FCUK T-Shirts. You May Be Dead & Gone But Thanks For The Memories

Dear FCUK T-Shirts, You May Be Dead & Gone But Thanks For The Memories
Dear FCUK T-Shirts, You May Be Dead & Gone But Thanks For The Memories

Designed by Meg O’Donnell The slogan tee — so rich in its history, so radical in its potential for political statement. Remember when Katharine Hamnett met Maggie Thatcher? Remember when George Michael chose life? Remember Frank Ocean’s big questions ? Remember when Nick Clegg wore that This Is What A Feminist Looks Like T-shirt? It’s where fashion meets statement, literally. But like anything stunning, it has been far bastardised from its former glory; instead we wear meaningless slogans across our bodies, devoid of purpose, flapping there on our clammy torsos, reading: BERLIN MILAN PARIS LANCASTER. The other day on the train I saw one that just said: “I’m a fucking bitch” (okay now I’ve written it, I’ve decided I need it). But what does it mean to adorn your body with text? To become a walking book? That’s right, folks: nothing. This hasn’t always been the case. The meaningless slogan tee once held huge social significance. In fact, there was a time when the right man wearing the right meaningless slogan tee would inspire an instant boner in my teenage pants. There was a time when wearing the right slogan tee was so bodacious, it became about radical consumption of space, of fcuking the system, of breaking taboo and expectation. Related Stories Style Obituary: Bench. Style Obituary: Miss Sixty Style Obituary: Jane Norman Fcuk on the beach, perhaps? Fcuk for peace, surely? Shut the Fcuk up!! Feisty as Fcuk — that’s me! Fcuk Moi? Too busy to Fcuk, sadly. Born to Fcuk… hmm, weird? FCUK XXXploded onto the scene somewhere inside the barren, cultureless waste chamber that was the very early ’00s (yes, it was founded in 1972, but it was nothing until those slogan tees). Why? Well, we were so goddamn disappointed that fcuk all happened when the millennium hit — in evidence: Cliff Richard was number one with a song that was actually a Christian prayer — we had to get our kicks from somewhere, anywhere, please?? The world didn’t end and the most exciting invention of the new future were those glass balls that produced visible purple electricity and would give you static hair but, if left on too long, would actually burn the top layers of your skin off. We looked around, saw what we had, and realised it was shite. Nothing had meaning. Everything we had believed about the millennium bringing positive change was wrong. Enter Mr FCUK. The Talented Mr FCUK. The man who made actually really quite vile T-shirts — both aesthetically and emotionally — and sold them for £60 to any desperate teenager, under-parented minor or incredibly bleak dad. They were everywhere, like the plague/Tories/straight white men. They took over, decreeing you both on the fashion pulse but, really, without a bean of style to your name. Add a Kangol bucket hat and it was a different story. But if you’d paid me a pound for every late teenage white guy at Creamfields bopping their arms to Paul Oakenfold, unable to […]

Full article on original web page… www.refinery29.com


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