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Written by Pete
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Thursday, 01 July 2010 21:42 |
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Venetians are a weird lot. Their busses are boats. Their streets are canals. Their sense of entitlement unmistakable. Their fashion sense, questionable.
The marquis event for Venetians each year is without doubt the Masquerade Ball. At the Ball you can expect to find a room full of mincers cavorting about with masks covering half or all of their face, cloaks and other obscure clobber. They tell me they are all particular characters, questionable if you ask me. This young reporter went for a stroll and found a neat little perch just off the Rialto Bridge but from that height failed to make any real impact. The gondola fellas were asking for 100euros for a 30 minute serenade & boat ride, which I thought was a little steep. So I told them they were dreaming.
Venetians are a weird lot. Their busses are boats. Their streets are canals. Their sense of entitlement unmistakable. Their fashion sense, questionable.
The marquis event for Venetians each year is without doubt the Masquerade Ball. At the Ball you can expect to find a room full of mincers cavorting about with masks covering half or all of their face, cloaks and other obscure clobber. They tell me they are all particular characters, questionable if you ask me. This young reporter went for a stroll and found a neat little perch just off the Rialto Bridge but from that height failed to make any real impact. The gondola fellas were asking for 100euros for a 30 minute serenade & boat ride, which I thought was a little steep. So I told them they were dreaming.
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Written by Greg
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Monday, 28 June 2010 21:54 |
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Ios is a six day blur of sun, fun and high end fashion. You’ve got euro-trunks (Europeans call them ‘trunks’, they don’t seem to get the ‘euro’ bit), you’ve got both men and women wearing skin tight white pants, you’ve got entire clubs of people decked out in the latest ray bans, despite it clearly being dark .
One thing I did notice, however, and it troubled this writer deeply. And that is the common misconception that three piece suits weren’t suitable attire for hanging by the pool drinking cocktails with your buddies. In an effort to change this concerning dramatic gap in Europe’s fashion consciousness we set out to prove how wrong they truly were.
 
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Written by Stephen
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Tuesday, 30 March 2010 12:39 |
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I remember the first time I saw a Krazysuit. I don’t remember in any great detail what happened after that, but that first time I saw a Krazysuit is vivid. It was a Sunday.
It could have been any Sunday. I’m sitting at home watching contact sports on a 50” plasma TV, like any self respecting male does as they lick the dull wounds of a massive yesternight. My mate Greg is returning from a trip overseas today and he rings to say he is coming over, and he has something for me. While I was initially indifferent to the prospect of another Sunday on the couch, watching contact sports with someone to share the responsibilities of going to the well stacked fridge to get more beer, there is an edge of anticipation in his voice that tells me he knows something I don’t, and that maybe this is not, just any Sunday.
He arrives. Fine. He has an oversized bag and an even bigger grin. He strides across the floor of my apartment with purpose, drops the bag and starts opening her up, it looks like there might be some clothes in there. I’m at best, mildly interested at this stage. After all, a man buying another man a birthday present contradicts any man code I have ever read, let alone a souvenir t-shirt from a holiday? His actions so far today actually bother me a little, so I start towards the fridge to get him a beer in the hope of calming the guy down.
I turn, I see, and I stop. My mind tries to process the consequences of what it is Greg has done. He is holding what appears to be the remains of a cheater, fashioned, and I mean fashioned into a suit. Realising I have lost my balance slightly as my mind spun processing what I saw, I correct my stance, and find myself in the suit. Somehow in that instant of time, I have also thrown on my best tuxedo print t-shirt. Greg is wearing a leopard. And then Tim is there wearing his filthy leopard, Gabriel in a Zebra? And Johnny! He’s in some animal, I don’t know what it is. We look incredible. We look like a wolf pack. It’s not just any Sunday, anymore.
We decided to proceed on foot. The reaction of the general public to a mobile pack of big game, prowling the streets with purpose and means, ranged from nervous chuckle to primal fear. Up the street is the Finchley Road Walkabout, London. We would stop there briefly to take on beer. After filling we hit the off-licence next door to load up on cans for the tube (pre-drinking on tube ban, the good ‘ol days) and head directly to the Pitcher & Piano in Fulham, Snakebite City.
The BIG GAME SUNDAY gallery tells the story of what happened that day better than I. Mostly because I wasn’t there. A wild animal, with no time for half measures was unleashed that day. Him and the rest of his hopped up wolf pack were there, not I. It tells more than a million words and almost reminds me of things I don’t remember; it’s well worth a look. It shows the consequences of man’s most basic instinct being unleashed on an unsuspecting, but animal loving/fearing public. I don’t remember it, but l do remember the first time my Krazysuit found me, saved me, and become me. And I promise, you’ll remember to. Maybe.
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