T-shirts: just don’t do it

PAV’S PATCH:

MY intention, this week, was to take a look at the messages borne on the front of T-shirts.

I was going to try to imagine who these people are, who decide what words should be carried on a person’s chest.

But my research was largely futile.

Back in 1984, girls often wore T-shirts bearing statements like “Frankie say war: arm the unemployed”. No longer.

Today we are either walking advertisements for sportswear companies or carry obscenities on the front of our clothing. And I mean obscenities — not the buxom young lady telling you: “Don’t stare, grow your own”.

I was frankly amazed by what some people are prepared to have written on their clothing. In fact the vast majority of it is so bad that I can’t reproduce it here.

However, it fits in with what I call Diet Coke syndrome. What I’m referring to here are the people who drink Diet Coke.

They are often quite large and somehow assuage their guilt at wolfing down six pasties by pretending that the 23 calories saved by guzzling a Pepsi-Max will somehow offset the 3,500 contained in the pastry mountain.

Similarly, I have found that T-shirts bearing explicit sexual messages are generally worn by ugly types. Last week I saw a large, unshaven, coughing, flat-nosed, grizzly man, possibly in his sixties, wearing a shirt which proclaimed him to be an inspector of Canada’s national animal. Like he would ever get near one.

And when I last gave blood, a bloke with a gut so large that I am sure he last saw his feet in 1990 was wearing a T-shirt which explained to passing females — well I assume females — that part of him was not going to do something to itself. There was even an arrow showing the way.

Once again, like there was a chance in a gazillion that anyone would take him up on his offer.

I blame a lot of this on a clothing company which has initials which nearly spell a very rude word, which they used in a variety of slogans. A classy outfit indeed.

But those of us who do not feel the need to regale others with messages which must surely contravene some decency byelaw, seem content to pay large amounts of money to be little more than the equivalent of sandwich boards.

The top three chest ads appear to be Nike’s instruction to “just do it”, followed by Henley and McKenzie. Wonder if I could get anyone to wear my name on a T-shirt? If Mr McKenzie can rake the money in, why can’t I?