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The perfect thing to wear when… You smoke so much your toes are always numb and your mate shrugs that, ‘it’s quite common’ as he lights up again

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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.’

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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.

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