F**king Onesies!

Some people use their column to further a political agenda. Some might use theirs to tell witty anecdotes about their lives, like ‘that time when I couldn’t fix the dishwasher and got into an awful huff and aren’t I ditzy/loveable?’. Personally, I like to wield my vast journalistic power to chat about shiny celebrities covered in a thin veil of discussion about the human condition or something. But today, I shall use it to rant. About what, you ask? F**king Onesies.

I remember several years ago a rather fashion forward friend asking round an assembled group if any of us remembered those ‘all in one things we used to wear as babies, what were they called, romper suits?’. His eyes glimmered with the exquisite madness of misguided sartorial genius, as he said ‘yeah, why don’t we just wear them all the time? They’d be warm and you’d be permanently comfy’. We laughed, the laugh of early teens who’d realized that their silly friend was being whimsical and just proposed an idea that could never, ever translate to reality in a proper, god-fearing world. If only we could have known.

Blerg. 

If that friend had developed his ideas into a business around the time he mentioned it, circa 2005/6, he could well now be a billionaire (which would be a disaster because I’m still not, and I don’t do jealousy particularly well). For, shortly after, the humble romper suit, previously the preserve of tiny little infants who have no real physical or mental capabilities, was reborn as the ‘oh my god aren’t I ditzy/loveable’ item of clothing du jour. For adults.

As of 2012, the suits make up a staggering 15% of M&S nightwear sales. Nearly every outlet has a range and the suits are almost single-handedly keeping behemoth-of-crap Primark afloat. They’ve ‘come out’ as it were, filtering outside of people’s homes and into the wider world. They can now be spotted on people walking down the street, in airports, down the shops, in lectures. The past week has seen the worrying developments of not just a onesie wedding, but even a onesie funeral. A ONESIE FUNERAL.

Argh!

Now, I’m not entirely anti-onesie, per se. I do understand, onesie fans. I get it, sort of. Even though personally I’ve never besmirched by temple-like body by wearing the giant babygrow in question, I do comprehend that they may in fact be quite comfy. But they should be comfy where comfiness belongs: in the comfort of your own home. Within that domain, it’s up to you. Do whatever you like; shove on your onesie, turn up the radio and dance around to early 90s r&b with the cat while eating sliced ham straight from the packet for all I care, I’m not here to judge. But the second you step outside that front door, covered in bits of ham that’s more water than meat, then you’re public property. And the rant can begin.

As previously mentioned, these are items of clothing designed for babies,  i.e. humans that have just flown head first out of a dank, murky womb into a bright, dazzling world full of iPhones and WKD blue. They’re bound to be feeling a little lost, a bit helpless. They might not have full control of their bodily functions. In essence, they’re a bit shit. That’s why we let them wear onesies. They can accommodate a nappy, they’re easy to wash, they keep their adorable little tootsies warm and they look well cute.

Awwwwwww. (Because it’s allowed)

You however, dear reader, unless you’re some Mozart level of child prodigy who happens to already be at uni and reading an online paper before you can walk, do not deserve to wear a onesie. Part of growing up, along with mortgages and realising that you were dick for listening to so much My Chemical Romance while crying about that person you fancy, is that you have to wear proper clothes. Sure, there’s a lot of leeway with this. You don’t have to look like you just strutted off a Vogue cover, you can even  wear socks and sandals or jeans and trainers if you like, but you cannot wear an all in one romper suit (even if it does come in a hilarious animal shape).

But why am I ranting at you? You are simply the sheep; it is not your fault, dear herd. No, the real culprit here are my favourite people who I have managed, for the first time ever, to not actually mention for nearly seven hundred and fifty words of my column: celebrities. It’s One Direction in those Nintendo adverts; it’s Cheryl Cole stepping off a plane. They are the real wrong here. But this column probably won’t reach them. So instead, I implore you, just stop it. Put them down. F**king Onesies.

F**king OnesieDirection. (yeah i did it)