A Brit friend of mine led me to this incredible site. A store fully stuck in the 90s rave scene.
I’m in love.
Good GOD, look at this bad boy:
See, it’s all about psychology. You, maybe even a normal person, might look at it and think: I’m going to vomit.
Or maybe you think, ‘If I saw my mate in that, I’d pretend I didn’t know who she was.’
Or maybe you think, ‘You’ve finally lost the plot mate.’
I see great potential.
Hear me out.
Whack this beeyoot under a UV light and you have instant magic. It’s David Copperfield in cloth.
It’s that classic example of it’s so bad it’s good. It’s so hideous it’s done a 360.
It has ventilation units.
People, this raver top is not a work of fashion, it is a work of science.
It is nothing short of the intricate design of a biological genius. And there must be some demand for this ridiculous sort of merchandise, because it comes in a range of different colours and sizes.
This baby isn’t a once-off; it’s not a patent. It’s a collection.
There’s a whole gavvy of these floating around underground trance parties where people throw around rave wands like javelins, drop hecstasy, and make appliance-movement shapes with their hands to the likes of Armand Van Helden.
And I want a piece of it.
Its usage may be niche, but the possibilities of owning something like this (Retailing at 55 quid) has endless and perhaps irreversible consequences. [Speaking of which – do you think you can wear this guy inside out?]
See, you could do a pub crawl in it at your bachelor’s, you could sleep in it, you could host a Bump 5 party in it, you could go to Evolution in Midrand and score the bouncer in it, or you could actually even cut shapes in it.
All I’m merely saying is: I’m close to buying it. But instead of pressing ‘Submit Shopping Cart’, like I did with the piano, I’m writing out all the reasons – merely for purposes of practicability – of why maybe I should think this through first. I’ll be in London for a weekend after Turkey, so I shall go to the shop myself, should I decide that this mean lean raver machine has my name written all over it.
I asked my mate what he thought of it. ‘It’s Cheese. You love cheese.’
Well yes, sure, literally and figuratively.
[Oh jesus, imagine eating cheese in this cheese? Now that’s a feeling I couldn’t put a price on.]
‘I’ll pretend I won’t know you. It’s not the shizzbomb you think it is.’
Maybe the world only thinks they don’t love it but they actually do. They want to love it, but society dictates that they shouldn’t. When deep down, they actually do. The diametrics of the colours, the symmetry, the aethestically-crafted air vents for those ravers who push more beads than the employees of an Indonesian sweat shop. It’s all there. It’s nothing short of a fabric masterpiece.
It’s all about the mind. Love it. Just love it. Go on. Just let go and love it. It won’t hurt you or break your heart, and I won’t tell your friends.
Let go of all of your pre-conceived ideas of what should be deemed ‘unforgivably bad taste’, and put down the phone: the fashion police aren’t on speed dial. You love it. Admit it, embrace it, welcome it. Let it into your heart.
[I don’t mean to sound like an evangelistical preacher from Vomville, Tennessee, but you have to admit: it’s a great sales pitch. Did I mention I’m an Amway shareholder?***]
And then when you do love it, let me know, because I think I want one. For those especially tedious boardroom meetings that involve the pushing of a lucrative deal involving flipping great wodges of revenue. I can make things happen in this.
I’m just saying. It’s psychology. And you know you want to love it.
There’s a fine line between love and hate. Def Leppard wrote a song about it. When pop-culture and ‘Oh my god you’re wearing a submarine’ collide.
PS: Some come with fur arms. Neon polar bears are all the rage, didn’t you know?
*** Not. I prefer the shampoo from my hairdressers.