I will be in a deep, damp hole in the ground before you catch me wearing leggings anywhere apart from an Alfresco Disco afterparty. According to a wanker I met in the pub though, I should be wearing them on the high street, all the time, without shame or fear of getting my head kicked in by a normal. He was wearing them, he even gave me his card so I could find out where to buy some of my own. He was essentially a travelling salesman. He called them “meggings.” He was, and most likely still is, a cunt.

After a 13 second discussion about the practical virtues of meggings and whether or not I would be buying a pair, I think it became apparent to him and his travelling sales mate that there are none, and no I would not. Having failed at their cunning ruse, they fucked off to find one of my mates to turn them down instead. Can’t help but wonder if these absolute tools had actually googled ‘Bristol Hipster Hangouts’ and come down from Dalston to try and sell me a Goldsmith’s uniform. Hopefully though, come summer, they will have replaced cuffed mauve chinos on your average high street tosspot and all of us highly evolved dudes will have something new and unbelievably sucktastic to laugh at. The only place I can see these absolute disasters catching on is wrapped around the legs of Luke Kook wannabes at festivals called things like “Indie-Rave-Neon-Buttfuck-Wanker-Fest.” So, no, I will not be wearing meggings in S/S 2013 and you can be damn sure I won’t hesitate to shout something like “You’re no longer my friend” if I see anyone I know wearing them anywhere near me. Before you’ve even arrived, good riddance meggings you foul fucking monstrosities.


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Words: Billy Black

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