To be fair, I am to fashion what Vivienne Westwood is to light heavyweight boxing.
The only conceivable circumstance in which I would be considered remotely à la mode is if I stumbled through a wormhole to an alternate universe where scruffy jeans, Batman T-shirts and an undying loyalty to Def Leppard were considered the height of sophistication.
In the unlikely event this does actually happen, please forward all my post to Universe B because I'm not coming back.
I'm occasionally reminded of my utter lack of style and grace on visits to my family.
They're caring like that.
Last week, for instance, I ventured down the M62 to my brother's house only to find two bags of his old clothes waiting for me.
"You probably need these," he sniffed.
"I was just going to give them to charity, but then I thought you'd wear them.
"I know you don't care about what you look like."
I was going to argue, but then I remembered I was wearing a T-shirt I inherited from him when he left home and went to university so decided not to make a big deal of it.
He left for uni in 1993. That's a true story.
But the fact that most of my family think I'm a cross between a bipedal Littlest Hobo and Worzel Gummidge doesn't bother me, because to be honest, I couldn't give a flying fig about fashion.
I know I perhaps should care a bit more about my appearance, but I honestly couldn't give two sh...anel handbags whether the pants I'm wearing have a designer label on them or not.
In fact, given the chance, I'll always go to the other extreme.
I find labels offensive. It's just another way for flash Harrys and Harriets to say, "ooh look at me, I've got a silly little logo on my naff polo-neck jumper. I must be better then you".
No, actually, you must be cripplingly insecure and dull to have to compensate by adorning yourself in someone else's idea of what's cool.
As Quentin Crisp once said, fashion is what you adopt when you don't know who you are.
OK, perhaps mine is an extreme reaction, but I just don't understand fashion.
I don't understand the need to have a new wardrobe twice a year just so we can look as ridiculous as the trendy Joneses next door.
As Oscar Wilde, a dandy if ever there was one, once quipped, fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every six months.
Why bring this up now, Ian, I hear you ask? You've never shown any significant interest in other people's clothing before, so what's your beef? Well, it's mainly because we're currently in the middle of Hull Fashion Week.
Now please, if you're one of the nice people taking part and showing off all your lovely creations at various lovely events this week, don't take offence.
I get enough letters written in green ink as it is. (Suspiciously, the ink is the same colour as the god-awful trainers BBC behemoth Burnsy was wearing at the real ale festival last week). Hmmmmm.
I'm sure all you lovely local clothes designers are doing a great job. I just don't see the point of what you're doing.
To be honest, the ones who really annoy me are the haute couture fashionistas who pout and pitter patter their hands together while watching some poor numpty tottering up a runway wearing a binbag and marzipan hat in some god- awfully pretentious corner of London, Paris or Milan.
As far as I can tell, it's all emperor's new clothes stuff lapped up by a bunch of clueless sheep too scared to actually stand up and say: "Actually, Naomi/Kate/Kara you look a right state. Here, love, get some chips down you."
Personally, I try to live my life by ideals based on the opposite of everything Karl Lagerfeld says.
After all, it was the bizarrely vampiric, Harry Hill-collared designer who said: "If you stick to something doggedly, you are off to a bad start."
I'm sticking doggedly to my 20-year-old T-shirt, jeans and not giving a flying fig what the latest trends are coming out of Versace, Westwood, Dolce or Gucci.
This year, I will be mainly rocking the Worzel look. As I was last year and will be until further notice.
