Memories of a revolution

Once upon a time there was a terrible scourge that ripped right through the beating heart of Liverpool. The contagious plague affected many and threatened to wipe out fashion common sense as intelligent people would know it. This awful period was say, ten or so more years ago. It was a frightful time as the foolish sheep like morons for no logical reason began to all dress the same.

 

Folklore has it that one day an indigenous chancer high-jacked knock off 'trackies' (tracksuits) from the back of a lorry. He then went about distributing these coordinated bits of clothing to anyone who could afford them. The local nincompoops began to love how they looked and felt in the French fabric and subsequently other twits began to follow suit. They purchased them just as their family, friends and man on the street had done so.

This unusual craze spread like wild fire as the Lacoste hungry Liverpudlians started foaming at the mouth, such was the insatiable appetite for this new uniform. They came in a myriad of colours. They bore the logo of a menacing crocodile and now they had found a spiritual home in the north west of England.

The hoity toity designers in France could not quite believe the escalating furore that was reported back to them via their spies.  The reports didn't sit well with them as they nibbled on their crusty baguettes - they were incandescent with rage and threw their beret's to the ground as a result. Their darling Lacoste brand was not a particularly cheap franchise, and it was most certainly not intended for chumps on the breadline of society - but when there is a will there is a way. The single minded inbred tribes knew what they wanted - and it was a Lacoste trackie! Liverpool was now being known not only for the city that brought the world the Beatles - but also a city that harboured unrelenting clones who often dabbled in the murky under world of crime.

Opportunist Asian men from overseas who now resided in nearby Manchester had got wind of the potential money spinner of importing these such uniforms for the common man. These money making aficionados hardly miss a trick - this culminated with fellows with turbans selling the garments in their market stalls for a little bit cheaper than the retail price set in reputable stores.

The full force of this new revolution could be felt and observed the most in the city centre. It was like 'I Am Legend', but instead of deranged light avoiding zombies the locals avoided anything that was not a Lacoste tracksuit. The lively hood of other fashion retailers began to suffer as they tread a precariously dangerous path on the road to perdition as the copy cat generation moved about in regimented herds throughout the centre eye balling other similar groups choice of colours and crocodiles.

 

If you were not party to this movement you were nobody. The excuse of not being able to afford a tracksuit that could push the £150 barrier did not wash with people who had had family members featured on the Jeremy Kyle show. They had no jobs yet could still obtain one, two or three at least of these 'trackies' so you most definitely could as well. Also, if you dared to utter the word 'individual' you would be shot down with a barrage of industrial language. That word was outlawed in this dark moment in history

 

Then seemingly over night, the mania stopped. People began to resist the virus. They shook their foolish behaviour away like a dog after a bath. It was impossible to explain and probably not worth delving into. Liverpool rose from this era and made great strides in the wake of the Lacoste revolution. But for those who who were fortunate enough to not have been infected by the virus I have to be eternally thankful for the fact that I possessed enough sense to stay clear from people carrying the weird disease.

 

 

Demola, TCC