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As a teenager I went to the Venice Carnival. I made a mask out of a paper plate, got a metal coathanger and bent it into horns around my head and draped a black tshirt over that. At the time I thought I looked really cool, but thinking it over...

Tell us about your own oh-so-cool fashion innovations.

(, Thu 24 Aug 2006, 14:24)
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not so much a fashion disaster
As something really cool, but only to people who are themselves fashion disasters.

(, Tue 29 Aug 2006, 10:03, Reply)
I went to a "masked ball" fancy dress party once;
It was basically so that the girls could wear little masquarade-style feathery mask things and try to look classy. The blokes didn't see it the same way. I recall one mate going as an otter and another going as bin laden.

...and mine?

I printed and backed a FUCKING HUGE photo of Cliff Richard's big, gay, christian face, cut out the eyes, added string and wore it with pride.

I swear, it was the fucking scariest thing you will ever see. Because his face was slightly smaller than my own, the eyes were closer together than mine, and thus I had to tilt my head to the side slightly to be able to see through. The result? Even fucking scarier.

Later on, whilst enjoying a special cigarette outside with Michelangelo's David and an otter, I ended up dropping the mask on the wet grass, which caused the glue to show through the paper, and made our cliff look like he was covered in the jism of a thousand gays.

Result: Fucking terrifying.
(, Thu 24 Aug 2006, 15:19, Reply)
food colouring will not dye your hair.

But it will dye your pillow.

And your actual head.
(, Thu 24 Aug 2006, 14:52, Reply)

(, Thu 24 Aug 2006, 16:44, Reply)
All Dressed Up...
Last year me and my mate were "so poor we were sharing genes" and had had one of those weeks where come the weekend, you desperately need to get as drunk as possible, as cheap as possible. We set off into the nearby town, wondering how we could get drunk when all we had between us was about £5.27. As if by magic, we saw a a shitty little off-licence-come-newsagent. Our spirits (wahey) lifting slightly, we entered, and saw that they were hurredly selling off massively out-of-date cava. Not just that, but they were also flogging those thin Cafe Creme cigars that had big warning signs on them in Greek.

Putting two and two together, we went home with our cheap stash of booze and tobacco and put on some old tuxedos I had got as hand-me-downs years ago - and I mean the works; yellowing pleated shirts, bow ties, cufflinks, the lot. We even polished our shoes. We then proceeded to sit in front of the tv, quaffing this stale, flat wine and smoking crumbly cigars, stopping only to bark things at each other like:

"When is this BLADDY limosine going to get here, anyway? I'm not waiting all night, what what what"

"Look at that fine strumpet, I'd give her what-for"

"I'm glad they don't let women into the 19th hole of MY golf club, I tell you that, ho ho ho"

We looked like two dirty old men, and by the following morning, smelled like that too. At the time, I honestly thought we looked the cats pyjamas, but thinking back now, only a year later, I realised we're just a couple of cunts, really.
(, Fri 25 Aug 2006, 20:06, Reply)
is what fashion is all about.

like the stuffed toy parrot i attempted to sew onto my shirt shoulder as a child in order to gain extra pirate respect points off my friends.

needless to say i now have no friends.
(, Thu 24 Aug 2006, 15:35, Reply)
I'm lucky enough to be suffering a very long distance relationship, in which my lovely lady flies over to visit a couple of times a year (and visa-versa) from Tokyo.
I miss her terribly when she's gone and once she'd rather carelessly left one of her skirts behind after a visit... and a (rather odd) mixture of curiosity and loneliness convinced me it'd be a good idea to wear the skirt to work. So i did... once there i realised it looked rather crap so i tried to pass it off as a joke by raiding the 'props' box, that was left over from a recent fancy dress theme day.

the result: www.vacant-cs.pwp.blueyonder.co.uk/1142295716.JPG

The lovely officey type area behind me is Scottish Gas HQ, my attire was deemed inappropriate and i was sacked soon after. Though i've since changed my mind and decided i do look good in a skirt, so not a total loss. :D

oh and for the sheer hell of it i might aswell confess i've and odd habit of wearing 'her' underwear on my head, for no apparent reason it's both relaxing and devastatingly stylish at the same time. dubious? fear not... i present the most stylish headwear known to man, a pair of hotpant thingies, fondly dubbed "period pants" - i15.photobucket.com/albums/a396/r3c/95.jpg

hmm... i'd better stop now.
(, Mon 28 Aug 2006, 2:29, Reply)
I once managed to aquire a few thousand Deely-Booppers - those crap spings that fit on your head with a couple of spangly stars on them.

