I’ve always considered myself to be a stylish individual. I follow trends as much as my wallet allows me to and I always like to look my best. If David Beckham wears Aztec, I’ll wear Aztec, if Ryan Gosling wears a kilt, I’ll wear a kilt, and if Frankie Cocozza wears leather then I’ll burn every jacket I own. But sometimes, a trend can sneak up on you, blind you with its popularity and then disappear quicker than you can say ‘deep V t-shirts.’

Cast your minds back to 2006 – girls started wearing leggings as trousers making ‘camel toe’ one of the most searched for words on the internet that year (probably), military jackets were all the rage even if you’d never been anywhere near an army base, and the influence of Russell Brand meant that every man everywhere was cramming their legs into the skinniest, tightest jeans possible creating the new dilemma of which trouser leg to shove your bits down. (Left, right, or too small to matter?).

Then suddenly, out of the blue and potentially sent from space, a rubberised shoe kicked us in our tightly packed butts – step forward Mr Croc.

R.I.P Crocs
2006-well, 2006 really.

Lovingly described as a ‘plastic hoof’, you couldn’t look anywhere without hearing the creamy squelch of the most comfortable shoe on the planet. And what’s more, it came in a variety of different colours just like Joseph’s Dreamcoat, but with the opportunity to buy charms to ‘bling up’ your feet. Like a Croccy version of a vajazzle.

As soon as 10% of the population had them, then I had to have them. I simply couldn’t be left out of this new craze. I headed for my local Schuh and purchased my beloved Crocs, in a khaki green colour, for £11.50. Bargain.

Then I wore them EVERYWHERE. I wore them to the cinema, I wore them to Pizza Express, and I wore them on my caravan holiday to Devon. I became famous for never taking them off. Crocs were as synonymous to me as the colour black to Victoria Beckham.

I began a love affair with my Crocs, we were inseparable. I casually ignored the various hate campaigns cropping up on Facebook. Yes, 25 of my friends may have liked the group, ‘I Don’t Care How Comfortable Crocs Are, You Look Like A Dumbass’, but they weren’t talking about me. They were referring to the unfashionable people trying to jump on the khaki bandwagon. I was already full of style, so of course my feet looked good whatever they were encased in.

[Insert montage here of the fun times me and my Crocs had together in the summer of 2006].

[pullquote_left]You couldn’t look anywhere without hearing the creamy squelch of the most comfortable shoe on the planet[/pullquote_left]However, like all good romantic comedies, eventually there had to be a spanner in the works. I first began to suspect something was up when I was walking through the high street in the rain, when suddenly I slipped and fell arse over tit in front of the entire shopping demographic of Topshop. What kind of fuckery was this? My beloved Crocs had just caused me my first dose of embarrassment. The rain had leaked through the holes on the tops of my shoes and caused me to actually slip on the INSIDE of my shoe. I assured myself this was just a one-off incident.

Next thing I know, reports started emerging that wearing Crocs in hospitals can cause equipment malfunctions, and the build-up of static electricity may contribute to the spread of infections. Now my shoes were possibly causing mass epidemics in my local area. Like a modern day plague, every time I went near the hospital I imagined tiny Crocs spawning and infecting every patient in sight like a Barratt’s version of 28 Days Later. It bought a whole new meaning to the idea behind foot and mouth disease.

More suspicions that my beloved was actually some sort of rubbery devil came when I realised that I could easily fit my size 10 foot inside my Mum’s black size 7’s. The evidence was stacking up. Me and my Crocs were at the crossroads of our relationship, I’d read all of his texts and I didn’t trust him anymore.

You won’t find any Croc’s in there mate.

The final straw came when I wore them to a non-school uniform day, and somebody in the sixth form said I looked like Jar Jar Binks.

We’d gone as far as we could, but the relationship had turned sour. I had one last ride around in my old friends, said thanks for the memories, and then removed them for the last time. I swear the little crocodile on the strap shed a single tear as I put them at the back of the shoe cupboard forever.

I’d been utterly tricked by fashion for the first time in my life. Not every trend was one I should really take on, but it was a lesson I was willing to learn from. Now, where’s the receipt for those harem pants?

What’s your biggest fashion disaster? Tweet us @SoSoGay and let us know. If you still wear Crocs then we apologise for this article, but really, we’re doing you a favour. Acceptance is the first step.

About The Author

JM is a 25-year-old Essex turned London boy.