Fashion
As far as accessories go, the fashion world remains firmly divided into two camps; less is more, and less is less.
The former, whose celebrity members include Anna Wintour of American Vogue, Carine Roitfeld of French Vogue, and indeed most high powered ladies of any kind of vogue, avidly maintains that an over indulgence in decorative trinkets mirrors an overly-indulgent and therefore unladylike and improper manner. Restrained dressing can prefigure restraint in other facets of a girl's person, but whether this is an advantage or a disadvantage remains unclear.
Past a certain age, beads and baubles hanging from ear to elbow tend to make an outfit look fussy and old-fashioned. Just think of Pat Butcher, a woman whose very name has been made by the infamy of her swinging chandeliers.
From time to time I catch myself admiring these corpulent creations, winking seductively in the fag-lit glow of the Queen Vic, despite the torrents of abuse thrown weekly on their account to the letters pages of such bastions of wisdom as the TV Times and Woman's Own. Notwithstanding the fact that such extravagance seems to incite fury amongst the female readership of the popular press, I maintain that there is something of interest in the way our Pat accessorises her launderette-fresh apron and slacks that can be incorporated into the repertoire of a modern styler, without the fearful hedging-of-bets that pretenders label 'irony'.
Although the actual quality of said sparklers can be neither refuted nor proven, what any quasi-avid viewer can be certain of is that Pat loves her jewels, make no mistake.
What you or I might write off as a dog's dinner remains to our Pat a fish supper - and this sentiment, fellow stylers, is the unlikely key to unlocking the accessorizing crown.
Although the example of the Square's (perhaps the world's) oldest and largest prostitute is perhaps a wildcard, what Pat's enormous earrings bring to her general appearance is something much more important and (dare I say it) cool than aesthetics: that something is pleasure.
Just like Jericho Baz in his hot-rock-ridden tracksuit, Pat Butcher is someone who just doesn't give a toss. In hoops so heavy they've given her a hunchback, she thinks she looks like one foxy mama, and if anyone dares disagree she's ready to blow them away with one exhalation of her omnipresent menthol Superking.
If you love something even half as much as she does those rhinestone cowboys, forget about fashion and just put it on. It''ll give you a smile of satisfaction no amount of trawling through Bond Street could provide, and as long as you're sure you look like a winner, the tentative hordes will be watching in amazement, then shamelessly jumping onto your hard-won bandwagon in no time.
For the Oxford male, accessorising is far riskier territory. A watch is no longer a device by which not to be late for your tutorial (or rather, Match of the Day) but a statement of intent. To bling or not to bling is a question demanding some consideration. If going for gold, an 18-year-old fresher risks looking like he's been kitted out by dodgy uncle Roland rather than uncle Rolex; and whilst a mature finalist might have grown into this sartorial superhero, the assumption that your prized possession is little more than a remnant from a gap year in Istanbul is one that's unfortunately far from, ahem, 'bazaar'.
Despite my earlier support of throwing caution to the wind when it comes to such fine points as sartorial ornamentation, this gay abandon is something that applies to girls only.
Boys still clinging to the grimy bits of string they all seem to have picked up in India and refused to let go of ever since are, in my view, open targets for the chopping of wrists known to occur in said destinations on sight of a 'Roland' that hasn't turned green on contact with chlorinated water.
The 'mystic' that sold it to you might have claimed it was unlucky to slice it before it fell, but this styler has a new catchphrase: a stitch in time might save nine, but, more importantly, a snip to the twine prevents a nasty gap-year-casualty-related crime.
Nura Khan has been enlightening and (let's hope) delighting y'all with her advice on how to avoid becoming accessory to a fashion crime. In response, why don't we take our hats off to her? Really, I mean it. For, whilst the head has been scientifically proven to be the weightiest part of the body, the ornaments which adorn it frequently, I'm afraid, just ain't heavy. More specifically, the increasingly ubiquitous trucker cap has by now begged its 15 minutes and then some.
Sorry to be a spoil sport, kids, but it should now go back to perching upon heads with necks red rather than those ensconced in unseasonable student scarves. For a brief time, perhaps, one could have made a statement of originality with the bold coloured cap, but now the only statement you're likely to be making is to the fashion police: probably something along the lines of: "I thought I could jazz up this tired old outfit with the addition of a trucker's cap. Cool, eh? You don't think anyone noticed?" Well yes, we did, and no, it's not.
Neither, despite the illusionary extra inches a carefully placed jumbo trucker can lend one (useful for the male shortcakes Oxford seems to be ridden with) does it make you big or remotely clever.
I may have just used the hackneyed phrase 'fashion police' but that was only for the sake of a cheap pun. Far from upholding any didactic sartorial law, I'm all in favour of having fun and expressing yourself: there's nothing more depressing than dressing-by-numbers, far better to give your own ideas a go even if you end up looking like a fool 70 per cent of the time. And there's no point sighing, rolling your eyes and making some comment on the superficiality of this article, because like you even care about being cool. Although if you own a trucker's cap, I know you do.
6th May 2004