Having no idea how the what the hell I was going to do with them, I took a load down my local heavy-rock nightclub - the Swinging Sporran in Manchester if anyone remembers that).

So there we had it. A couple of hundred pissed-up Hells Angel's (Satans Slaves) headbanging away wearing Delly-Boppers.

You can't make this shit up.....

(, Thu 24 Aug 2006, 14:27, Reply)
Ahoy anyone from leeds!
If you come from leeds, you will no doubt be aware of the famous Otley Run, a crawl of 16 (or numbers around that figure, depending on who you are) pubs and bars, in which you must drink a pint in each, followed off by entering a nightclub. After 16 or so pints this is quite a challenge as bouncers seem to be quite aware of stupidly dressed students out of their heads. These pubs are spread over 5 miles or so and is one hell of an enjoyable, yet expensive day out.

It is tradition to do the "Run" in fancy dress. Being a poor student, improvisation is the key. I am the one in my dad's old suit, circa 1983 (before i was born) with the silly afro wig. What amazes me is that suit fits me perfectly, although im a good 3 inches taller than my dad. God knows what he was doing back then!

Click here for the piccy! (opens in new window, yes thats right, I am a HTML coding genius!!) and if your feeling kind, leave a comment below it!



p.s. there's a little button down below that says "I like this" if you click it, you will be über cool.
(, Fri 25 Aug 2006, 11:43, Reply)
Worth 1000 words...

And the worst thing? It wasn't even fancy dress.
(, Sun 27 Aug 2006, 19:38, Reply)
First day at new job...
and I couldn't decide what to wear.

I wanted something business like, yet feminine. Sexy, yet serious.

I decided on a black pleated skirt, just above the knee, the sheerest black tights I could find, stub toe faux crocodile shoes with a three inch heel, a medium cut top which would offer just the slightest peek of bra strap if I leant forward.

It screamed 'I'm flirty, yet independant and assured.'

I felt proud as punch on the bus that first morning.

All the other blokes on the building site thought I was just odd.
(, Fri 25 Aug 2006, 23:37, Reply)
Suits You, Sir.
My bad dress sense as a teenager is the stuff of legend. I feel a few posts coming on…

Age 20-odd I went to an indie night at Wigan Pier. Me and my pals were going through a bit of a Barbarella obsessive phase, so we thought it’d be a great laugh to go dressed in a futuristic spacey age-y way. At the time I’d just reached my full height of a shade over six foot. However the rest of me hadn’t caught up by then and I was incredibly thin and had absolutely no tits of which to speak. I looked a touch like a slightly startled anorexic giraffe.
So I dressed myself in a rather fetching tiny silver minidress and silver platform knee high boots. I then hit on the idea of dying my very short, scruffy blonde hair a rather fetching shade of candy pink. Shoved on some metallic jewellery and voila! Instant cool.

Headed out for what promised to be a cracking night, danced my little socks off in what was a really rather hot and sweaty club. After an hour or so, my mate takes me to one side and says “Err, Rak, you might want to go to the loo and have a quick look in the mirror…” Which I do, only to discover that the heat of the club and the sweat I’ve generated has made my hair dye run. All over my face. I now have a bright pink face. Which is showing no signs of shifting. I walk out of the loo to tell my mate I’m going home to repair the damage, possibly by sandpapering my face. As I leave the toilet a bouncer comes over and says (sounding in my head now, uncannily like Peter Kay) “Oi, sunshine, none of you pervy types in here, next time use the gents like the rest of the blokes.”

Yup, he thought I was a tranny. A big, pink faced tranny.

I bought a Wonderbra after that.
(, Fri 25 Aug 2006, 14:39, Reply)
I don't dress funny

You don't understand me, and you don't understand my music.
(, Wed 30 Aug 2006, 9:02, Reply)
I was an indie boy in my teens. Mostly this manifested itself in fairly harmless ways (brown corduroy suit anyone? Mmmm, looked so good with my blue satin shirt) but around 1996 things took a turn for the worse, because at this point I discovered Placebo.

Not too long afterwards I was seen out wearing Caterpillar boots, skin tight PVC cow-patterned trousers and a midriff-baring skinny-fit T-shirt. In Slough, of all places. I'm amazed I survived.

