Versayce's Armagaddon European Tour: Part 1, Venice

C: Doom! Doom! Listen to it, sounding out wherever you turn like a deafening cathedral bell. Doom! The world's ending. It's everywhere: western banks are disintegrating like Hobnobs in hot tea, the country keeps flooding like some incontinent old tramp, the ice caps are now mere kippahs, kids glibly killing each other like they're living out Grand Theft Auto and global warming has yet again failed to provide us with a decent summer. Doom! So, before this 8 billion car pile-up happens on Global Highway 66 - I'm flicking two-fingers up to it all and going on some holidays. First stop Venice! After all, with these rising oceans, it'll be a baroque Atlantis before November's out. Here's my fash report...

No one actually lives in Venice, you know. It's a just ceaseless tide of tourists, coming in by train, coach and monster sea liners which must appear like a fridge-freezer does to an ant. I think even the people serving in bars and shops are bused in every morning from the Slovakian boarder. Do you equate tourists with style? I do not. Tourists dress for *gag* comfort. Comfort may be easy on the body, but it's is an offence to the eyes. Look...
And that's despite:
Clearly some potential, but no evidence of style anywhere, despite 3 days walking the streets. The only thing that's idiosyncratic in the sartorial life of Venice, to its waterways (and probably its gay saunas) are the gondoliers. After some years of getting away with wearing what they liked (t-shirts with the slogan "We're raping your wallet" perhaps?), they must now sport a strict traditional uniform, which has a simple charm and shows off their big arms.

And that's about it. Slim pickings, eh? Next stop: Berlin!