I am not often lost for words. But just encountering the odd Ċikka or Peppa as I rush through the maze that my life has become, I must admit that I am sometimes left speechless as I watch in open-mouthed horror at the way some members of my own fair sex choose to display themselves to, nay...inflict themselves upon, the unsuspecting World.
The guilty parties seem to fall into two broad categories: the older age group who dress up like Panto dames, and who would do Alan Montanaro and the MADC proud, and the younger set (and sometimes the not so young), who seem to wish to come across as fierce sex kittens with not too much fluff about their bodies - in fact, with as little fluff as possible in many cases.
Only last week I emerged from Sunday Mass and bumped into one Panto Dame of the most exotic nature. Her face looked as if it had been given a brush-over by Pablo Picasso, intensely colourful and ensconced within a frame of the goldest, curly locks I had ever seen. Out she teetered from evening prayers on six inch high stilettos which I had never seen the like of before. They seemed to be bespoke items made to her specifications, for they were covered in denim to match her outfit, and sported some frilly decorations identical to the colourful frills on her denim suit (note colourful frills on a denim suit!). The effect was devastatingly mesmerizing, to say the least. Just add a few enormous bits of chunky jewellery, full of beads and gold hoops, a large bag to match the suit, and a few bows and ribbons here and there and you'll get the picture in no time.
Of course you meet these Panto-ladies all over the place. They always look larger than life: wrapped in the gaudiest fabrics possible, their clothes bespangled with false gems and pearls, make-up which screams at you to grab a few cleansing wipes and scrub it off, and shoes and handbags with more gold buckles and bejewelled decorations, clasps and whatnots to complete the look. Of course there's the gold if this is a special occasion - lots of it, in all sorts of styles all muddled up together - and let's not forget the ubiquitous stack of gold bangles covering one or both forearms from the wrist right up to the elbow.
Hair is usually dyed egg-yolk blonde, platinum blonde or varying shades of dark red and purple. Depending on their whim, the momentousness of the occasion or just plain necessity some might, of course, opt for uncovering some cleavage, with the bustier of the lot usually uncovering chunks in direct proportion to the available (normally hidden) assets. This group rarely uncovers leg, as they're older, fatter, and not that confident about exposing large lengths of skin as opposed to tasty chunks.
Anyway, let's not get stuck on the old paint-pots and turn to the young kittens, bouncing about all over the place.
The weekend before I came out of Church and bumped into Mrs Panto Dame found me enjoying a huge, perfectly cooked Fritto Misto di Mare and washing it down merrily with a nice, chilled bottle of Gavi di Gavi at one of my favourite fish restaurants. The starters had been good and had come in the form of a spicy pumpkin soup, which I had thoroughly enjoyed. So I was feeling happy, and was humming along gently to myself when I suddenly looked around to see if I knew anyone of our co-diners - I invariably do, but no, not this time, and thank God for that!
I'd like to say that the sight that met my eyes was delectable, but I cannot. All around me were large portions of exposed natal cleft and chunky buttock peeping out from the tops of an assortment of some apparently very length-challenged jeans and trousers. I think that the young set call them slow-risers. Whatever they're called, there I sat, chewing on a piece of immaculately cooked giant prawn, looking at these expanses of back-side as they stared unashamedly back at me.
It was an interesting mix - one or two of them were just natal cleft and buttocks and nothing much else, but there was one which was adorned most "tastefully" with the posterior few inches of a lace thong straining between the hips and said cleft in the middle. Another variation on the theme was a male name (a boy-friend's name presumably) tatooed on the lowest point of the back, just above the buttocks, with two roses at the side. In my usual search for a reason for everything, I came to the conclusion that this had been done to prove the girl's undying love for the object of her desire. Flattering position to have had his name tatooed, thought I. I bet he was tickled pink! Just then, the boy-friend's hand wandered to stroke the conveniently uncovered nether regions of the branded girl, and I hurriedly looked away...
I looked back at my plate, then at my husband, opening my mouth to say something, but no sooner had I done so that my eye caught more flowing flesh - a woman in her forties with tummy tyres pouring out for under her short jumper was sitting behind hubby, a tummy ring hanging on for dear life to her belly button. Sitting on top of all this, with a small stretch of knitted jumper acting as a breather, was cleavage put on show in proportions which would have made Dolly Parton turn dark green with envy.
I had to laugh - so my husband and I shared a joke, whilst sipping our Gavi, and decided that we had definitely over-dressed on the morning, and that we were most definitely out of touch with the Maltese fashion scene, which seemed to mean flesh, flesh and more flesh and fashion no-nos in all shapes and sizes - from excessive gaudiness to extreme tastelessness, from a lack of modesty to a terrifying degree of crudeness.
We could think of no uglier and more unbecoming fashion trend than this one, except for one which was "in" some years before, when women of all shapes and sizes sported skin-tight, shiny, cycling shorts (usually in black) which gave a very clear idea of what the woman's body looked like beneath. They may have looked nice on slim girls, but they certainly did not look the thing on fat fifty year-olds, and neither on thin ones for that matter.
I once read, with eyes as wide as saucers, an excerpt from a history article, which quoted a foreign man in the 17th Century, a visitor to Malta, commenting on the way Maltese women dressed at the time. It seems that, apart from girls and women born into noble families and into so called "good families", Maltese women were given to traipsing around in public with breasts totally uncovered and in gaudy, tasteless gowns, which intensely amazed (and probably even delighted) this visitor to our island - well, enough for him to report our bad habits abroad at least! I'm sure that the crafty ladies cited the heat as an excuse for their nakedness, but then again I'm not too sure that they were being totally sincere.
One automatically finds oneself wondering whether the attire presently favoured in some sections of Maltese society is simply a horrid throw-back to the habits of the 17th Century, and such rotten couture a reflection of our bad taste throughout the ages? For all intents and purposes it appears to be so. Their great-great-great-great-great-grandmothers may have been the butt of jokes throughout a more genteel Europe in the past, but present-day Ċikka and Peppa are doing no better. They keep providing the laughs, providing the giggles, living their lives dressed like ridiculous Panto dames or turning out like sluts, and making the more moderate dressers amongst us shudder in disbelief at the outrageous sights they offer.
One cannot help feeling that we direly need a great, National edition of "What Not to Wear" to take place in Malta, with obligatory attendance meted out to Malta's worst offenders. The question is: will the celebrated Trinny and Susannah be capable of stamping out all of Malta's worst and most glaring fashion blunders? Your guess is as good as mine. In the meanwhile, I'm not holding my breath.
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