Orange girls

"Shazza? It's me Tracey..."

There was a time, not so long ago, that white makeup powder was used by royals and nobility in order to accentuate beauty. Terms likes 'English rose' were used to describe women that were demure and refined, not ostentatious and attention seeking. As much as I like to look to the future, you can't help but look back with fondness at more innocent times.

This nostalgic desire is only accentuated when, as I type, a crowd of modern 'women' pass by the window. Loud and brash, they're dragging down property prices with their mere presence outside my house. But it's not their volume, lack of dignity and general whoreishness (is that a word? No? It is now) that gets my goat. It's the fact that they're bright orange.

Who are they trying to kid with their uneven tan, dirty looking elbows and bright white palms? Are we to think that they've suddenly gone all upmarket and been for a holiday to the Maldives? We all know who they are. They shop in Netto, have four kids, wear Elizabeth Duke jewellery and think that a stretched limo epitomises luxury.

Girls with fan takes are as superficial and vacuous as you can be, faking their way forward in life. Perhaps most depressingly, it's the first step on the way to cosmetic surgery. Fake tan, fake tits, fake lips. A natural progression.

All I can say is that, while I'm not oil painting, you look ridiculous. In fact, you look like a Wotsit crisp. Except Wotsits are appealing and have more personality.

Orange girls: you look like slags. That is all.