There's nothing wrong with dressing in a manner that displays the goods you've got going for you.
*Out come the Wolverine claws.*
But at what point did it become necessary to dress like Drag Queen Barbie in order to get a fucking pint in this fucking town? Seriously. At what point?
Bloody hell, women the world over are being told to 'cover up' for fear of what will result should their flesh be spied by a male of the species and ignite 'desire'.
Meantime, other women elsewhere are being (effectively) told to 'dress fuckable' or they can't get a drink in a pub. A PUB!
*In go the Wolverine claws.*
Last week I ventured out to East London for a friend's birthday. It was to be a last-minute impromptu affair - just a few drinks at a local bar and then on to a small club playing music that is likely to make you want to jump around a lot.
Given I'm partial to my friend, I like a good old sweaty dance and I suspected Alcohol would come along too, I braved the trek. To the other side of the city. Via public transport. To be clear: I usually travel via motorbike to remain punctual, solvent, sane and relatively independent of other people('s bad manners).
Because of this I took a night off from my standard motorbike-necessary wear of stretchy jeans, leather boots, t-shirt and leather jacket. Not much of a night off, you understand as both Leather Boots and T-Shirt were still employed for the evening (practical when 'avin' a sweaty dance). But there was some sartorial variation at play. Even Earrings wanted to come (no helmet). In other words: I'd 'made an effort'.
It was cold. Terribly cold. Lose-all-sensation-in-your-fingers-and-regress-some-considerable-millennia-in-terms-of-ability-to-fend-for-yourself cold. I thought that warranted clothing designed to, you know, keep you warm: a hat, chunky-knit scarf and another (smart) coat over the Leather Jacket - that apparently preferred a night out on the town with Leather Boots and T-Shirt to a night in with Stretchy Jeans. In other words I'd pretty much obliterated any attempt at 'making an effort' in favour of 'being able to function' due to the temperature outside. All perfectly reasonable choices for a night of impending sweaty dancing.
I grabbed all the things I don't usually use like cash (credit card!) and my Oyster card (motorbike!). And at the last minute - for some unknown reason - I also grabbed Tight Jeans by the…legs and stuffed them into the small bag I was taking with me.
In order to wind me up Mark (the man) would call such a bag a 'handbag'. In order to remind him not to wind me up I would smack him over the back of the head in that way that makes a satisfying noise - like in cartoons.
So, to re-cap - and to assure and remind you that there is a point to all this detail: I'd gone out for a mate's birthday, dressed in slightly different clothing, on public transport, with standard clothing stashed in my 'hand (*slap*) bag'.
I call my friend as I near the random bar he and his mates had settled in so as to get a couple of affordable drinks prior to heading towards the music (whereupon alcohol is sold at the price of liquid gold).
I arrive at Random Bar to find there is a queue forming outside. I quietly sweep aside all perfectly rational songs playing inside my head, tracks such as 'Sod Queueing To Get Into A Pub!' and 'Now I Remember Why I Don't Hang Out I Pretentious East Sodding London!' because this is a night for my friend and I can suck up the very minor discomfort of a queue.
I call my mate to tell him there is now a queue and he comes outside to get me. Gallantry - I like.
Meanwhile a number of not-spectacularly-dressed men, accompanied by half-dressed Nightclub Barbie Women, are mildly interrogated by the door staff prior to being allowed in. I hear one bloke say 'I'm not causing a fuss, mate, honestly.' Something inside my head says 'Ah'.
I reach the front of the queue (it was a minor affair) and a female bouncer asks to look inside my bag. Standard practice.
A man bouncer then asks for photo ID. I proffer my credit card, a legal form of payment clearly stating my name - he wavers and then reluctantly accepts this. I know he will as he just accepted a credit card as a valid form of ID for a not-spectacularly-dressed guy he just let through the door. Let's be rational about this: I'm going dancing, and the only item of value on me is the debit card, and that's going to spend most of the night tucked securely down my bra for safe-keeping. No, Man Bouncer, funnily enough I brought neither my passport nor my driving licence to a pub.
