Fuck-Yeah Tumblères are indeed what the Post said they are – “the happiest blogs on the Web.” I was pleased with how this lamestream-media article dealt with the obscenity built into every title (though it needed to use nonbreaking hyphens). I was even more pleased when the hack, Julia Carpenter, chose a wise instead of a trite example: Fuck Yeah, Brutalism is an ongoing work of scholarship with a six-digit subscriber base.
Then we have Fuck Yeah, Martin Freeman, which illegally but usefully reposts dozens and dozens of photographs of the best-dressed man in England. Freeman to the Times of London:
Many of his clothes are made by the Soho tailor Mark Powell. “What Mark doesn’t know about street fashion and style isn’t worth knowing,” he says. “All the things I’ve been into since I was nine, from teddyboy to skinhead to soulboy to mod, he’s all over it, gets every reference. I also go to George Dyer, the last tailor standing on the Walworth Road, who has a loyal clientele of dodgy old mods and soulboys. I really love Paul Smith and his designs….
“I like people who like clothes. I immediately trust men who are into clothes, even though they could turn out to be horrible people. There is an intelligence around caring about what you wear.”
I have previously laboured to explain to homely, pudgy, body-rejecting hateful downtown progressives (again: tautological), that appearance matters. The “travel-sized” M. Freeman, who is a tad full of himself and has bragged about his big house, redeems that by looking so great absolutely all the time. A sizable contribution to his overall look is his uncanny liminal quantum-state fair hair, which is never the same shade twice but is also never naturally black.
Of all the photographs on Fuck Yeah, Martin Freeman, it is the one I have cropped and included here (origin unknown!) that shows his uncanny colour sense.
It will now be disclosed that for some years I have imagined a kind of independent film, already a doomed prospect right there and more befitting a previous century, in which some duo from the Hart/Freeman/Simm Axis are longtime lovers into whose lives the other one enters. But how? And given that Martin Freeman is wildly better looking than the other two even when calibrated on the sliding British scale inescapable here, how does one make that work?
Why is the only image I have of one of them at the wheel of a right-hand-drive BMW en route home? What happens then?
Further, could Freeman ever be remotely credible as an homosexualist? Not at his current age, I don’t think.