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Audible eye-rolling

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Why do people only check in on Facebook at places they think will impress others? On my feed, the amount of times I’m told ‘so-and-so’ is at ‘Soho House in Shoreditch’, or ‘whats-and-such’  ‘arrived in Prague’, is  starting to reek of high-order bellknobbery. I mean, people doing all this ‘checking in’… you understand it’s obvious you’re showing off right?  No matter how lackadaisically you prod at your phone, no matter how casually you swipe ‘post’. You do get that as soon as your message, ‘whats-his-nuts’ just checked in at ‘The Groucho’, hits newsfeeds, the sound of mass eye-rolling is almost audible?

Thing is, it’s just so touristy. Dudes that regularly hit-up swank bars, don’t blart it out like a school-girl on fucking social-meej every time. And you know what, these same ‘I’m catching a bite at Hakkasan’ tragics, go to Pound Shops and HomeBase. They go to Asda and buy those giant briefcases of 18 toilet rolls, and strut home gripping the handle, looking like they’re off to a bum-wiping party. They don’t check in then. They don’t tell the social medias that they’re at the STD clinic, or the police station, or a wig shop or a branch of Next. But they go there too. I bet.

Whatevs, I don’t need to brag ’bout nuffin. Last weekend I went to a bar. So I pointed my strugglephone at five brahlords to capture their style. The booze was Becks. The smoking policy was yes. And the clientele stood about neutralising their insecurities, beneath a duvet of faux self importance. Just how I likes it.

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I noticed this dude’s Folk jacket. Plus, he has a fine beard. Not fine as in wispy. I mean, it could have been, I didn’t really… Jesus I don’t know, I don’t go around tickling up strange bro’s beards.

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Bro 2 had a simple, but smart scarf on. It’s his own brand, called Trevors and he’s launching it from Peckham Rye. The merch is made over in Dalston. I gave him my deets and if he gets back to me, I’ll scribble something on here about his garms.

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This Bro is apparently somebody. I had no idea he was somebody while I chatted to him about his Folk (again) sweater and love of vintage garmentry. However, I was later told by somebody else, that the somebody that this somebody was, and presumably remains, is Thomas Cohen. He’s known by some as the former singer in the band S.C.U.M. And by others as the husband of Peaches Geldof. Either way, he seems a very nice dude and big into vintage.

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To my knowledge this bro has never been married to any of Bob Geldof’s off-spring. But one can surmise from this shot, that his time is precious. He’s able to roll a snout, keep his bottle safely stashed and get his snap taken all at once. He told me his jacket was from Walmart in the US. Which if you know the shop is surprising, as most of its wares comprise dodgy crisps, gallons of bright green soda pop and fridge magnets featuring wolves fighting over a US flag.

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Bro 5, the final bro of the evening, looked serious. He was very friendly. It’s just as I went to shoot, the fog of war seemed to descend and he stared the stare of the dammed. It could have been that he didn’t really want a drunken brah snapping him with a shonky old iPhone? Or it could have been that he sensed that there was another bro, fancily holding a little goblet of whiskey, leaning into shot, trying to steal the glory? We may never care.

And what was this bar that I didn’t check in at? Not telling. It’s in Pecks Rye. It’s made of shipping containers and there’s a little gallery attached. You’ll often find me in there. Starring at installations of primary coloured rhomboids. Pretending I know what the hell’s going on.

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