“Fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every six months.”

I am known by one particular group of friends as 'The Guru'. An admirable nickname suggesting wisdom and understanding, you might think, of which I should be proud. I am ashamed to say, however, that it was in fact given to me after I helped my friend Tom buy a shirt to impress on a date. Knowing his atrocious taste in clothing, I agreed to take him shopping, and the sage advice I gave that day (largely pertaining to the matching of colours, the coordination of garments and the diversion away from anything made of tweed) has led to said nickname, which is used more in jest and mockery than in reverence. To my credit, he did in fact buy the shirt suggested and went on to buy every shirt in production of the same style, making it difficult for me to find one he hasn't got.

As you might have guessed, this blog is to be about clothes and, in particular, fashion. Contrary to what my mocking friends tell you, I am certainly no expert in this field; I'd like to think I can dress myself reasonably well, but I'm sure there are those who feel my penchant for check belies either an undiscovered Scottish heritage or an early onset of 'elderly man' syndrome. Nevertheless, I know what I like (bring back the top hat) and I know what I don't like, and chief amongst my dislikes is fashion itself.

What has provoked this outburst was a discovery that Topman and Topshop have introduced a range called 'Colour Clash'. Now forgive me, but the definition of 'clash' is a 'violent confrontation'. It is a term used to describe the aggressive encounters between police and protesters, or the loud and unpleasant noise made as cymbals come together. Surely, Top-people, this is not something we want to be encouraging in clothing? Surely we don't want people walking around with a war of the shades raging across their t-shirts, as lime greens throw punches at royal blues, and bright magentas wrangle with lemon yellows?

Yet, on further inspection, it turns out it's not only Topshop who are promoting this somewhat questionable trend. A bit of research shows that the Mirror says, "Forget matchy, matchy outfits, it's all about going for the clash this season", whilst the Telegraph tells us, "Any colours you like... as long as they clash". So it turns out this trend isn't just the result of a hung-over fashion designer desperately looking for something new and outrageous to impress the Topshop bosses on the day of the deadline, only to regret it as the garments go up on the mannequins who, even in their plasticity, found them repugnant. But you know what? People are buying it. And whilst this isn't a big deal in itself, it is a bit scary that people are so easily influenced by something so transient.

For men it's alright really. Men's fashion has been described as moving at "a glacial pace" and this is apparent in the fact that I can wear the same shirts I wore four years ago, drawing quizzical looks only due to their making me look like a weedy and slightly overweight Hulk as opposed to their style. But for women, fashion seems to change on a weekly basis as designers battle it out to create the most outlandish and unattractive outfit ever to strut across the catwalk. Yet many women, particularly young, impressionable girls, blindly follow these changing trends with a rapidity that makes the whole process seem like a never ending dance of the seven veils.

Now I'm not here to condemn anyone's taste in clothing; you may have noticed I have shied away from naming any particular items of clothing for fear of offending someone. You may call that cowardice, but the fact is that there is no universal view on any item of clothing, and whilst I dislike, for example, the current trend for women's turbans, I'm sure there are those out there who both like and suit said accessory. But what I do dislike is the lack of originality that pervades much of the world of fashion today. We do have it better than our forebears; when bell-bottoms came into fashion our parents hacked at their jeans, widening them to the point that, were they to fall from a cliff, there is some speculation as to whether their trousers would have acted as parachutes, yet we live in an era when it is easier than ever to have access to a plethora of different styles. So let us never forget to stamp our individuality on our clothing, dare to be different and wear what we like regardless of what others say.

To return to Tom, I am the first to admit that I am overly harsh on his taste in clothing. I mock and tease him on an almost daily basis, I can't help it, it's the only way I know of showing my love for others and I'm sure Freud would have something to say about it (probably all stemming back to my relationship with my mother). But that said, I could never say that what he wears doesn't suit him. Because he wears what he likes, and his confidence makes him look good. I'm somewhat jealous of him for that, and wish sometimes that I had his boldness. Because sure, sometimes he looks like he's been dragged through a hedge backwards.

But at least he was dragged of his own volition, and the hedge wasn't Topshop.

“Anyone who says sunshine brings happiness has never danced in the rain”

In a somewhat surprising and unprecedented move, the sun has decided to grace us with its presence these past few days, promised to do so for the rest of the weekend and there is even the exciting possibility of an encore in the early part of next week. Shocked and delighted by this turn of events, an almighty 'Hurrah!' has gone up from the British people who have flocked into the sunshine like dieters to a buffet.

It's been a hard winter, a winter of bitter winds, dark days, buffeting rain and even prolonged bouts of snow. Yes my friends, we have officially braved the coldest December in 100 years. We ploughed our ways through feet (well inches...) of snow. We fought for bread at local shops as supply decreased; an action termed 'panic buying', which I misinterpreted and found myself purchasing Justin Bieber's album just in case I'd misjudged him (I hadn't). We closed schools, universities and anywhere else that decided it was fed up with its clientelle and that a thin layer of fallen ice particles was a reasonable excuse to take a holiday, only to find they couldn't go anywhere anyway. It's been tough, it really has.

But look how richly we are rewarded for our patience! Look to the blue sky, the high whisps of cloud and the golden finger of sunshine filling every dark corner and tell me that it wasn't worth the wait! The parks, fields and gardens of the land have been filled with people enjoying the delicious warmth. Most wear less, some wear more (notably Goths who can pass off slowly cooking themselves as a form of self-harm), beers are passed round, ice creams drip, barbecues are lit and people who would otherwise avoid all forms of sport find themselves tossing a frisbee or wielding a cricket bat, putting themselves and those around them at risk. And the smiles! Everyone (save those Goths of course) seems to shrug off all their grumbles and grudges and take delight in the loveliness of the day!

I am no nationalist, but on days like these it is impossible not to love the British people. Whilst foreigners scorn our country for it's unpredictable weather and tendency to rain rather than shine, I think this is one of the best things about living here. Yes it's gloomy sometimes. On those days when rain dribbles incessantly down the window panes, you can't help but think that God is having a laugh at our expense. Where the inuits famously have twelve main words for snow and many variations (including 'nootlin' meaning 'snow that doesn't stick') I can personally think of dozens of words and expressions we use for rain, my favourite being 'Mizzle' which is a truncation of 'mist' and 'drizzle', deliberately reminiscent of 'miserable'. But the pay-off for all that is the joy that only the British can feel as the sun pokes it head around the cloud and turns the grey into gold.

Where other nations, bathed in sunshine throughout the year, spend their afternoons indoors escaping the sun's piercing rays, the British will bask like lizards until their pale, freckly skin is as red as the flesh under it, earning us the nickname in Spain 'Giri gambas' or 'pink prawns'. And where Australia, the homeland of the barbecue, must tire of this outdoor cooking, only the British will light up the coals at the slightest hint of sunshine and refuse to extinguish it should the weather turn, resulting in grim-faced, sodden men huddled under umbrellas, determined to eat a charred burger if it kills them.

So as you enjoy the sunshine of the next few days, remember the cold and wet that preceded it, without which this glorious weather could never be so uplifting.

Now where's the sun cream.