The New You

I’ve just noticed something. If you pick up just about any magazine type publication lately, it won’t take too much flipping till you are educated with “the new”.

Everything these days has to be labelled the new something or other. Forty is the new thirty. Kate is the new Diana. No reservations is the new only reservations. Beer is the new wine. Thyme is the new rosemary. Pale is the new tan (really??).Three quarter jackets are the new blazers. Croatia is the new Spain. Girls is the new Sex and the City. I could go on… but I really need to pee.

I don’t understand why something has to be replacing something else to be trendy. Why can’t it just be cool on its own? Is it a sort of social snobbery, because by naming what used to be cool you’re inadvertently being more cool yourself by showing your knowledge not only of what is in fashion now, but what used to be in fashion before? Or is it just so hard to remember what’s in fashion, they made this up as a mnemonic trick?


And who decides what’s in or out? Where does it all begin? There has to be a source, a beginning, a wise man atop a mountain spinning a plethora of wheels to decide colours, textures, gadgets and foodstuffs every week, the results of which then emails off to the fashion world (on his Mac Air of course).”Purple, hessian, wireless toasters… ah hang on, the wheel’s stuck… I’ll just… mmppff… shift it a bit… wait… ok, here we go… pumpkin seeds, done!” Is that what it is, a kind of “Wheel of Fashion” going on in the Himalayas somewhere? More importantly, is that where Adriana Xenedes has disappeared to?

Seriously people, if you like something, wear it, eat it, drink it, holiday there, drive it, watch it, listen to it, read it or bloody well bathe in it, I mean as long as bathing is of course an appropriate usage for this thing you like. I mean, until leftovers are the new tapas, Docs are the new Uggs, black is the new brown, The Breakfast Club (the cafe not the film) is the new Fat Duck, public transport is the new Mini Cooper and that bit of dirty sand you could loosely describe as a beach down by London’s Southbank is the new Mediterranean, I’ll never be “in”.

But that’s fine. Who can keep up? You have to have a damn good memory to be trendy. Fashion, I’ve decided, is for the young, those who have enough brain cells left to remember what’s in and what’s out this week. Style on the other hand, that’s for the inebriated. I mean grown ups.

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