There are ‘shorts’. And there are ‘dress shorts’. You wear shorts when it’s hot and you want to lie in a park, sit on a beach, or run around with a hoop and stick and play one of those sports I’ve read about. You wear dress shorts when it’s hot and you want to sit outside a cafe sipping an iced macchiato, while prodding at a pastry. Or dawdle around Wolf and Badger, pondering pointless candelabras made out of plumber’s pipes.
Shorts can get grubby. Dress shorts must not. Shorts are a practical, reasonably priced, essential. Dress shorts are impractical, expensive and serve no real purpose apart from making other people think their shorts are wack. I only give big fucks about dress shorts.
Am I a perma-tanned, eurotramp cavalier? Am I currently aboard my yacht arranging for a bus load of Columbian orphans to swallow cocaine pellets via my satellite phone? Am I, or have I at any point been, a barmaid in the Rovers Return? Sadly, it’s a no to all of the above. Which leads me to the inevitable conclusion that my taste has taken a fucking swerve. Because I really like these loafers.
Blue Button Shop is the best place to drop your lucci. I’ve said it once upon a then. And I’m saying it once upon a now. As facts go, it is one.
My mind retains little. I know who’d win out of Thor and Hulk. I know to toss a three-pack of walnut whips into the basket at M&S. And little else. Save my entire ‘gots to swag’ list at the BBS. I never forget that there’s not enough Phigvel, Is-ness, EEL, Kapital, Tigre Brocante and The Superior Labor in my lifestyle right now. Those ‘what the fuck?’ Japanese labels have got some kind of elite heat. Bro steps to your look and asks what you’re rocking? And you drop Flistfia, or Digawel into the mix? That bro’s gonna need a family pot of Savlon to ease his burn.
So how does a store in Toronto, come to stock one of the best ranges of Japanese casualwear outside of Japan? Boss and owner of BBS, Brian Cheuk, drops wise…
News reaches me that one of my brahs has been busting a new Nanamica blazer for the first time today. He’s been stalking the Roman alleyways of Bath in a SS14 stripy number. Nonchalant, like copping premo Japanese is just one of the tings he do. And it is. And I’m trying to be cool with it. But I’m savage jel. My beardy baby is rocking the shitness. I’ve been out-jacketed.
I feel like that hunter guy out of Jurassic Park, when the Raptors outflank him. There’s a moment of respect, before they pull his bum inside out. My brah’s just eaten my ass.
61 quid is an amount of quid. It’s not a bankrupting amount. Being without 61 quid won’t put you on the street. For the sake of six tenners and a pound, you’re probably not going to have to dine from McDonalds’ bins, squat in a park gargling Super, or tickle sailors’ balls for change.
That said, 61 quid is 61 quid. It’ll buy stuff. A fair bit of some stuff. Or, you could buy this brilliant, Master-Piece bag from Mr Porter. In which case your 61 quid will buy you exactly 61 quids worth of Mr Porterness. Because if you bought exactly the same bag at End, it’s exactly 61 quid less quid.
Buggies, buggies, buggies, Emily’s playing up, Harry put that down, the buggy won’t fit in the boot, buggies, buggies, fucking buggies. Sometimes, Peckham’s nu-fam-fam vibe gets a bit much. It’s difficult to sit outside, swilling a latte without a fucking Lottie or Georgina barging their tandem buggy into your chair. “Buggies, nappies, schooling…” they snort at no one in particular, before trotting on, pushing an overly pampered wretch in a fucking Ralph Lauren onesie.
Sometimes you’ve got to give that shit a swerve and head to Brixton.