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On the baseline between sentience and cement

There’s no question, the Japanese embrace the big trouser. In the UK, for every brave menswearman  swishing about in large pants, there are approximately 750 blokes still stalking about in spray-on, Love Island dunce-jeans. Seemingly oblivious to this calf-sculpting  style as a visual metaphor for a billion pints of dunderheaded clottery, these ‘Jack The Fucks’ with their ‘legs out for the birds’ attitude sit right on the baseline between sentience and cement. Arses, the lot of them. I dare say they could barely raise their oaken heads from the sports pages to even comprehend the appeal of these giant cords. Too thinky. Too not sexy. You can’t even see the outline of your balls.

Whether you choose the proxy service route to nabbing these Dulcamara beasts from Japanese retailer Ciacura, or you look closer to home, big is best and cord is (so I’m led to believe) happening. Of course, corduroy is always happening. It’s just that currently a number of brands that usually ignore it, are now doing it. So there you go.

Personally, I’m about the cord 365. Boxfresh, there are few fabrics to compete with its dual constituents of practicality and lustre. There’s something of the night about corduroy too. It’s not gurning with velvet and satin at a Timmy Trumpet gig . Corduroy is a Styles Upon Styles evening at Brooklyn Bazzar. Corduroy is Multi Culti down at Canavan’s. Corduroy is, dare I say it, classy. Get some. Get these. Just make them big. And if you’re feeling what I’m saying, never, ever Google a video of Timmy Trumpet. He’ll make you want to damage yourself.

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