A beat later Man Bouncer tells me my clothes are 'wrong'. I remove the hat, scarf and overcoat to reveal a perfectly reasonable outfit for a pub and a night of sweaty dancing. The female bouncer tells me she 'likes this' and waves me inside.
'No. You can't come in dressed like that', says Man Bouncer.
I look at the female bouncer. She has the same expression of, 'what the actual fuck?' written on her face as I have on mine.
I ask Man Bouncer - in perfectly reasonable tones - what clothes would I have to wear to gain entry? I suspect it's not very many.
Apparently Man Bouncer loses the ability to understand even a simple question - if indeed he was ever capable of it in the first place - and tells me again that 'my clothes are wrong'.
My friend intervenes, knowing full well - in light of such 'what-the-fuck?!'-y-ness I'm likely to ask Man Bouncer - in tones that make it perfectly clear I think him to be doorSpam - the question: would you let me in were half-dressed as Nightclub Barbie?
'Look at me, I'm dressed like a street rat [words to that effect] and you let me in without asking for ID!', proffers my friend in an effort to get on with having a decent night out with his mates.
Man Bouncer looks confused, as if something has just happened and he's not sure what it is. He turns to my friend and tells him he is being 'out of order'.
It's clear that Man Bouncer is more 'bounce' than 'man' so I resist the temptation to have much fun at his expense - partly because English isn't his first language and it's not entirely his fault he's being an arse, it could viably be a language barrier; and partly because I suspect he's been bounced, often, during his lifetime - enough to have had all the not-stupid bits that were there thwacked out of him.
I turn to my friend, who is irritated and even less likely to enjoy acts of extreme stupid than I am. He is gearing up to come to my defence in a manner guaranteed to put a stop to his own birthday night out right there and then.
DoorSpam has likely come up against a significant amount of fraff in his time spamming the entrance to the bar and he's in no mood to...well, do anything but exert some sort of minor 'power' over the awaiting punters, as far as I can tell.
I attempt to 'be a grown up' and engage in diversionary tactics by asking the female bouncer what clothes would be acceptable in order to join my friends downstairs.
'I think you look fine', she says.
Man Bouncer manages to come back from a long holiday on Stupid Island, looks me up and down and mumbles 'tight jeans'.
My friend looks like he's about to get all Wolverine.
'Oh, hang on!', I say, hoping to avoid any adamantium carnage, 'I've got some of those in my bag, look! I could just leave all my stuff with my friend out here - as hostage, if you will - and change into those - [unarticulted sartorial] problem solved!'
Female bouncer seems happy with this compromise and gestures for me to follow her inside. Before I can make it across the threshold Man Bouncer blocks the way and orders me to take my coat off.
'I just did', I say, referring to the overcoat I'd been wearing as protection against the arctic temperatures I'd endured en route to this pretentious pub in East sodding London.
Apparently Man Bouncer had returned to Stupid Island and just sort of stood there looking all...avatar and...big.
My friend begins to explain the logic of what I'd proposed to Man Bouncer. Each of his words is like a tiny adamantium spike of indignation at the humiliation this Man Bouncer is attempting - for whatever reason - to put me through.
'I said take your coat off', Man Bouncer now demands angrily. He's started something. He's not sure entirely what it is. But he's going to finish it Dogdammit.
Despite issuing a command Man Bouncer sounds confused. Yet at the same time on some sort of status / power trip. It would be fascinating were it not for the fact that I'm standing there, in East sodding London, in the freezing cold, being steadily stripped down, by a man with the IQ of a frozen dinner, who is too stupid to be aware of the fact he has the IQ of frozen lasagne, a man attempting to redress some sort of imbalance of his own making that he is too stupid to perceive by making sure only women dressed in a manner that makes him want to shag them are allowed in the door.
