Don't even bother dying if you aren't gonna look good doing it.
The first time I tried MDMA was by accident. I was 16, thirsty and thought the bottle of water my friend had just handed me would quench my thirst. So I drank it all, proceeded to have the time of my life and – a few hours later – ended the night in my hotel room sobbing uncontrollably, convinced that tomorrow would be the day I died, asking my friends to not let my mother choose my funeral outfit. Oh, and could they please put me in a strapless dress, because I was really proud of my shoulders at the time.
The moral of the story: Don't even bother dying if you aren't gonna look good doing it. Corpses are bad enough, but ugly ones go to hell. Now, considering the fact that a bunch of dead Mesoamericans from thousands of years ago, the internet and that tall, creepy guy standing outside Oxford Circus tube reckon we're all going to be extinct in approximately seven days, you might wanna start thinking seriously about this.
The most pressing problem about the end of humanity and everyone you know and love dying painfully is that seven days really isn't a long time to prepare an outfit fit for an apocalypse, especially as no one has any idea exactly how it's going to go down. Thankfully, you have us. And because we're not flippant and oblivious like you idiots, we've compiled a sartorial guide to Google's four most popular apocalyptic scenarios. Get reading and see you on the other side.
MAC lipstick in Atomic, Skee-Tex hat, Complete Technique necklace, Agent Provocateur lingerie set, Army Supply Store rucksack, Thermax heat cream, Jeffrey Campbell boots, Rayban aviators, Maje fur coat.
A couple of important things to remember now that the planet is blasting itself to shit: forget your long-standing alliance with PETA, because everything down to your underwear is going to be made from the skin of some poor, mutated creature – think Kanye West's chinchilla collection meets Beyoncé in the winter, paired with a Slipknot-style gas mask (I guess we all knew that rap-rock would have to make a comeback some day). Even more crucial than fur is lead, because it protects you from isotopes and radiation and all the stuff that will eventually kill you. So some sort of lead-rimmed, wing-tipped sunglasses would work a treat, or you could acquire a couple of lead roof tiles and whip yourself up a protective it-bag-cum-helmet (everyone’s going to want one, trust me).
Chances are the planet will be thrust into a nuclear summer or winter, or just total darkness (or all three! Yay!), which means that your outfits are going to have to be adaptable to totally different weather types. Think about it like when you get on a plane from a cold place to a really hot place, except with less cocktails and more slow, excruciating death from radiation exposure.
As far as slaughtering your scavenging competitors on the nuclear wastes goes, layering is your best bet – channel a mafia queen and tuck a different weapon into each strap: a machete in your suspender, rifle in your stocking, grenade in your bra. Definitely wear flat shoes, though, because even the most minor tumble in heels is going to end with you impaling yourself and/or exploding, which kind of defeats the object of dressing to stay alive even if it does submit to that old adage that fashion is something you must suffer for.
TOTAL FINANCIAL COLLAPSE
Burberry trench, Bella Freud jumper, Nike X Liberty trainer wedges, Fred Perry shirt, rubber gloves (from everywhere, dumbass), The Scotland Shop shorts, DM boots, Vivienne Westwood t-shirt, Topshop Made in UK fedora.
There are many people who have no idea what a real economic crisis feels like (people like you, for instance). You know when you'll know you know? When you're on the slave boat smuggling you to the only financially stable place left on the globe: North Korea.
As you find yourself taking orders from people you've been brainwashed to sneer at since birth because they believe in unicorns and that one of their leaders invented the hamburger, you'll want to adorn yourself in things that remind your of the Motherland. Which means that, basically, you're gonna have to transform yourself into a walking, oppressed, emaciated caricature of what foreigners think English people dress like – a printed T-shirt should be the centre-piece; the Union Jack, the Spice Girls, those skinny boys with funny haircuts who play guitars, a Damien Hirst animal, chicken tikka masala. Basically anything you can buy from Camden Lock, minus a "Nobody Knows I'm A Lesbian" T-shirt, because irony and homosexuality don't exist in North Korea and if you're seen to embody either of things you'll be shot faster than you can say "Oscar Wilde".
The rest isn't of equal importance but should follow the same kind of logic: Burberry and Doc Martens are the only acceptable brands for outerwear and footwear respectively, while a Fred Perry sweatband can function as both an accessory and a means of scrubbing food stains off kitchenware with your spit. Stylish and practical!
The North Face fleece, Alexander Mcqueen clutch, Clinique Sparkle Skin exfoliator, Topshop patent boots, J Crew knit jumper, Oakley sunglasses, Topshop dress, Topshop dress, Jeffrey Campbell boots.
Luckily, fashionistas everywhere have been anticipating alien contact for years. Just take Daphne Guinness – she's dedicated her life to experimenting with various forms of alien-armour. Your best bet of being spared the probe is to attempt to resemble them as closely as possible; in the frenzy of ripped human flesh, who knows what power a metallic Alexander McQueen dress may truly wield.
Obviously DG in her Gareth Pugh, Balenciaga and platform goat foot shoes is going to be our main style influence, but don’t forget that Scientologists have been onto the existence of aliens for years, so their time-tested love of fleeces and polo-necks presumably need to make some kind of appearance. Don’t worry about looking nerdy – the exoskeleton wedges you’ll stuff your ankles into before Selfridges gets ray-gunned to rubble are going to push you into Vogue editorial territory.
Speaking of which, you should try and grab some reflective shimmering moisturiser bullshit from the Clarins desk so you look a bit like naked Britney in the "Toxic" video. Is she human? Is she dangerously insane and inedible? These are the kind of questions you’re going to want to force the aliens to ask to stand any chance in hell of surviving.
MEAT bodysuit, Sure deodorant, nOir jewellery ring, Pleaser boots, Martin Margiela jacket, Charlie Le Mindu mask, Illamasqua lipstick in Submit, Jeffrey Campbell boots, Emilio Pucci skirt.
Whether or not this will be attributed to bath salts, mephedrone or whatever new drugs the internet has invented this week, the number of incidents of people feeding on people reported this past year has actually got me slightly worried. You might want to start considering the best ways to save your face from resembling this guy's, and since you spend half your life in front of a computer screen, your legs might not be able to help you. However, your outfit should.
Pandemonia is now your style icon and masks are the obvious and literal pièce de résistance – Charlie Le Mindu makes some great ones. When it comes to the clothes, logic compels me to suggest something minimal to accompany a grandiose headpiece such as a full-face mask, but I guess logic isn't the first thing that springs to mind when you're being chased by crazies hungry for flesh. Go hardcore BDSM, instead.
You need fabrics that decaying calcium can't gnaw its way into, so leather and latex are your best bets. MEAT make some great latex full-length dresses, but I'd suggest you act smart and order your customised catsuit now. It'll provide full-body coverage, spacious room for movement and squeeze your boobs and butt to heights they didn't even come to know when you were in your tweens. Win-win! Finish with a pair of spiked stripper heels. I know they're not the most suitable for running, but we already established you're useless at it and they'll prove critical at stabbing that zombie in the brain before he gets to yours.
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