3 Girls, 3 Locations, 1 Vision: Go Commando for an evening
Following suggestions of a lack of sophistication, provocative journalism and sheer vulgarity, the fashion girls decided to not get their knickers in a twist and instead remove them completely….
Resilient, tenacious and damn right stubborn, we went commando. Whether it was for the thrill, the northern chill or just to get more hits on our column and on ourselves…we’re not sure.
For our own protection and dignity (we are dignified ladies), we decided not to publish this until after the deed was done.
The deed has been done…read on for the verdict
Round One: Lucinda Moore, Market Vaults:
Whilst heading out in a blizzard, I couldn’t help feel I had made a terrible mistake, tonight was not the night to be without the extra layer…When I arrived at MV I mobilised myself into the queue with relative ease and evaded the attentions of a certain schweffe at the door before strolling in.
It may have been psychological but I soon began to embrace the ‘sense of freedom’ associated with going commando, never have I felt so flexible or looked SO GOOD on the dance floor.
Disaster struck when the side-zip on my leather trousers broke, threatening to expose the undercover operation to the majority of MV and therefore signalling the end of my night. I took the initiative to head home solo, marching up Crossgate with surprising ease.
The verdict? Leave your pants at home (unless it’s snowing)
Round Two: Lulu Brandt: Reporting from London, England
Whilst my other two partners in crime were facing the snow storms of the north I took my commando crash course in the Capital.
Considering that Absolute Life seemingly manages to catch anyone doing anything worth gossiping about on camera, I admit, being caught rat handed in Durham is probably far more shameful.
So having thought I had the easier task of us three I reasoned that I should be the one to take the plunge and wear a skirt.
How bad could it be?
I stepped out, in relative confidence that this whole affair would go unnoticed but nevertheless couldn’t help but feel something more than sordid when I bundled myself onto the London underground, squashed up against this year’s (despicably chosen) favourite halloween character; Jimmy Saville.
I was convinced that everyone knew; maybe I had that commando look about me… I calmed down by convincing myself that once I was out and about I would forget and carry on.
No such luck. The guilt. The shame. I couldn’t dance, let alone walk, baby step style. Durham or London, I honestly don’t think it would have made a difference. Trousers on the other hand….
Round Three: Roz Wikeley, Head of Steam, North Road:
A floaty dress, knee high leather boots boasting steel stilettos and a winning smirk on my face outlined by some sultray gloss…no.no… nothing screams Lohan-Hilton hold my poodle-while-I-flash-my-floofloo at the Pap more than teaming a skirt and no knickers, so naturally I opted for my black discos, minus the pants, a refined decision with the added bonus of zero VPL.
Upon entering the Public House I was greeted like a nasty case of herpes by Durham’s buzzing punk community, wedging my unlayered derrier between two individuals resembling the fat bikers in my bid for a pint.
I feel like Billy Piper in Belle de Jour, I have a dirty secret that no one knows, and…am I not reminded of this secret when I squat senseless into a dangerously low armchair! Disco pants are tight in the right places. Enough said.
Profound and engaging conversation and a few more pints later, I make a dash for the ladies, allowing a good 4.25 minutes to marvel at my pert, lineless bottom, sculptured by American Apparel genii, in the filthy mirrors. I stroll out of the loo, head held high, cheeks flushed with pride, on a high, flying high, zip, flying lows
How many times have I forgotten to zip-up my trousers since I was five- surely it’s the first port of call before opening the cubical door. Surely? What’s more I’ve been prancing around in the mirrors…although their mystic grime may have masked my blunder!
In an attempt to dampen the embarrassment, I reassure myself (with false conviction) that this is merely customary experience for an undercover journalist.
I perform a brisk 180. Only the creepy man lurking by the ‘IT MACHINE’ seems concerned- could just be impressed at the agility of that sharp turn, shut up, shut up, you just walked through a busy pub flying low, sans underwear, you’re a criminal.
Well it’s probably the craziest thing you’ve ever done at this University- need to calm down and focus on my studies.
Verdict: whip them off!!!
Thus, in an attempt to dispel rumors of our uncouth intentions for the fashion column, we hereby validate the civilized nature of our column-ly rule with a quote from the queen of fashion herself:
“When accessorizing, always take off the last thing you put on.” – Coco Chanel – advice from the top!
Students of Durham Unite!! You have nothing to lose but your pants!