Not on Your Welly

Whimsy on a Wednesday bringing you the height of fashion faux-pas

I live in a country that is often known for being wet. How many times have I spoken to you about brollies? Right. And, despite us not having much of the wet stuff this this year, it’s not like we’ve forgotten how to be wet, is it?

There are many days where I’ve had to layer up, take a waterproof, or get my yellow duck out. In Blighty we are all expert puddle splashers, pedestrian wetters (great for road ragers) and tree shakers. In fact, why are we not monopolising the puddle splashing as an extreme sport? We roll cheeses and have plastic duck races, for goodness sake. I think puddle splashing might be a great addition to our quirky goings on.

But I digress, so easily distracted…

We are specialist duckers and hiders. We can spot a shelter from miles away, admittedly sometimes it’s called a pub, but oftentimes it’s an overhang on a building, which might be a pub but whatever. We know how to prepare and deal with weather.

We are masters in moaning, tea in hand, staring out at the soggy day and tutting at the nasty splashes on our cars and being frightfully annoyed that it has washed away all the beautiful wisteria, even though it happens every year. Except for this one when we boiled like no country has ever boiled.

If you want to know how to use a tumble drier properly, ask a Brit. Also, a washing line. Pegs out, line out, prop up. If that was a game show we’d have won it hands down in seconds. Quick, bring my undies there’s a 40 minute window of dry air. We are virtuosos of the wet and dry process.

Given that we know all this, we are highly adept at choosing appropriate clothing. I know full well what is breathable and waterproof. I also know which waterproofs are a big fat lie and do nothing other than boil you in a bag of sweat and eeked in damp. Everyday I go out in fitting footwear that can deal with the Great British terrain and my feet stay dry. No leaks. And if I’m tramping through boggy moors or riverbeds, I buy something called wellington boots. - aka wellies or welly bobs.

The wonderful, iconic wellington boot. Sported by series people in soggy situations and muddy fields who know the reliability of rubber. We’ve even gone to the extent of producing a classic look by Barbour in racing green that works splendidly with a Barbour gilet, a checked shirt, a quality pair of Levi’s and a Harris tweed flat cap and jacket. Class. This is the great British look in the Great British land.

So, on a trip to the country fair and ploughing match this weekend, imagine my disbelief when I saw this:

Yes. You read that correctly. The Original Cowboy Wellie.

Dear God. Fetch me a bucket. I nearly choked on my game pie.

I have to say that I went through a series of emotions at speed that went a bit like this:

What? Cowboy wellies? Are you being serious? Gross. FIFTY NINE QUID? Not on your nelly, misses! Ha! Could this be even worse than crocs? How can they afford a tent here? Does this mean people are ACTUALLY buying them? Have we gone utterly insane? Has taste and dignity now left the country too? You havin’ a giraffe?

I walked up and touched one.

EWWW. NO! No, no, and thrice no.

I know that the Country scene is starting to get big in the UK but, mother of mercy, go and buy a proper pair of cowboy boots and show some respect for shit kickers.

As a person who has spent a lot of time with cowboys in Texas and who owns seven pairs of cowboy boots, I feel I have the utter right and high ground authority on the final opinion of this gut-churning hybrid.

I imagined for a moment, buying a pair and wearing them in Texas. Maybe hopping along to Cowboy church or a ranch to ride a bobo. What about a honky-tonk? Don’t you like the smell of burning rubber during a two-step?

Like ma Bewwwwts?

I actually wonder if I might get shot.

I had a momentary lapse and considered getting some for a joke for some cowpokes and sending them over but I think that just might be the final straw in the special relationship.

And no, LL, before you say it, no amount of JuJu could rectify this situation.

I mean sorry, I just can’t get into bed with this one. Not even for a right laugh. It’s either a proper wellington or a proper cowboy boot. No messin’.

Stick to your lane.

In other news of the real arty kind. The first piece in my collection, Little Wild Things, is out now. Please feel free to take a look here.

Feedback is always welcome - purchasing is preferred.