.

Swear down.

Though having said that, she would be a breath of fresh air compared to the incredibly marginalised fashion movements of the 10s. Since when was a top-knot, beard, ankle-grazing trousers or a cultish obsession with the colour black a move toward a unique subculture? At least glue some cassettes to act as shoulder pads or hang Gameboy Advances from your earlobes. Something different, at least.

Why isn’t weird fun anymore? Bowie was the fucking weirdest dude to have ever graced this dull planet and, practically the whole world mourned his passing! Follow suit!

So, I thought about this a lot during my half an hour lunch break today and I decided to make a change and be the 80s drum machine at a social club in Crewe that I’d always been destined to become. If Cyndi Lauper can make a video with loads of glitter, poor clothes and racial stereotypes then, by God, was I going to be the change that I want to see in the world (robbed that line, sorry).

I’m now fifteen minutes into my makeover and I’m already bored. I’ve only ever looked at myself in the mirror for this long when I pluck my nose hairs, pop my whiteheads or check out lumps on my back. How people do this for such long periods of time, I will never know.

I’ve swapped some laces around on my shoes, I’ve tucked my England football shirt into some tartan-trousers (devolution is fabulous) and I’m wearing my flat mate’s tie to rope my hair together.

I mean, I do look fucking original – there are no two ways about it – but people won’t want to be friends with me or take me home for kissy if I wear this, will they? Cyndi and David must have really suffered for their art. I suffer enough at work. If I start feeling uneasy in my local pub then it’s all pointless, really.

Maybe pink hair and shit music are meant to be viewed comfortably, through and behind electric parameters. Maybe I’m not meant to feed my curiosity or express my ‘inner-child’. Maybe, just maybe, I should go back to being quiet, keeping my opinions to myself and just watch some inane bollocks on the box.

Ahh, that’s it. Apathy, sweet, apathy.