I dropped on this Engineered Garments blaze a couple of weeks back. Going in pretty heavy over at Garbstore, I left 297 bones lighter, brandishing this flimsy, unlined cotton jacket. I had a birthday party to attend and fancied busting a new statement piece. A piece that would, amongst those gathered, reinforce my position as a top tier clothist. The bash was happening at twinkling north London shitpipe Love & Liquor. By the time I set off for the club, I was a bit late, but safe in the knowledge that I was ‘on the list’.
By the time I arrived, the weather sucked. But through the gale and drizzle, the ‘protein shake’ on the door told me that I was correct, I was on the list. He also helpfully explained that I’d foolishly taken ‘on the list’ to mean ‘on a list that would get me into the club’, instead of what it actually meant, which was ‘join the massive queue.’
Just beyond the velvet rope, some of the clientele smoked under an awning. An expanse of short tight leather(ish) jackets, skin-tight jeans, pointy city-boy shoes and gelled prickly hair.
The rain came sideways. Joining the queue was a madman’s fancy. I jumped in a cab and went home to wring-dry my sodden, over-priced, pointless, summer blazer. And I still felt like the big winner.