OK. Time to come clean. It was bound to get out and it’s not like I haven’t hinted about this but.. well given that I’ll be grabbing traffic from here today, I think it’s time to put the record straight.
My name is Gordon McLean. I’m a T-shirt-a-holic.
There. I’ve said. It feels like a huge weight has been lifted from my shoulders, like I’m finally free of the horrible burden, that terrible secret. You see, unlike some people who collect fancy schmancy shirts I have a passion for t-shirts.
Now, I’ll fully admit that I’ve reigned in this fascination for many years, but recently it’s been taking control. I fight it and fight it and fight it but I know it’s futile, all the while a deep slightly breathless voice whispers in my ear
Give yourself to the Dark Side. It is the only way you can save your friends. Yes. Your thoughts betray you. Your feelings for them are strong.
I really must stop watching Return of the Jedi. Anyway, where was I?
Oh yes, t-shirts. The one thing that has always annoyed me about t-shirts over the years is that.. well you can buy them everywhere! Typically if I’m shopping for clothes I’ll end up at the t-shirts, I’ll spot something I like the look of, and then I’ll realise I’m standing in Top Shop or Burtons (ohh OK, Asda) and that the rack is full of them. Of course what this means is the first time I parade my fabuluously cool new t-shirt in public, some prat with half my street cred will saunter into view at the same time. Now admittedly my street cred isn’t that high, in fact I’m pretty sure it wavers constantly between “not a lot” and “you ARE kidding”, but nothing shatters your “cool factor” like walking past someone with the same t-shirt on*.
So along came the internet and it’s myriad of joys, not only is there all that p*rn (allegedly, I wouldn’t know… ohh come on, gimme a break, I’m hardly likely to admit to my t-shirt obsession AND that I’m a wanker in the same post), but there is something else that sends goosebumps racing over my skin and a tiny electric shiver down my back.
You see, I have always had this thing for being “different”. Mainly because I was/am – as are you dear reader, remember that now, won’t you – and probably because of the resonance that came with the discovery that, contrary to the opinion held among my twelve year old peers, jeans and a t-shirt were NOT an act of rebellion if we ALL wore them. That simple statement shocked me to my core and ever since then I’ve… well I’ve been wearing jeans and t-shirts as often as possible. OK, slight contradiction there.
But now, as I pass the thirty year marker (do not pass go, do not collect £200, instead collect a mortgage and various other debts that it’ll take you 20 years to pay off) it IS an act of rebellion. For here, today, I sit at my desk. Jeans and my Tw@ed (twatted, geddit?) t-shirt in all it’s slightly faded glory. Yes, no suits and ties and shirts for me. I’m a Rebel.
You are part of the Rebel Alliance and a traitor! Take her away!
Hang on, whaddya mean”her”?? Damn that movie…
And so with the backing of the endless sources available on the internet behind me I can now be reasonably assured that, as long as I’m careful in my choices, I WILL be the only person at the Faithless gig with a T-shirt that says “Nothing is any good if other people like it”, and people WILL notice it and point and the ones who understand it will offer a wry smile. Of course it’s not about the adulation and fame (not unless we are talking about some decent money and hot girls) but it’s nice that my efforts to be unique are noticed.
For, aside from my t-shirts, I AM the definition of “middle of the road, thirty something”.
I’ll stop now as I’m beginning to waffle and thoughts of relating my t-shirt obsession to my tattoos is making my brain hurt.