Thankfully those days are behind me now, although I have recently learned that you should never get drunk before programming your scrolling LED T-shirt panel, especially not if you're in the pub with "friends", as this leads to the message "can i spaff on your norks?" flashing across your chest all evening. And no-one will be impressed.
(, Tue 29 Aug 2006, 17:55, Reply)
When my last Dual Shock 2
(that's a PlayStation 2 controller for you non-gamer types) died, I took it to pieces out of curiosity. When I'd finished playing with the circuit boards and pretending to be a robot, I gutted it of heavy bits (rumble units and such), put the buttons back and glued their backings in position (so you could still press the buttons as if it was a functioning controller, but they were nicely fixed in place). I left out the L2 and R2 buttons so that I could thread a chain through their holes, and screwed the shell back together. Result: one translucent red Dual Shock necklace.

I loved it and wore it all the time. I still have it, but haven't worn it for a while. I used to wear it every day to college. It was great! Random people both in college and the street stopped me to chat about games, and everyone was impressed to learn that I'd made it into a necklace myself.

I also wore it to an audition for the PlayStation Freedom squad (a couple of years ago Sony's summer ad campaign had the theme of Freedom, and four jammy sods were picked to spend the summer go-karting etc. at Sony's expense. I made it to the first heat but didn't get further, though I was offered the chance to be filmed for a programme about female gamers, but I had to decline that because the appointment was at far too short notice). I was also wearing stripy toe socks with sandals. I still maintain that this look will one day catch on - after all, what's the fucking point of wearing toe socks if no-one can see them?

Summary for people who go 'argh teh wurds': I made a necklace out of a videogame controller. And I wore it.

EDIT: My bro made himself a similar one out of a dead Gamecube controller. Mine's prettier, though. Ha.
(, Sat 26 Aug 2006, 20:50, Reply)
Punk or Fairy
It was 1995, my uni halls of residence was holding a "Punk or Fairy" fancy dress party. I decided to be oh-so-wacky and went as a punk fairy (i'm a straight male BTW).

I made my face totally white with make-up, put on bright red lipstick, heavy black eye-makeup, put my (then) long hair in pigtails, made a fairy skirt out of bubble-wrap & finished it off with a rough denim jacket. Oh, I also made myself a wand. This took ages but I had help from the girls on my corridor and by the end of it I think I looked like the best punk fairy in the world.

I then proceeded down to the bar to get the rapturous applause & admiration for the best costume and to be crowned the most wacky-crazy-raaaandom student in the world. Ever.

Nobody had dressed up. Nobody. Not one fucking bastard. Oh wait, I lie, a rugby player I knew had dressed up as a punk and proceeded to pretend rape me on the pool table. At least I think it was pretend (11 years of mental blockage does odd things to ones memory).

They even nicked my fucking wand and broke it. Cunts.
(, Thu 24 Aug 2006, 15:23, Reply)
Goths of the World Unite!
...you have nothing to lose but your dignity.

'k - moment of confession, peeps. I went to a certain highly regarded university with hundreds of years of tradition.

So, despite my solidly working-class roots, I find myself in this place surrounded by over-privileged twunts with platignum credit cards, overbites, and mostly called Jocasta and Tarquin. But as if that wasn't bad enough, it turned out that you had to wear a uniform for exams.

Yes, a fucking uniform. Stressed about exams? Worried about grades? No worries - we'll make you doll up in a bastard monkey suit before you can even get in the door. And what's more, we'll use a latin name for it. Ladies and Gentlefolk, I give you... Sub Fusc.

And what a stupid getup it was. Black suit. (extra comfy, and in no way cheap). White shirt, dark socks and shoes (and yes, I did see them checking), a gown (pointless pointless pointless - and the 'smarter' you were, the bigger the gown got - yet another way of advertising how your wonderful fee-paying parents thrust you through a public exam factory like the braying, over-funded spunkmuppet you are), and just to top it off; a white bow tie. WHITE. And a mortar board - which you had to carry. Oh no, no wearing it.

For the love of cock.

Anyways, it became the game of choice to subvert this in any way you could. Props to a mate who wore a suit with sequins sewn in, who turned the entire exam hall into a disco when he put up his hand for extra paper - and a challenge for me to beat. And how, gentle reader, did I think I would subvert the system, cast two fingers at authority and generally fuck with the man? Yes... like many others here, through the medium of Goth.

