The Truth About Topman
Ever since he was appointed as the government’s new Efficiency Tsar, people have been saying unkind things about the Topshop boss Philip Green. Its been suggested that he avoids paying taxes like the plague, that he likes to get maximum value from his workers abroad, and has an almost psychic ability to think of the exact same ideas as other people and make money on them before anyone else. All of which makes him over-qualified for the job.
But through painstaking research, I can now reveal an altogether more sinister possible alleged unsubstantiated agenda. Philip Green is attempting to infect the British population with a race of bedwetting metrosexual goons, or Wag Lads. He’s carrying out the operation via an intensive breeding programme at outlets of Topman. And the scenes that unfold in these places each day are horrific.
Tens of thousands of young men are being sucked into the stores each day. Conveyer belts ferry recruits into intensive conditioning rooms, where they are bombarded with bright flashing lights, droning promotional messages and Vampire Weekend singles over and over again. The walls are covered with giant images of limp-wristed, pale-faced fopps; horrific visions of what the recruits are about to become.
There is no let up. Subjects are exposed to a steady flow of over-styled and derivative trends with excruciatingly naff names such as Electro Shock and Contemporary Punk. Soon enough, the boys’ own sense of style and taste are reprogrammed with an insatiable appetite for garments with unnecessary zips, buttons, pockets and prints.
The air is thick with the stench of D&G aftershave and Studio Line hair gel; the boys are conditioned to repeat endless grooming routines. They adopt humiliating hairstyles that rob them of any dignity or self-respect. In between styling sessions, they’re subconsciously feminised at in-store cafes. Sitting crossed legged in groups, they sip milky coffee, talk about their feelings and gently stroke each other’s hands. Soon enough, they are carrying manbags on their forearms, flicking their quiffs and jealously eyeing each other’s shoes. Just when the torture subsides, troops of hollow eyed staff arrive with trolleys of carrot chinos and the brutality resumes apace.
Recruits are treated like meat machines, not human beings. All their natural desires are completely frustrated in this crowded yet barren environment.
Eventually, they are released back onto the high street, looking something very much like this.
Any sense of masculinity is overpowered by a desire to preen and mince. Never again will they feel what its like to be a real man – to perform physically demanding work, to test their limits, provide for others or simply face the day without Touche Eclat. They are emasculated drones, ready to obey the command of their new master.
It’s not entirely clear what Green intends to do with his army of fops, but it looks like social engineering on a grand scale. And there is little or no resistance from designers or the press. His sponsorship and advertising budgets buy silence, maintaining a vice-like grip around the throat of British fashion.
One thing‘s for sure; if, god forbid, this country should ever need to defend its sovereignty from attack, we shall surely be crushed if our first line of defense is this.