Manolo says, as the Croc empire of evil attempts to impose its hegemonisitic desires upon the citizens of the world, the the tiny-but-valiant anti-Croc resistance struggles under the oppressive rubber heel fighting for all that is stylish and holy. Look, here is one of the Manolo’s comrades-in-arms, the Marcelle D’Argy Smith fighting the good fight in the Daily Mail.
If there is one thing, in my view, which is guaranteed to drive a woman screaming in the other direction, it is the sight of a man who should know better sporting a luridly technicolour pair of shoes which would look far more suitable on a four-year-old girl.
The damn things look like clumsy rubbery clogs with large perforations.
They’re called Crocs because they resemble a reptile’s snout.
Seductive, eh? And yet six million pairs have been sold around the world already. We are drowning in Crocs.
You may understand the quirky nature of Mr Nicholson – but what about the other ten million pairs of Crocs they’re projected to sell this year? Not all of those people can be ramblers, fisherman and ageing beach bums, surely?
I was just listening to Ella Fitzgerald singing Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered and sighing at the line “I’ll worship the trousers that cling to him”. I then tried to imagine the trousers of a man I loved, teamed with orange or bright-blue Croc shoes.
Go on. You try it. Torture yourself at the thought of the man in your life succumbing to this massive manipulation marketing-gonemad Crocs trend. There’s no telling with an Englishman: he might even wear brown socks with his orange Crocs. You’ll leave him,
Crocs of course. No woman could be expected to live with that.
Perhaps it’s because wearing them makes them feel about 12 again – you know, when they went on that shrimping holiday to Devon and wore those foul beige jelly sandals.
Now, hey presto, with a mortgage and two kids, they can spend £30 and feel as though they are the coolest cats in town all over again.
Yes, the marketeers have done their work. “They’re comfortable; they’re cheap,” they bleat. May they rot in Croc hell. In fact, I find the thought of a middle-aged man wearing them so repulsive that I’m almost prepared to march on this one.
Hell is too good for the likes of the Crocs manufacturers, Comrade D’Argy Smith, too good, indeed.