There’s a great deal of talk at the moment of beach bodies – being beach body ready. No one knows what the fuck it means and we’re not at all sure we care, but it’s that time of year none the less, when we may be hitting the beach and wearing something other than jeans. I’ve blogged recently about body image and granny’s getting their boobs out to give them a bit of the sunshine that we’ve all been feeling of late. We’ve all agreed to embrace our curves subjectively ie live with what we’re happy with (in my case, the result of not cutting out alcohol and peanut butter) and we’re still divided on the whole issue of topless bathing.
What I haven’t talked about, until now, is clothes.
Until, that is, I read about Bob Geldof’s recent behaviour at the Brentwood festival.
Now, Geldof is a bit like Jamie Oliver and Marmite I reckon: you either love him – probably for what he has done for charity and giving us a song to sing when we’ve had a great weekend but now it’s over. Or, you bloody hate him. Perhaps for no particular reason, other than he can come across as a jumped up twat.
Well, on Sunday at the festival, fans walked out after he made foul-mouthed comments about their clothes.
Firstly, he told the crowd how mega the Boomtown Rats are: “How do we know that you are Brentwood and we are mega? Because I am wearing a fuck off pretend snakeskin suit.”
At which point, I would have been saying: and your point? He expanded, basically telling the festival goers how amazing his band looked in their purple suits with elasticated waistbands (that just says ‘fat’ to me) and their cowboy shirts.
By now, had I been there, I think that I would have been looking at this group of ageing blokes, hanging on to the old idea of rock and roll, with their references to their cutting edge fashion and I’d have been thinking: you sad old bastards. But I may have given them the benefit of the doubt, if Bob had shut the fuck up and got on with the music – which was really why everyone had paid £25 to be there. Not, for a bloody fashion show.
However, he didn’t shut up. He apparently went on to say: “on the other hand Brentwood, you are wearing wall-to-wall fucking Primark. This is a rock and roll festival. When you come to a rock and roll festival you dress for a rock and roll festival”.
No, you complete and utter arsehole. When you pay £25 of hard-earned cash to go to a music festival, you are paying to listen to some decent music. You are not paying to be judged on your choice of attire. And actually you twat, those people that did pay to hear you sing, are there to judge you on your ability to perform and not the other way around.
Someone tweeted: Horrendous individual, who loves the sound of his own voice. He hasn’t made a decent track in ages.
1. No-one disses Primark, as my entire summer holiday wardrobe and my kids’ consists of it. Unfortunately I can’t afford fake snakeskin, but if I could…I wouldn’t be seen dead in such a ridiculously shit choice.
2. That I’ve just gone off Marmite.
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