NEW SUPERMODEL THRILLS FASHION LOVERS.
(shaved her legs and then he was a she)
Andrej Pejic as femme fatale in Jean Paul Gaultier's autumn/winter 2011 menswear show, and as the bride in Jean Paul Gaultier's spring/summer 2011 haute couture show. Photo: REX/Getty
My wife, David and I, writes Sir Reg, are simply too divinely thrilled by Jean-Paul's gorgeous new model; he has simply raised the whole frock thing to a new level. Andrej Pejic is simply too much. And the best thing about him is that even though he's a catwalk thriller to die for, he's a nineteen-year old boy. We always thought that women, although we adore them, obviously, just get in the way, what with their tits and their smelly old fannies. Now that fashion is finally revealed as the preserve of bitter and twisted gay men we must all celebrate and my husband David and I will be throwing a HUGE party to celebrate. Fags only, darling. I suppose Andre is too old for us to adopt.
.Mrs Sir Reg embraces the women-hating Jean-Paul.
On other pages.
The Coalitions's frock czar and pretend minister, Straight Simon Hughes, tells us where he buys his dresses.
6 comments:
As I was saying but a moment ago - "clothes nobody will ever wear". And which make even that v pretty woman look like a bag lady.
Yes,it's synchronicity, mr mongoose, or as my friend, stanislav, used to say, the shitegeist. I saw Jocky Neil tonight, in another programme, mainly about himself and he was doing that I went to grammar school and unversity rap, which I mentioned only a few hours back, pretending that he made his fortune by some other means than scabbing for Murdoch, journalist my arse. it's the shitegeist.
And it's not just the clothes, it's the idea that boys make better women than women, how very Greek. No wonder that other freak, Versace, was done to death, stalking about in a contramundal sewer like that. Fuck 'em, over-indulged mutant lunatics. No wonder we feel, on our cheeks, the hot breath of the Jihad.
Young people these days. I dunno. You wouldn't have caught us wearing our hair long, sporting floral shirts with tiny patterns, swoopy pansy collars and no tie, dripping with beads, kaftans, Afghans, floppy hats, reeking of patchouli and taking our clothes off to roll round in carnival foam.
It's neither the clothes nor the accoutrements, mrs woar, it is the gender distortion, this is dangerous shit, and impudent, too, best kept in Berlin cellars and Lou Reed songs.
Perish the thought, Mrs WOAR. And I deny absolutely that I once had a pony-tail. It's a lie, I tell you.
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