THERE'S the Armoured Corps on my shoulder, a Flying Horse on my arm, a dozen medals jangling on my chest, and I'm all wrapped up in Pop Art and trying to keep up with the weird, whacky world of teenage fashion.

Like this jacket I'm wearing. Belongs to The Who. They're a pop group. They sing. And do all kinds of strange things with Union Jacks and medals and military insignia and badges left over from the Coronation of King George V.

Now I always thought Union Jacks were for flying up flagpoles. Until I met The Who. I've been mixed up for years. It's gear now to make Union Jacks into jackets. Union jackets, if you like. And if a couple of corporals salute you, try to ignore them.

And this jacket. The one with all the gongs. Found it in a corner of the haunt of The Who, just around the corner from the Post Office Tower in London.

It's the latest thing, I feel real with it. All thanks to The Who. They reckon they pioneered the current craze for Pop Art. For the visual effect, you understand. You gotta keep one step ahead in pop today.

Pete Townsend is tall, languid and the spokesman for The Who. Former art student. Knows about design and that. He says: "The Beatles made black and white. Their colours, like. Our colours are red, white and blue. They go together great."

"So we get a jacket made like the Union Jack. Pure silk. Cost fifty quid. But the kids reckon it's a gas and it looks cold in places like Paris."

That I can well imagine.

But that's old hat... or rather, old jacket, now. Latest thing is medals (it might not

still be by the time you read this — fads change fast). Doesn't matter what sort. Crazier the better.

I survey those on my chest. One from Czechoslovakia. A Yankee job. From the First World War. "Bought 'em in a junk shop in Pimlico," says Peter. "Now all the kids wear 'em. Well, it's something different."

Flags. Medals. Anything jingoistic about The Who, then, says Pete. "We're having a bit of a dig at the old institutions."

I point to a certain Army badge under which I served Her Majesty for a stimulating spell and advise them not to disport it mockingly in certain public hostelries in the Aldershot area.

"Yeah, people do take offence sometimes," says Pete. "But we don't really worry. There's another craze tomorrow and people forget."

Mind you, all this off-beat gear is strictly for stage work. Out of the spotlights The Who aren't exactly dedicated followers of fashion.

Today Pete wears a tailored suit and a shirt minus tie. Roger Daltrey, who is blond and husky, has a scarlet jacket and cravat. John Entwhistle faces the world in a suit and polo-neck jumper. Keith Moon is the most stylish in a flamboyantly flowered shirt and troubadour trews.

In my be-medalled khaki jacket I am bang up to date. Don't feel the slightest out of place. Trouble is, I feel a right Charlie.

"So do we sometimes," whispers Roger. "And those medals get tangled up in your guitar."

Ah, what these artists suffer for the sake of their Pop Art...

MISS DODIE WEST isn't exactly a suffragette. She struck a devastating blow for feminity. And made a staunch

I'm busy learning dress-making with Dodie West. This isn't a bad bit of material (above). Right, a hint from Dodie on the finer aspects of the sewing machine

friend of every red-blooded male in Britain.

Dodie, who stars in her own show Here Comes That Girl on Wednesday, claims to be the lass to set the trend for shorter skirts. She hoiked up hemlines. All through socks.

Socks have always been purely functional for me. They're just to keep the feet warm. Like I said, shows how mixed up I've been. They sent Dodie's hemline up. And hundreds of chic chicks have followed her example.

I drive to Dodie's fashionably furnished home at Hounslow in Middlesex to learn the socking facts. She greets me at the door. Wearing a trim red-and-blue silk slip dress. So short that Miss Maria Bueno could get away with it at Wimbledon. I have already acquired a new respect for socks . . .

Dodie fetches the brandy. "You see, I always liked socks," she says. "Even at school. Thought they showed off your legs better than stockings. And were different.

"But, you know, it's impossible to wear socks and a skirt cut below the knee. Terribly off. So I hitched up my skirts above the knee. Just so they'd go with socks. Wore this style on a couple of television shows. And the trend for shorter skirts sort of followed."

Well, it makes more sense than Union jackets, anyway . . .

Today Dodie (it's short for Doreen) makes most of her own gear. She has a sewing machine in her bedroom. It's under the television set, which is also in her bedroom. I know. Because I had to fetch it and carry it downstairs for her.

She's wearing a cocktail dress. In a rather fetching shade of turquoise. Short, of

course. The delectable Miss West is going to be the toast of many a party for some time ahead yet.

I get roped in to help. And acquire a new respect for dressmakers. Like how are you supposed to talk with a mouthful of pins? And I still don't quite understand what's meant by "taking in the slack."

But the question every lad in Britain wants answered is: How much shorter can they go? Answer from Dodie. No shorter. Because they can't. Not and stay defined as skirts. Well, Dodie should know.

I left her trying to think up something new. Honest. This pop business is all go, isn't it?

FINAL call of a fashion-crazy week. On my friend, ITV executive Alex Valentine. Strictly a jersey and flannels man. And he invited me to look in on a private showing of a documentary called Sixteen in Webster Groves, which he acquired for showing here.

All about teenagers. In an upper-crust suburb of St. Louis, Missouri. But fashion. You must be joking. These kids haven't tried anything new since my heyday. When Frankie Laine and Guy Mitchell were the goods.

At least British kids have tried something new. These young Americans have stood still. Although they have bags more money, cars and all the social privileges. Their lives make a fascinating documentary study. But, oh! Their gear.

Maybe it's just because I've spent the week with Britain's whackiest. But I let Alex thinking somebody ought to send these Webster Groves teenagers a jacket.

Made from the Stars and Stripes.

Dave Lanning, centre, at large in the jacket — which, incidentally, belongs to The Who

... in red, white and blue