Bonjour, bonsoir! Je m’appelle Polo-neck. Je suis, uuuh how you say, the staple of the trans-seasonal wardrobe of deux thousand et thirteen, non? Ahem.
Uuuuh you want to be chic? Tres, tres chic? Pick up the wool-blend garment to have the, uuuh, the sex. Descartes would tell you, I’m sure, Je pense, donc je suis. So, think about buying a polo-neck, buy this top-come-jumper and be the student with a certain je ne sais quoi. You see?
What I’m sure you’re aware of, mon petit filou, is that you can wear me anywhere (though, I may be guilty of making your head feel like it’s about to pop off a la un champagne cork) and with so many coquet accoutrements; espressos, poetry anthologies, cigarettes, glasses and so forth. And what clothes shall I wear to complete these scholarly poses with? Well, my chou-fleur, everything! Mais oui, Rodney! Mange tout! A-line skirts, Levi 501s, Barbour or trench, the world is your huitre! To really get some points de Brownies pop a Breton top over me, you’ll be as hot as a poodle in St Tropez, but you’ll look cool, so who gives a flying merde eh?
And where may you find me? Of course I am lurking in smoky jazz bars in hidden basements, sipping an aperitif outside Le Deux Magots and figuring out, ‘Who, then, can prove that I am the proper person to impose, by my own choice, my conception of man upon mankind?’ nose-deep in Sartre. But I am also in Zara (in leather), & Other Stories (in FUR) and all those awesome shops which do basic polos in SO. MANY. COLOURS (Uniqlo, H&M and American Apparel) just being fairly cheap and machine washable.
What is, perhaps, the reason d’etre of le polo-neck, moi, is that I come with (free of charge) a promise of some hot, hard sexual promiscuity. Go forth and wear me, pretend to be mysterious, enjoy a French love-affair, anticipate plenty petit morts and remember to use a French letter…