I’ve been to christenings where the baby is wearing more clothes than the mother. There’s no doubt about it, West Belfast has a severely trashy side. Some women think that just because an item of clothing fits them, it will look good.
There’s nothing more terrifying than seeing a granny in a social club wearing suspender tights and satin hotpants. They seem to forget that although they may have good legs; their haggard Urban Decay splattered bake spoils the look. Nice from afar but far from nice they say.
But I’m not completely innocent in all this. During my many years at the University of Life, I experimented with various fashions and had more skin tones than Michael Jackson. At first I pasted my face to the jawline with cheap orange goo from Xtras in Fountain Street. If I didn’t have bad skin before the makeup, I had it after it.
Then I painted my entire body with Sunshimmer and poured myself into a pink PVC power suit. I was Sweaty Betty on the dancefloor but didn’t care.
After that, I styled myself on Kat Slater. I had a spray tan every week and dyed my hair jet black. Being a persistent hand washer, my orange skin went as far as my wrists. Those of you who get them, know spray tans have a unique smell with beef stock being its main ingredient. I was single during this period of my life, funny enough.
We westies don’t take our inspiration from Vogue and the likes, but from Geordie Shore and TOWIE. We plan our faces months before a big do. To go for Bert and Ernie eyebrows or the tinted natural look. Should they be waxed or threaded? Decisions to be made, too many beauticians to choose from. To go for gels or acrylics, points or squares? Some of us have even had botox injected into our lips and fat lasered off our arses without having to leave our postcode.
We ladies thrive on the buzz of going shopping for something to wear. Thinking about it is great until you get into a changing room with a gorgeous dress but then have a fit of wardrobe rage because you have to get a bigger size.
On the opposite side of the fence, what is it with the men? I was at the 11 year old’s Confirmation recently and a sponsor was wearing a tracksuit. To give him his dues, the colours matched his fading black eye.
It’s always a religious ceremony us girls go all out for. Whatever the celebration, we turn up with full make up, a bouffant hairdo, new clothes, heels we can’t walk in and carrying a fake designer handbag. Then we go out on the rip, come home hoarse and looking like we’ve been attacked.
There’ve been occasions when priests have asked mothers to leave a Christening because of their inappropriate attire. But we know that the next time mother and baby will be back in the church is the First Communion day.