So, come the final final, and I don my armour: black ten hole docs; check. Aids awareness ribbon or similar bodily adornment which they just couldn't ban; check. Nail varnish, black; check. Hair, slicked back ala Dave Vanian; check. Eyeliner, purple; check. Earings/rings/amulets; check to the max.

And out the door I march, into the hall, feeling a million dollars and ten-foot tall (hell, docs do a lot for yer height, guys)... only to hear a sniggering wench, probably called Tamsin, say to her friend:

'look at that idiot. I bet he's borrowed that suit from his father. I can't believe they let people like THAT in these days'.

At which point, centuries of social conditioning kicked in, and I had a small cry, knowing that no matter how I looked, how strong I felt, those bastard toffs would always win.

That, and I was having a bad reaction to the eyeliner. Red-eyed, swollen lidded and weeping, I could barely see the exam paper... so, what was the single greatest thing I learnt after three years at Uni?

Goths look miserable because their eye-makeup hurts.

Word t'your maternal parent.

(, Tue 29 Aug 2006, 17:26, Reply)
The Cat
When I was young I had a slight obsession with The Cat from Red Dwarf, thinking it would be really cool if I looked just like him I went out especially to purchase a shiny shirt, some black trousers and hundreds of sequins to attach.

Luckily my dad intervened and explained to me exactly why people didn’t walk around dressed like The Cat.

“Son” he said “You will look like a tit!”

Point taken, thanks Dad!
(, Tue 29 Aug 2006, 10:58, Reply)
The 'in' thing was to have chest hair

when I was at school, so I superglued some of my pubes to my chest.
(, Thu 24 Aug 2006, 18:16, Reply)
Jazz hands?
This one’s just been brought to my attention by a kind, kind friend who, on reading the QOTW emailed and asked why the hell I hadn’t posted it. The reason being I’ve spent years trying to blank out the horror.

Age 14 and our school decides to branch out a little by inviting in a local ‘modern dance’ choreographer to work with us during PE lessons for the next 8 weeks, the idea being that the workshops would end in a dance performance at the local theatre, choreographed and performed by us and videoed and edited by the year above’s media studies class.

So this effete knit-your-own-bloody-yogurt type turns up, trailing scarves and trying to get us in touch with our inner core through the medium of mime. Every PE lesson for 8 weeks, we have to pretend to be a tree or other such pretentious wank in order to build a dance production that truly represented our deepest longings and desires. Which mine were to rip this fuckwit’s arm off and beat him to death with the wet end.

The week before the performance we discuss costumes. Now, given my obvious physical failings (the extra six inches of height, the coordination of a stunned ox, together with the flat chest, poodle perm and NHS specs) and I’m hoping for a costume resembling a burkha. And what did we get?

Catsuits. With *takes breath and holds back the pricking of tears* tie-dyed tights over both the legs and with a hole cut in a second pair to be worn over the head, like a sweater. Mother of God.

The day of the performance and we’re handed our tights to put on. And some stupid, stupid fucker has bought them all in one size. Small. Which meant on me that the bottom half came up to roughly mid thigh and the top stopped somewhere round my collar bones. I begged and pleaded not to be humiliated in front of everyone like this but no, according to Wayne fucking Sleep the show was more important than the drink problem this was going to subsequently give me.

A good friend of mine who was videoing the performance said, and I quote “I actually wept in pity when I saw you. Then I stopped and pissed myself laughing.”

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go and take a valium and have a lie down.
(, Wed 30 Aug 2006, 16:18, Reply)
imagine getting your mum to spend at least three nights running making you the most awesome white power ranger suit ever invented by the whole of mankind. Complete with boot things to go over your shoes, and erm... gold bits.

you are coolest cat in town.
you look the fucking shit.
OF COURSE you wear it to the school disco.
in the car you're excited... people are gona worship you for this stroke of genius.

until you realise no-one else is wearing fancy dress... and your wearing a fucking power rangers constume.

i *was* 10 at the time... so excusable.
(, Tue 29 Aug 2006, 2:47, Reply)
I made my own giant squid costume.
But I only came second in the fancy dress competition.

(, Fri 25 Aug 2006, 8:53, Reply)
A couple of weeks ago...
...i bought FHM and in the fashion section there was an article about some designer who had something to do with the beastie boys releasing a line of plain white tee-shirts with shirts and ties drawn on them in marker pen. Quite nice i thought, cool beastie boys connection, £40 quid(!), f*ck right off. So i made it myself. Turned out quite well. NOw i think about it the story would have been better if i'd fucked up, perhaps burnt down the house somehow. Sorry.
(, Thu 24 Aug 2006, 21:17, Reply)
Translation: lots and lots of black gaffa tape.

