White Trash

I don’t know when or why I first started hating milk. Presumably I drank it as a smallie – I hardly started off on hot ports and sausage sandwiches, despite what my figure suggests – but now, I find it repulsive. And I mean that literally; I’m repelled into the next room by the stuff. I get the gawks when I see or smell it. I can’t watch Avonmore ads when they come on the telly. And it’s not dairy products. I have no fear or hatred of cheese; cheese takes up three tiers on my food pyramid. I’ll have butter in my popcorn. I like ice-cream cones. I eat creamy sauces with pasta. But fuck me, I hate milk. For whatever reason, chalked down to whatever logic, milk is a concept unfathomable. Milk can fuck the fuck off.

Although I don’t know why I hate milk, it’s my best guess that I hate the colour white because I hate milk. I know butter comes from milk, but it doesn’t bother me. I know that “white” does not equals “milk”, but it bothers me rotten, regardless. What a fucking hue it is – boring, prone to discolouration, about as flattering as Speedos sewn by left-handed homophobes. I married in a golden dress, you know. I don’t own even one pair of white socks, no crisp white shirt … there’s never been a single greying undergarment on my clothesline. And yes, maybe milk has something to do with that (although it would be rather wonktacular of my psyche to have permitted it), but also, let’s face it, I’m Irish. And the Irish are simultaneously ruddy and pale; the colour of our faces shifts and blends like a Japanese tea ritual performed in a canoe. White clothing does not suit the Irish.

Which is odd, because we’re so fucking fond of it. Even the jersey of our national football team is a poxy shade of nothing, so we wander like great fucking blancmanges, our heads balanced like nipply cherries on top. Red of face with a wishy-washy chest? Hmph. White does not suit the Irish.

Young Irish men, in particular, are very fond of the colour white. Trackie pants, footy jerseys, hoodies, t-shirts … Irish boys clad themselves a whiter shade of stale, and they’re oblivious to it. It’s all made possible by Irish Mammies and their addiction to Daz, bleach and hands scrubbed raw. Irish boys in blinding ivory tend to be of a certain social class *coughcoughworking*, as do Irish Mammies who can’t get off the tumbledrier. Surrounded by my male cousins and friends up at home, I look like a chess piece in serious trouble. So I hate the colour white. Hate it. But you can’t take away an Irish Mammy’s right to dazzle, nor the right of an Irish fella to cow opponents with his milky, milky wardrobe. The whiter the wardrobe, the rougher the neck; a boy who’s box-fresh will box you sour, no doubt about it.

But I’ll put up with a ghostly gobshite, because like I said, they’re my cousins and mates and I love them; I know they’re just accessorising with their Silk Cuts. So long as a fellas’ knickers aren’t white underneath the Adidas strides.

Jesus, I hate white kecks on a man. White underwear belongs on nanas’ washing lines, nowhere else, which is why I call them knickers. A skanger should never look like a flat-chested nun on disrobing. Even Jean Paul Gaultier falls into the knickerific horror, with his insistence on putting acceptably perfect male models into biniki bottoms.

I don’t agree with this. There is no excuse for a man’s looking like Ursula Andress from the waist down. Even worse when our gussetted friend is standing up …

I mean, c’mon. Mike Baldwin made sexier kecks than that. Yer man above has a very nice bottom, I’m sure; he probably even shaves it. But from where I’m sitting, he looks like an elderly aunt who’s half a sneaky fart away from a skidmark. I shouldn’t be thinking that! I wouldn’t, if he was wearing black jocks, or Superman jocks, or, God help us, if he was Commando and all over the shop. But white? High-waisted white? The arse he got from a divine sculptor, his smalls on offer at Tesco. It’s just wrong, Jean Paul! WRONG!

Why do us Irish plebs feel most comfortable in Tippex’d runners? Can a male model be trusted to avoid skid-addling in his kecks? Was this whole blog post a ruse to find out what colour thong Old Knudsen’s wearing? I’m no more interested in delving into psychoanalysis than you are, dear reader; I’m not all that bothered as to whether there’s a deeper reason for my aversion to all things pure and colourless. Milk-related, or am I just of superior fashion sense? Who cares. I hate white. We shouldn’t attempt it. And I worry that really ghey fragrance ads could have a detrimental effect, even in a country plagued by chalky bollixes. Chalky, ugly bollixes. Ugh. I’m leaving.