Bag to the future

STYLE, DECEMBER 2002

I’M NOT, AS you might know, a trendsetter. I can’t pretend: I am no friend of the trend. I don’t know one end of a trend from another. When I am told that beige is the new brown, or that old is the new new, or that socks worn with sandals are big in Europe this season, I can but shrug. Trends do not rouse me to strong emotions. Well, there was the occasion when someone announced in my presence that the mullet was coming back as an acceptable hairstyle so I killed him and hid his body in the woods before he could tell anyone else. Those were strong emotions, I suppose. But for the most part, I care little for the malicious oddities of the world of fashion.

So you will understand that I carry my man’s bag not in order to resemble David Beckham, but in order to carry things. That’s right, you heard me: my man’s bag. A man’s bag, in case you have never seen one, is a rather sportylooking accessory, designed to hold things. Bigger than a pocket, smaller than a knapsack, the man’s bag slings over one shoulder, cunningly freeing the hands for important everyday functions, like helping yourself to food at a cocktail party, or shaking hands with yourself, or shooing away small children. The man’s bag, I am compelled to admit, might bear a superficial resemblance to a handbag, but there is one vital difference: it is not a handbag. It is a bag for men. It is, as I say, a man’s bag, and more than that, it is my bag and no matter what snide comments and sarcastic wolf whistles and complimentary wine spritzers I may receive, I am proud of it.

It is rather a handsome and masculine man’s bag, if you must know. It has “Puma” written on the side, and I have always found pumas to be very handsome and masculine beasts. Leopards I find handsome but a little effeminate. Something swishy about the tail, if you see what I mean. I am told that my man’s bag is all the rage in New York at the moment, although come to think of it the star-spangled banner is also popular in New York at the moment, and so are firemen, not to mention dark nightclubs where men wearing leather masks beat each other with rubber sticks moulded in rude shapes, so I suppose that shouldn’t count for much. Anyway, I carry my man’s bag for practical reasons.

I lose things, you see. My patience, my temper and roulette, mainly, but also my cellphone and my wallet and especially my keys. I am a world-class key-loser. I lose keys as Tiger Woods plays golf, or as Tom Hanks’ wife cries at Oscar ceremonies. No one is better at losing keys than me. Many people claim to be absent-minded, but I have them all beat. I will take on all corners in a key-losing competition. When it comes to misplacing important everyday items, I am unrivalled for speed, endurance and sheer creativity.

And so I started carrying a man’s bag, and since then I have not lost a single item. At first, though, I thought I was going to lose my friends. My first day with the man’s bag, I went off with a couple of hearty fellows to watch the Springboks play Australia at Ellis Park. They regarded me in heavy silence. “What is that?” they said.

“It is a man’s bag,” I replied, shrugging my shoulder to hitch up the strap.

There was another silence, and suddenly I was glad I was holding the tickets. “If anyone at the stadium asks,” they said at last, “tell them your girlfriend is off buying the beer.”

But South African men are not the boors that other South African men sometimes fear. Not a single man in Ellis Park threatened me with violence because of my man’s bag. In fact, no man made a disparaging comment. I wish the same were true of the womenfolk. In the stadium I found myself beside a large fellow from some suburb where people conduct motor maintenance on their front lawns. He inspected my man’s bag for a while and tugged contemplatively on his mullet. “What do you carry in there?” he said at last.

“Probably the same things you carry in the pockets of your blue cotton shorts,” I replied.

“But with the bag your pockets don’t bulge and things don’t fall out,” said my neighbour thoughtfully.

“Correct,” I replied.

He turned to his wife. “Maybe I should get a bag like that,’ he said. “I’m always losing my keys.”

His wife leaned over to eye the merchandise. ‘No,” she said. “Do you want to look like a moffie?”