The Two Orphans
Will he or won’t he?
The Two Orphans dissolve Jack Wills in an acidic attack on the Sidgwick Site.
Burn, baby, burn.
Inevitably cold and lost, we found ourselves sleeping on the Sidgwick Site that evening. The rockpool which formed part of the ‘zen garden’ of the Criminology Department served as an adequate bath; our evening meal was a salad made from the extensive lettuce plantation next to the English Faculty. For a sleeping venue, we chose the sculptures on the grass by MML: high up and away from the dangers of predatory wolves and students on Modafinil skipping to 9am lectures.
Four hours later, we woke from a fretful sleep in which we were attacked on all sides by multiple languages, isolated on top of a tower of Babel. Having very little else to do with our lives, we surveyed the scene. The Sidgwick Site is famed for its mass production of fashionistas. This is mainly on account of the ethical campaign called ‘Sighted on the Sidg’, where students were tempted into lectures by the promise of an omnipresent ‘Street-Style’ photography team. This turned out to be a vicious rumour- the odd few did stay fashionable, but we hear they have largely emigrated to the UL tea room.
It was 10:00am. The dregs from the 9am lectures were congealing around the doors of the lecture block. Their fashion sense was unremarkable, but we didn’t blame them- it is difficult to choose an outfit in the morning when your eyes are wedged open with cocktail sticks. However, as the day went on we became less and less conciliatory. There seemed to be two individual ‘fashion tribes’ (as they probably called themselves. We’ve heard it’s this edgy new word to describe how people wear trends. Awesome). Group one seemed to be living under the mantra of “if-you-wear-ugly-glasses-then-it’s-called-geek-chic-and-the-best-bit-is-that-they-obscure-your-face”. This was impressive reasoning, but nonetheless, futile. The second group, if they became members of a Stalinist commune and were thereby forced to merge their individual possessions, would together collect enough tracksuit-bottoms to fill an industrial sewage cesspit. Any naive Jack Wills aficionado who passed too close to us was subject to verbal attack, the acidity of which was a bit like being showered with napalm. Being orphans of foolish tendencies, who could not be counted upon to distinguish the concept of ‘transubstantiation’ from that of ‘tranquilizers’, we were in no position to judge these paragons of intelligence as they ranged the gymnasiums of their brains on a daily basis. But, all in all, Sigdwick Sightings had a impression of being stolid, murky and crusty round the edges- a bit like several human versions of the Classics Faculty.
The following night we made a wonderful bonfire out of all the Jack Wills gilets we had collected over the course of the day (having subtly hidden them under our clothes, which served merely to give us a look of slightly plump, healthy housewives). The fumes of burning rubber lulled us to sleep, and we dreamt of skiing ponies made out of tweed, and boys with fox-like grins. Gwendolyn’s one was called Montague, and mine was called Agatha. Here I forget whether I am talking about the boys or the tweed horses. Jack Wills causes equal intoxication- you don’t actually need to diligently inhale the fumes of a myriad gilets to achieve this state of mind. Thousands of people forget their own names every day, as they emblazon the words Jack Wills across themselves in a misguided attempt to persuade others that they have an identity crisis. What’s more, their clothes are clearly stitched by orphans much less domestically adept than ourselves. To avoid this social crisis of mass substance-abuse (substance, in this case, meaning clothing), Gwendolyn and I are offering ourselves as seamstresses for our new line of casually country-esque clothing, with a hint of Comme des Garcons (our scissors are slightly blunt). For extra cash we will saucily stitch on the words ‘Jack Wills’. Although the only thing that Jack will do, is probably cause all ski resorts to melt on account of all the buff ladz and hot gurls on the slopes, and back home will result in the death of all foxes. Not that we mind, but if a fox is torn into thousands of little foxy shaped fragments by wailing hounds, then it won’t make a very nice fox fur gilet, will it? Won’t it?
Topics: Fashion, Street Style
I absolutely hate anything that wears Jack Wills… why would you ever do it?
It’s for people who have a warped imagination of what Cambridge is!
like this person’s warped imagination of what orphans are.