The wonderful thing about dressing is that you can wear anything at all. This does not, of course, mean that you should wear anything, just as freedom of speech does not mean that you should speak while chewing food.

I prefer to wear a suit and have worn one since I was a baby. (This was interrupted for a few years during school when I found being assaulted for being a “punk” preferable to being assaulted for being a “faggot”. Sigh, if only I could have those years back.) While the world of fashion has lurched around like a drunk on a cruise-ship, I chosen to keep my trusty suit close at hand.

It has seen me through sobriety and binges, bad nights and good ones. Mafia members have taught me to tie my tie in ways that might get me shot by other mafia members and various authorities have not suspected me when they should. When mods were fashionable, I was called a mod. When Trainspotting was released, I was compared to Sick Boy. When I wore a suit with a Mohawk, strangers approached me and said that they “got it”. Now, for whatever reason, I’m called a dandy. And that, I suppose, is fine and . . .

But the truth is that I, like everyone else, am simply too big for any category. These clumsy stereotypes are wrapped around me like a straight jacket. If I should be compared to anything, it is to a storm that does not yet exist. A type of tornado that appears out of the blue and instead of destroying its surroundings, leaves them much improved. One that makes men appear ugly and only leaves moisture in women’s’ undergarments. That is a comparison I could live with. Every other one can follow its head up its own asshole.

Yet, for some reason, people are prepared to contort their beautiful selves into the most bizarre and hideous positions just to fit some wretched stereotype handed down to them from a coke-addled executive. Emo, punk, hip-hop, hippie, it’s all the same nonsense. Rockabilly, goth, middle-management; it’s all the bollocks of some baby boomer’s idea of how you should look and act. Far as I can tell, the moment you fall into that trap, you might as well dress up in an SS Uniform. At least you would then look good.

My theory of fashion is quite simple. I believe that people genuinely want to look like jackasses and I believe that they should go ahead and look like jackasses. Chances are that they already do – but they just look like some distant twit’s idea of a jackass. If you would like to wear a cape (most adult males secretly want to wear a cape) you should. However, people are cowards. They don’t want to be alone in their choices and they need permission. I am that permission.

This, of course, sets me apart from the Dandy Set, who believe Beau Brummel’s contention that you are not well dressed if people look at you. (He apparently spent five hours getting dressed everyday and having his boots polished in champagne just to ensure that no one looked at him.)

I think it is much better to be looked at, analyzed and have people desperately search for what category to shove you into. You should strive to cause a dissonance within their mind. Their expectations should be shattered by the balls-out, ludicrousness of your appearance.

Looking ridiculous to those who wear blue jeans with blazers, Capri’s, khakis or pants that hang about their knees, everything decorated with bright corporate logos, while they balance themselves upon two wheeled unicycles or toss brightly coloured discs to each other in the park, is a good thing. One must always consider the audience. When I meditate upon the utter shabbiness of the clothes people actually wear outside, the circus that passes for normalcy, I find myself revelling in their hatred.

I am not confident in my appearance unless people shout insults from the safe remove of cars, speeding away before my boot is introduced to their ass, and people on the street, uniformed or not, get quickly out of my way. That, my friends, is just how a Grumpy Owl rolls. Wings spread, claws out, mouse in mouth and eyes gleaming. It’s not perfect but I’d rather be my own creation than anyone elses‘ imitation.