The Life of Brian’s Statue: Hair We Go!
Now then, these days y’see lots of people walking around with these ipod whatsits stuck in their earholes. Beats me what they see in that, because there’s nowt better than sticking a record on at home and turning the volume up full blast and hearing Old Blue Eyes crooning away loud enough to annoy the neighbours.
Y’see, I’m in the ideal spot to see everything that goes on in Market Square. I see all these youngsters dressed up in their fashions. Y’get these youths with a load of black clobber on – I think they call themselves Goths. I see ‘em sweating away sat around Market Square with their big black coats on in the middle of summer, and I despair. Are their legs so skinny and so pale that they can’t pull on a pair of shorts? They don’t have to be Forest shorts, or even sports shorts, but just anything to take away the stale smell of sweat and patchouli oil that flies up towards me from the Square.
Then, y’see the punks. The things they do to their hair is unbelievable. All sorts of colours and spiked up in all directions. I’ve been accused of being vain about my hair by persons who shall remain nameless, but this lot take the biscuit.
I was lucky with Nigel. He was never really interested in getting his ears pierced or wearing big clodhopping boots with chains and buckles all over ‘em.
As far as fashion’s concerned, I’ve always favoured the green sweater and tracky bottoms. Y’get yer present day managers with their designer suits and their flicked back hair. Does that make ‘em any better? Not in my book.
They still can’t make it gel.