Charlie don’t surf. Nor do I. I don’t know who ‘don’t ski’. Other than myself. So having established that both my surf and skimanship is non existent, it’s clear I am amongst the least qualified to discuss a pair of Birvin Uniform shirts, illustrating skiing and surfing. This is inconvienient, as these are the most full-power chemises I’ve clocked in months.

From the front, they look like shirts. From the back, they’re assault weapons. Objects of such cultural resonance, you can expect fellow steezlords to melt at the sight, like Toht with a face full of Arc.

There are words on these things. I don’t know what a ‘Alces’ is. A place? ‘Wolf Creek’? That’s a horror movie no? ‘Backpacker’, under a picture of a dude on a surfboard? Is that a surfing term? I care no fucks. What we’ve got to remember is, this stuff is embroidered. This isn’t a print. It’s, like, all made of threads and shit. It takes ages and looks off the charts luxe.

I’m all about the lifestyle these things offer. Not the activities portrayed. I talking about busting one of these titans down the bar. You’d just have to slip off your outerwear to irradiate any pretenders in the vicinity. No one’s fronting a bro in one of these. They look like the kind of things that’ll prompt envy for years to come. The more you wash, the more they’ll look like some antique gem you swagged from a Santa Monica vintage store.

But you didn’t. You dropped 189 coins on it from Garb. Lot of coins for a shirt bruh. Comes to something when it’s cheaper to actually take up skiing, than wank around in a shirt pretending to know what a ‘mountain’ is.