As a man, I’m built to be a simple creature. My food portions needs to be large and contain at least five different types of meats; seeing a Bugatti Veyron makes me jump up and down like an excited child; and, in line with current trends, I simply don’t understand football and prefer the electronic thumb-based exercise provided by my Playstation 3. I hesitate to use such stereotypes during my so-far-so-short tenure as a writer, but like I said, we’re simple creatures.

However, we men have a problem: shopping for clothes. Once upon a time, it used to be commonplace for me to walk into a shop and buy some t-shirts and trousers in under 10 minutes (including queuing time at the fitting rooms). For the couple of years though, it seems that male fashions haven’t been designed by sensible people with the common gent in mind, they’ve been designed by lunatics for the people you see on TV. As such, Louis Spence is on the sewing machines doing the sizing and tightness, the cast of Hollyoaks (with their combined age of 32 years) are doing the colour scheme, and it appears that Edward Cullen came through a while back and ransacked the cupboard containing the glitter and shiny fabrics. It’s gotten so bad that nowadays I can’t help but wish for the return of the white vest so that John McClane can dive through the window of Topshop’s head office and dispense some machine gun-shaped justice.

Don’t believe me? Think I’m just overexaggerating? Fine then. Here are some examples of the lastest mens range from a hereto-unnamed (seeing as I don’t fancy being put in front of a High Court accused of slander) retailer.

You wouldn’t believe that people still consider Britain to be a fashion capital of the world, alongside places such as New York, Paris, and Milan, looking at stuff like this. But I have a horrible nasty little feeling in my gut that these aren’t a result of laziness and complacency: there’s a recession on, and goddamnit everybody, including fashion designers, has to give 110% into everything they do, lest they receive a new decoration in the form of a P45. We’ve simply just ran out of ideas about how to make nice clothes. I mean, for gods sake, the one with German writing on the front only says ‘one, two, three’, whilst it appears that the designers of the last t-shirt took inspiration from the type of mould I haven’t seen since I left student accomodation.

So I make a suggestion: I’m going to set up my own fashion warehouse brand. I’m going to make clothes that fit real human people. I’m not going to care about ‘texture’ or ‘feel’; as long the fabric isn’t sandpaper and doesn’t have fragments of glass in it, it’s fine. When my clothes are released, they aren’t going to be classed as a ‘collection’ or be given some pretentious flowery art-nouveau name; I’ll just sell them in a shop and spend all that PR money on keeping prices low (i.e. below £15). My designers won’t take influence from the male equivalents of Kate Moss or Stella McCartney; they’ll be asked to imagine themselves in the heads of people like Angus Young or Steve McQueen or Robert Oppenheimer. In short, you’ll finally have an actual shop of clothes, not just museum pieces you can wear.

This is my first design, which I call “Tactical Anti-Glee Manplosion”. And also, if anybody needing any more convincing that this is a good idea, consider this: by spending that money, you’ll also be helping to stop the recession. So go on men. Save yourselves, save the country, and look great.