The Sartorial Curse of Tourism

by Isla MC

It is a phenomenon I have noticed since I began working in the tourist industry (of sorts, and much to my misery and shame), that all tourists are utterly sartorially challenged. We’re talking the most heinous crimes of fashion since that manky brown smock dress my high school maths teacher used to wear. Bum bags (fanny packs for those in America), dodgy baseball hats, slogan t-shirts, fluorescent raincoats, socks with sandals, and the list goes on. They all come crawling miserably out of the wardrobe once the average person touches down in a foreign land.

I cannot for the life of me understand why this is. Who in their right mind wants to advertise their status as a tourist? I bloody don’t. In fact, every time I travel I make the utmost effort to look as chic and hip as possible, just so all the natives don’t laugh at me and go “”Ooooh, look at that saddo tourist. God, she clearly hasn’t a clue where she’s going so let’s all laugh and point and push past her just to make her feel even more like a fish out of water. Haha.““ Do you see, Mr and Mrs sartorially challenged tourist? This is why you came back from your hols thinking all French people are wankers. Because YOU ASKED FOR IT IN YOUR OUTFITS OF SKANK!

See, often these fashion criminals are perfectly nice, normal dressers when on their own turf. Something about the idea of being in another country seems to make them panic and, not only put on as many clothes as possible so they feel prepared for any eventuality (it’s all about the layers), but make sure all items are completely mismatched and damaging to the open eyes. It’s only London, and not exactly prone to the most unpredictable elements ever known (grey grey grey). I’ve lived here for three years and never felt the urge to go around dressed like Uncle Buck.

So, I IMPLORE YOU, those of inoffensive dress sense, take pity on the cursed and take a stock of paper bags around with you in central, so you may cover up the sinners’ faces, thus sparing their blushes and their shame. Or, just yell very loudly, “”Oi minger, it’s not the eighties anymore.”” And maybe the shame will be just the thing to end the scourge of hideousness upon the innocent streets of London.