The fashion of sportswear is a popular joke. A well-funded marketing campaign creating a temporary vogue which commits suicide a season later, doomed to become I-heart-the-recent-past ridicule. Shorts become long, then shrink in the boiling tide of flagellant-fashion. Then they turn tight, then baggy, then long again.
Boxers wear boxers and Tennis Players wear tighty-whities; fresh with the fragrance of DAZ. And who - even when the style itself indicates athletic prowess, from head-hugging sweat bands to astro-turf grip trainers and the matters of friction - is licking their lips at the sight of a sodden polo V-neck?
The rich-kid disaster of golfers' dress code is even worse, despite all the investment-power available to the sport from trendy sponsors. it makes me cringe: cardiganed-caddies, burning their fair skin, on the slow golf course where the wild things aren’t
Carnal war-paint and peacock feathers that ruffle at the sight of opposition have been sacrificed in favour of the polite-white of professional hobbies and corporate-past-times. Acknowledging the traditions of conservative uniforms that stem from Fox-Hunting-Standards and Royal-Etiquette.
And the snooker bars are so devoid of class, yet in the public eye it becomes a bow and tie affair. Prim and proper, playing on virgin tables, never puked on, never fucked on, never danced on by a woman called Crystal. What can I say? They’re missing out. On the table-tapping freedom with intoxicated hot-shots.
And then I think… is it only darts that keeps it real? No fooling, or attempt to stop the fuelling of a gut feeling that permeates through to the highest and simultaneously most shallow forums for pinning a spike to cork. But at least there’s no uniform. No lapels of false confidence. No bright feathers, but instead faded stains, voicing other commitments.
