Voller the Fashion Goblin

The other day, I tried to see if the urban legend of Voller the Fashion Goblin was real.

Like the supposed hundreds of people before me, I settled myself in front of my bathroom mirror and stared at my reflection.

I looked left and right, then whispered: “Style and fashion, style and fashion.” I paused, looked deep into my own eyes, took a breath and said for the third and final time: “Style and fashion.”

I closed my eyes and winced. Silence. I looked around the room. Nothing. ‘Ha,’ I thought, my cheeks going rosy. ‘I knew the guys at work were winding me up.’

I shook my head and raised my eyebrows, chuckling. As I turned to leave the room a puff of smoke filled the air, followed by a loud popping sound.

“Jesus!” I yelped. “The guys were right!”

Like the legend had predicted, before me in the smoke stood a beautiful woman in her mid twenties. She had the complexion, cheekbones and dress sense best suited to the pages of Vogue, but, as it turned out, the mouth of a disgruntled, cockney bricklayer.

“What the fack you lookin’ at, mug?” She said.

“Oh, um, are you?-” I tried.

“Yeah, yeah I’m fackin’ Voller the fackin’ Fashion Goblin. What the fack do you want?”

“Um, nothing, I was just-”

“Let me fackin’ guess. You were just tryin’ to see if repeatin’ that fackin’ phrase in the mirror would fackin’ get me here?”

I nodded, gingerly.

“You soppy prick, I was knee deep in chicken and chips. The fackers will be cold by the time I get back.”

I looked at the ground.

“Don’t you go cryin’ on me, you tart. Let’s not make this a completely useless fackin’ trip. I can still work my magic.”

Voller looked me up and down, then flicked a toggle on my hoodie with one of her well kept fingernails.

“Your clobber’s lookin’ ropey. Grey top over a grey T-shirt? You slag. Saps the colour right out of your fackin’ cheeks. And don’t even get me started on those fackin’ brown chords with ‘oles in the fackin’ knees. Who fackin’ told you to let your hair grow that fackin’ long as well? Your curls make you look like Ronald fackin’ McDonald. And look at that fackin’ bum fluff on your fackin’ chin! Let’s sort your life out, boy.”

Before I had the chance to tell Voller I didn’t need her help, she clicked her fingers and I was naked.

After a little snigger, each click placed a new item of clothing on me.


David Beckham H&M brief boxers.


Navy blue Paul Smith socks.


Swatch watch.


Charcoal grey trousers.


A round neck navy blue, woollen jumper with incredibly faint specks of orange.


Some slightly pointed dark brown shoes.


Earthy brown duffel coat.


Hair trim and a face shave down to stubble.

“Right then,” said Voller, slapping my bum. “See you later, silly bollocks.” And with that, she disappeared.

I stared in the mirror, a tad windswept and entirely bemused. ‘What on Earth just happened?’ I thought. My nerves were shaken and my self-esteem shot to pieces. But I did look good.

To tell the truth, I’m still not entirely certain what went on that day. But strangely, and against my better judgement, I wouldn’t actually mind seeing Voller again soon.

© Carl Burkitt 2013


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