For a brah like me, the whole world is a beach. In many respects, the last place a beach is, is an actual beach. I don’t need sand, waves, crabs and Cornettos. I simply live in a way that combines reckless spirituality, an unorthodox appreciation of The Proclaimers and a passion for ornate blazers.
I explained this very concept to a group of dudes eating Big Macs and skinning up by Dalston tube just the other evening. They were totally onboard too. Right up to the point where they threatened to kick ten litres of shit out of me.
When I’m out and about, hunting for urban shellfish around Peckham Rye, this is my look.
I’m basically vibing as an executive beachcomber. Like, not an actual beachcomber, you understand. You know, broke, wearing rags and fucking Crocs, looking for bits of old boat to carve a spoon out of, or some weed to boil for dinner. Not that. I’m more Gordon Gecko, on holiday, having a bit of a revelatory moment by the sea, realising all the bad stuff he’s done, after staring at a family laughing together, before returning to his fuck off yacht to poo out some more gold.
They’ve got the biggest selction of EG in Europe and it’s currently on 30% sale. Hang around and that 50%’s got to drop soon. There’s a lot going on on this jacket and I dare, say, it’s not everyone’s flavour. I just don’t think EG can do any wrong and if design-brainiac Daiki Suzuki is saying ‘jackets with waves on’, who is I to remonstrate. It’s fair to say, I’ve had a few looks.
I don’t think you can successfully pull this off without a bit of pattern clash. So I’m busting a Timex Weekender, with a new strap from the selection at Present. And as limpets, seaweed and crumpled pages from old jazz mags don’t carry themselves, I’m getting busy with a fucking wicker rucksack that my boo harvested from a vintage shop.
Have to say, I haven’t found much treasure lying around Pecks this morning to put in my bag. Although I did just notice a bro leave his Brompton unattended outside the pub. I wonder if marine salvage rights apply?