Mansour Chow

Co-editor of The Alarmist. I need to have a shower, get dressed and leave the house in the next fifteen minutes. Will I manage to do it in time?

The Black Shirt

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My memory often abandons me these days. It is, at best, an unreliable friend - like the guy who says he’ll be there and, at the very last moment, decides against it. For me, memory is the companion I desperately try to contact only to find an answermachine or an out of office message; and always at the time I need them the most. Nevertheless, I will attempt to recollect in as much detail as I can, a story of such intrigue and verve it would be the greatest of pities if it were not to be shared for prosperity’s sake and, less importantly, for my own.

It is the story of the black shirt.

I imagine many of you have seen men in the black-shirt and jeans weekend combination. I imagine many of the men who read this story will be personally familiar with this attire, at the very least, on the odd occasion. So it must seem strange that a tale of a man in a black shirt could be so intriguing as to lead to even these very paragraphs of introduction to the story. It would seem this tale should be dull and dreary, with no purpose or need to be told. It should seem like a waste of everyone’s time to document the story of the man in the black shirt but if you say ‘the man in the black shirt’ and you emphasise the second ‘the’ in the sentence then the story I am about to tell you may begin to intrigue.

Have you heard of Darren Denis? It is quite likely that this fellow may not be known to you by name but it is more than likely that you will have heard some sickening accounts about him from weary friends who have crossed his path. It is probable that when you read the next few sentences you will have his name cemented in your brain for ever after, and, will, at all costs, do whatever you can to avoid him.

Darren Denis would be quite possibly the most unremarkable person you could ever meet. That is, if it were not for his atrociously offensive hairstyle. For some unfathomable reason, he decided to have what could only be described as a buffon. It is an impossibility for this author to do justice in describing in words the disgusting pile of misery upon his head. I can only summarise to say that despite being so totally unremarkable in every other department, he avoids the obscurity usually associated with such men only by virtue of his disgraceful hairstyle. So even if he had never been the owner of the black shirt in the story I am telling, his only saving grace from being deemed totally forgettable (and then totally forgotten) would be the appalling buffon which disgraces every living creature in its presence.

You may have thought it obvious as to why I had described in such detail the ghastly goblet of Mr Denis’s buffonetry. Of course, the thought will have cropped up that my descriptions were to save you from the misery this author has experienced from observing the vile monster upon his head, masquerading as a hairstyle. This I do not deny. It is no exaggeration to say that on viewing his hair, one feels that their life has been shortened by at least ten years and the shock will never fully dissipate. But the other, less obvious, reason is that it allows me to describe the most amazing of transformations which recently took place. It is, I am certain, the greatest of transformations in this world’s history and. although I have a rather fruity imagination, I can think of nothing occurring in the future that could ever be deemed more significant.

So you must be parched in your thirst to learn what this event could possibly be. Well, this is where the black shirt comes in to the story. It was no ordinary blackshirt though it appeared quite ordinary. It was simply a back shirt yet it was so much bloody more than that. It was a shirt of such transformative quality that when Darren Denis put it on, on Saturday 3rd July 2010 at approximately 20:25, his buffon reduced in vulgarity to such a degree that it become only slightly offensive, and women even went so far as to talk to him.

And that, my fellow friends, is the story of the black shirt. I’m sure you will agree the amazing transformation which took place is an event which deserves its place in history, probably more than the Jewish holocaust.

Sadly the transformation did not last and will never happen again. The powers of the black shirt have faded in the washing machine and, now, when Darren Denis wears it, it does nothing other than to make his sickening buffon look more pronounced and remind him of that one special night -  in the opinion of this author, the biggest night in world history.