Had not thought through to conclusion. :-( Ouch.
(, Thu 24 Aug 2006, 15:29, Reply)
Okay, here's one.
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you, me, aged 17:

Please make a special note of:

1. Stonewashed jeans.
2. Mullet haircut (crossed with receding hairline and general fluffiness).
3. Sleeveless t-shirt.
4. Neon pink guitar strap (coupled with out-of-shot neon pink guitar cable).
5. Purple guitar.

No further questions, your honour.

Sorry about the blurriness of the picture - it's for your own safety.
(, Wed 30 Aug 2006, 17:19, Reply)
Madonna in drunk nightclub shocker
My friend had a birthday party where everyone had to come dressed as pop stars. I went as Madonna, with a cone bra made out of cereal packets and everything.

My first mistake, however, was drinking absinth for the first time. It was quite a nice tipple, resulting in not only a pleasant and lingering burning sensation but also insane giggling and severe loss of coordination.

Arriving at the club in a very jolly mood, I decided I really needed to dance and, despite the fact that the Chemical Brothers were actually the track playing, felt I needed to 'stay in character' and started vogueing. This would've been OK in itself, had my level of inebriation not by that point reached epic proportions and my carefully crafted dance moves not turned into a mad windmill of arms that caused several people standing perilously close to me to be whacked in the face.

I got bored. I headed to the bar. I couldn't focus so just pointed and chucked some money at the barman. I think - and here's where my memory goes a little fuzzy - I ordered a Jack Daniels, Aftershock and bottle of WKD. These do not combine well.

There may be a gap here where I rested my eyes in the toilet for a minute or so.

Back in the club my friends are nowhere to be seen so I politely ask the DJ if I can put a call out to find them. He is very possessive of his microphone but I manage to yell out "Hellllooooo" before I am pushed away.

I dance on the podium. I fall off the podium.

A man comes up to me to ask if I am OK. He is wearing a black suit and bow tie. Millennium has just come out with its James Bond-esque video. "Nice Costume" say I "you'd look just like Robbie Williams if you weren't so flabby". He was not wearing a Robbie Williams costume, he was a bouncer. He was not amused. One of my cardboard cone bra cups was squashed as I was marched out of the club.

Puked on step of club and vogued home.

A good night out.
(, Wed 30 Aug 2006, 10:39, Reply)
I once had a "Chopper Ried" style moustache
But when I was shaving one day I fucked up & wrecked one of the sides. So I decided to shave it into a regular moustache & kept it for a few weeks.
I seen a photo of myself later on & asked people "why didn't you tell me I looked like a complete poof!?" The typical response was "It was funnier not to."
Never again.
(, Wed 30 Aug 2006, 2:05, Reply)
Long, long ago in a far off place........
Cravat. Floral shirt. Loon pants. Fat. Spots.
I am amazed that I ever got a wank, never mind laid.
(, Tue 29 Aug 2006, 20:24, Reply)
Hair Horror?
In the early 80s I moved from the quiet Kent suburb of Orpington to swinging Lunnen Town. On the first day in town I walked through Greenwich park to the town hall to sign on. Immediately I attracted cries of derision and 'Neil' impressions for my long hippy hair. (Acceptable in Hippy Kent, not so in trendy Lunnen apparently!)
The very next day I went to the local hair place for something radical with my new boss.
"Give him the same as me." Say the boss guy.

twenty minutes later I emerge with.....

.... A mullet.

Grim? I got married a few months later, and the artist formerly known as Mrs Steve never forgave me for the mullet in the wedding pictures. She got her revenge though... she became as fat as a whale after that.
(, Mon 28 Aug 2006, 12:23, Reply)
try to put on someone else's pj's in the dark while you're drunk.

Last night I stayed at my cousins and had to borrow some pj's. Staggering around in the dark, really pissed and unable to figure out why there's one leg really baggy and one leg really tight. I'd managed to get into the t-shirt, with one leg in the sleeve and one in the head-hole.

Eventually got the bottoms on, properly. Realised they were inside out, turned them the right way. Realised they were back to front. Sorted them. Fell asleep, got woken up at seven this morning by his little girl.

She told me that I had the t-shirt on inside out and back to front. I was out-dressed by a four-year old.
(, Sun 27 Aug 2006, 22:51, Reply)

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