SOCIAL SERVICES CASE FILE #38982-D

Just look at this. Breaks the heart, doesn’t it? Barely out of the womb and already indoctrinated into a life of adorning senseless garments.

“Mummy, is South Side Sharks Baseball a real thing? Can we go and see it, Mummy? Can we?”

“No, darling, it’s not a real thing. As jaunty and amusing as it doubtless appears to your naïve little eyes, the design on your babygro is as hollow and meaningless as life itself.
“The time has come for you to learn a valuable lesson: Words mean nothing, and nothing means anything. All is lies. Hopelessness reigns. Morality is dead. Chaos is your god now – chaos and soul-scorching nihilism. Your father and I have long danced amidst the sweet, seductive flames of pure anarchy, and soon enough, and forever more, so shall you.
“Do you understand what I am telling you, my child?”

“…”

Thanks to Will Jack

INDECENT EXPOSURE

You’d think that a T-shirt urging onlookers to “NEVER STOP” would at least encourage persistence with a reasonably well-known activity that suffers from a high drop-out rate: learning the guitar, going to the gym, breaking into acting – that sort of thing.

As pastimes go, however, taking Polaroid photos of poppies while topless in the great outdoors is pretty fucking niche. It’s actually more something you’d advise a person to stop doing.

To be clear: If you find yourself in a field, semi-nude, using antiquated equipment to compulsively capture endless images of flowers strongly associated with war and death, you’ve crossed the line from eccentric hobbyist to window-peering, bin-rummaging, neighbour-worrying fetishist – and don’t let any T-shirt tell you different.

Thanks to Helen Amazing

PRE-MILLENNIAL TENSION

1999 is strangely, suspiciously recent for a randomly plonked-on year – tradition usually dictates a more refined vintage, such as 1964, 1951, or even 1884. With that in mind, I’m going to assume that this T-shirt actually dates from 1999, and that it’s been hanging forlornly in this London branch of TK Maxx for over a decade.

The branch manager – let’s call him Geoff – just can’t quite bring himself to consign the T-shirt to the 50p bin. In its own funny way, seeing The Movement swaying there on its hanger has become something of a comfort to him. Whatever Geoff went through – his divorce; his money worries; that bloody kidney stone – he could always rely on The Movement: it was there when he opened the shop in the morning; it was there when he slammed down the shutters at night.

“For Christ’s sake, come on, Geoff,” says the area manager. “Either mark it down to 50p or stick it in the bin. We need that space for new stock!”

But Geoff would never give up on The Movement. “It’ll sell, I just know it will,” he’ll say, his voice as certain as a bow fired from an arrow. “It just needs a bit of extra help, is all. A bit of time. A bit of encouragement in a nurturing environment.”

Sometimes he’ll spot customers eyeing The Movement – perhaps even rubbing its fabric between their fingers. His heart races. He’ll suddenly perceive The Movement as a watery-eyed puppy at a dog pound, desperately hoping for an owner to rescue it from certain execution. Those hopes are always cruelly dashed, however, as the customer is distracted away by a newer, prettier garment, with a less unappealing year emblazoned across it. At those moments, Geoff finds The Movement’s spirited message of “Best Of Luck To U” heartbreakingly poignant and naïve.

One day, of course, Geoff is going to be crossing the shop floor, making the journey from tills to stockroom, and out of the corner of his eye he’s going to notice that The Movement – in all its faded, misshapen, XXL glory – isn’t hanging there any more. It will have finally found the home it had craved for so long. Its absence will feel vast and overwhelming.

His feet welded to the spot, Geoff will be taken aback by the tidal wave of melancholy that crashes down upon him – stirring himself into motion, he’ll probably have to dash into the stockroom lavs to have a quiet little weep. But ultimately, sadness will be replaced by an immense and enduring pride. His little bird grew up, flew the nest – and soared.

Thanks to Will Jack

GLOOMY BOOB CYST

This is a bit like one of those Magic Eye pictures, in that if you stare at it for long enough, you start to see words hidden beyond the surface. Unfortunately, those words appear to be “woe”, “tit” and “stye”, none of which really evoke the air of breezy chic that the designer was probably going for.

Thanks to Helen Amazing

D’YOU WANT A FLAKE IN THAT?

Am I reading this correctly? I’ve rubbed my eyes like a baffled cartoon character and re-read it several times now,  and it still appears to say “Cream beavs and flavour”.

I can only assume that “beavs” is some grim US frat-boy slang for a multitude of vaginas, and that the sudden acrid taste in my mouth is a result of all the bile-laced vomit that’s whooshing unstoppably upwards from my guts.

Thanks to Helen Amazing

MAY GOD HAVE MERCY ON OUR SOULS

This was clearly intended to evoke an air of swooning romance, but with its biohazardy lettering, radiation-blasted flowers and battle-ravaged half-collar, it actually looks like a grim souvenir of a global virus pandemic, worn by an emaciated survivor as they stagger over the rubble, scavenging for dented tins.

“It started with a kiss – that’s all it took for the first recorded case of HF-316 to pass from Patient Zero to a second carrier. And from there, it spread like wildfire: racing across villages, cities, countries, continents, scorching everything in its path, until every street in every land was a hellish carnival of thrashing bodies, coughing up liquefied guts and clawing at rotted-out eye-holes.

“Should mankind ever manage to repopulate this decimated planet, please God, let them find this vest amongst the ruins, that they might heed its chilling warning, handed down from their forefathers, like a harrowing scream in the dark…”

Thanks to Joanna Fuertes-Knight

ACRONYMCOMPOOP

Division Middle Field – or the Dee! Emm! Eff! – is easily the toughest of all the vague, made-up sporting leagues. It’s far more competitive than the European Challenge Series, the All-Star Premiere Winners Cup  or the Global League Championship Association Tournament Trophy.

Go hard or go home! Dee! Emm! Eff! Dee! Emm! Eff!

Thanks to Alex Sim-Wise

UNFINISHED SYMPHONY

Well if you can’t even be faffed to write out “university” in full then I can’t be bothered to

BRITAIN’S OLDEST KNOWN M&S POLO SHIRT

“Wow, so you must be – what? 132 years old? Well, you look great. I hope I look half as good when I’m 132!”

THE LOBSTREL IS COMING TO GET YOU

Meaningless T-shirts are evolving, all around us, all the time.

Back in the ’80s, a slogan that read “New York College Sports” would’ve been considered cutting-edge, perhaps even a little daring. Nowadays, you can stick all manner of crazy babbling on there – the kind of frantic lunacy you might overhear a drunken homeless man shouting at himself in the street – plonk it on top of a nightmarish kestrel/lobster hybrid, and nobody will bat an eyelid.

These are jaded, unshockable times we live in.

Thanks to Daniel, Hanover