The Sockocaust

Socks. Considering their undeniably mundane nature, they have this astonishing ability to fuck everything up. In my life anyway.

In my first job there was a strict stipulation that all socks worn at work must be black. A little extreme you may think but I was wearing a dinner suit as well. Wearing bright red socks with a dinner suit makes you either look slightly eccentric, or a massive cunt. Neither was the required look, so black socks all round.

Buying socks from then on became an automated activity. Black socks, 6 pairs for £5. All day long. Two or three bundles at a time. The only problem arose when I had washed and dried them. I was always left with a bundle of black socks and pairing them up correctly was going to be an effort. I soon lost interest in that and just chucked them all in the sock drawer together. Whenever I needed some socks I would grab the first two socks in the drawer and put them on.

Every now and then a sock would tear, as socks do, and it would get thrown in the bin. Whenever the s(t)ockpile ran low, a trip to the shops and 6 pairs for £5 later the problem was sorted. Thus my socks had an organic growth rate and there was no way of knowing just how old each individual sock was.

I've been doing this for 12 years now (I just laughed at myself as I typed that) and today is a momentous day. I just threw out every single fucking sock I could find. If those socks were Jewish then I was Joseph Mengele. No quarter was given. A cold and detached operation I can assure you all. No sock was harmed anymore than was absolutely necessary. Subsequently I am going to chuck a match onto the small mountain of petrol soaked socks in my garden right now.

I also purchased 14 pairs of brand spanking new black socks. And so it begins again. Next scheduled sock holocaust 30th June 2020.