Actually, I suspect he's concerned that only women his BOSS would want to shag are let through the door, judging by the number of times he says 'my boss wouldn't like those clothes'. DoorSpam has a job to do. He's no doubt running to software coding issued to him: only people looking like x may enter/don't allow people looking like y to enter etc. What a shame he's incapable of rational thought and the ability to understand context.
What really bad PR for the club he's doorSpamming.
There's something very wrong with that.
Normally I'd pick up a verbal fork and come to my own defence, yet I get distracted by the fact that, somewhere, deep down in my lizard brain, I'd anticipated a situation like this, and packed Stretchy Jeans in my hand (*slap*) bag - just in case.
There's something very very wrong with that too, with the fact even the thought 'I'll take something that shows my ass' crossed my mind when merely going out for a pint in a pub before going to get all sweaty dancing at a lo-fi club.
Man Bouncer -whom I've by now re-named 'Man Lasagne' - eventually stands down and the female bouncer leads me to the bathrooms to change.
Once stripped and changed I return outside to re-join my friend and be reunited with my stuff. I'm wearing black biker boots, tight black jeans, a black tank top and a leather jacket - all clearly showing an athletic and ninja physique - even if I do say so myself. And I say so myself because I've just been effectively told I may not get a drink in a pub unless I wear half my clothes by a man with the IQ of the national dish of Italy.
Man Lasagne nods his 'approval'.
I resist the urge to use the very real (girly) Leatherman in my pocket to take the foil lid off the frozen dinner standing before me and re-fashion him into a kebab. Instead I smile sweetly, stabbing my metaphoric fork into my own palm before heading downstairs to join the people waiting for us.
(Bit odd that Man Lasagne was more concerned about my revealing flesh than the impliment capable of causing actual bodily harm in my pocket.)
There's something very very wrong with that three. But I suck it up. As many a woman has before me in the name of 'keeping the peace' and 'not causing a fuss'. That and no other one else (aside from my mate) witnessing the scene thought anything was amiss - whether for fear of endangering their own ability to get a drink, or the fact they agreed with Man Lasagne that women may only enter if 'dressed fuckable'.
I'll say it again: Bloody hell, women the world over are being told to 'cover up' for fear of what will result should their flesh be spied by a male of the species and ignite 'desire'. Meantime, other women elsewhere are being (effectively) told to 'dress fuckable' or they can't get a drink in a pub. A PUB!
Don't ignite desire! Ignite desire! What's a woman to do?
And I know I should have been all London Zoo (the band, look them up, they're grand, though not for the sugar-coated) and said 'I can't wear my hat [baggy trousers]? I'll be like, 'fuck your club, I don't wanna wear shoes and look like a mug'.' It was my friend's birthday so I tolerated the attempted humiliation.
Yet in situations like these, when all around you are pleading ignorance to a clear act of treason against reason, you end up feeling like the asshole because someone in a position of power (in this instance, a very minor position, in the cold, outside, in the doorway of an East London pub) says You. Are. Asshole. and everyone around is too scared (or not bothered) to speak up.
Next time.
And there's inevitably going to be a next time. Unless we begin to share the risk and speak up. So speak up next time you encounter even a small act of bullshit. Share the risk people and don't let minced meat or bad ideas of any form rule any small part of the earth.
For the apologists of all forms among you this is a simple call for people to I Am Spartacus in the face of bad behaviour of all forms. This is not a call to incite hatred be 'rude', 'offensive', 'impolite', 'disrespectful' or all the labels further afield that are usually bandied about by those wanting to 'keep the peace' and 'not cause a scene'.
And, no, I'm not talking only about clothes. You need only look at the mainstream media's response to the religiously motivated shootings at the Charlie Hebdo offices in Paris to see debate about the issues at hand smothered by fearful do-goodery petrified of being labelled 'racist', 'bigot' and 'fascist'...or blown up.
Speak up, people - as Ayaan Hirsi Ali, a woman under security 24/7 for speaking out against bad ideas suggests - share the risk.
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