Our Crack Tongue & Groove
What fresh hell is this?
I’m wearing a pair of socks that I got for Christmas. They’re lovely socks but they came in glittery wrapping paper and, even today, I can still detect little bits of glitter on them from the overly festive wrapping (and I’m not even talking about last Christmas, but Christmas 2016). That sparkly stuff really does get everywhere. You cannot get rid of it, a fact acknowledged by the porpoise community whose numbers are currently being decimated by the amount of rubbish – including the tiny little bits of plastic that make up glitter – that we’re dumping into the sea each year.
And I can’t imagine any porpoises will be doing handstands at the prospect of glitter swimwear, a trend that seems to be attracting the attentions of people whose massive overconfidence in their bodyshape appears to have been won at the expense of an actual personality. Or brain. (There are biodegradable versions of glitter swimwear available but I imagine this would be akin to dunking yourself in glue and then rolling around in some Bombay mix that has been painted silver.)
For me, glitter swimwear doesn’t even have the shock of the new. While sauntering down one of Barcelona’s main shopping streets a while back I saw a 60-year-old bloke who was naked save for his groin region, which he had totally covered in glitter. His genitals looked like a My Little Pony after a Doberman Pinscher had savaged it – fair play to him for his chutzpah – but that was 10 years ago and proves the old adage that there really is nothing new under the sun.