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Post-Imperial: New year, another favourite brand

So how’s 2021 for you? It seems remarkably similar to two days ago as far as I’m concerned. In spite of the deluge of Facebookians humble-bragging about 2020 being a tough year (you don’t say) and how they just ‘know’ 2021 is going to be great, we’re now 48 hours into the new year and things are still essentially piss.

I’m happy to offer a fake ‘boo-hoo’ and a real ‘told-you-so’ to the residents of Dover, who after voting for Brexit are now apparently shocked it means turning an area of natural beauty into a fuck-off lorry park. In the US a withering Trump is thinking about starting a war with Iran to get his Twitter follower count back up. While Jacob Rees-Mogg silently hovers over the UK in his steam-punk Deathstar, watching gleefully as the proletariat continually flout the rules, resulting in more deaths and expediting his chance at the big chair. Happy new year all.

The one positive on my personal horizon is the acquisition of a yellow corduroy Post-Imperial shirt. New brand: achievement unlocked! My girl bought it for my birthday (which isn’t until February) but when the postie arrived with the mystery box, I badgered and whined to such an olympic degree she gave up and let me have it. Anyway, long story short, it’s amazing, Post-Imperial is now my new favourite brand and, as befits a despicable gobbling gargoyle like myself, I already want more.

Inconveniently, Post-Imperial is not yet in the sale over at Matches. Nor at No Man Walks Alone. So I’m going to have to wait to add this tie-dye sweatshirt to my nascent collection.

It’s the quality of the shirt that swung it. Such giant ribbed corduroy, so very, very soft. It’s got matt-finish press studs and a patterned lining that overhangs the hem just so. It fits perfectly. My assumption is that all Post-Imperial pieces will revolutionise my wardrobe in such a way and this piece, with its splodgy purple patterning and nylon-backed sleeves is a no-brainer.

I would very much enjoy wearing this to a local public house, sans coat, letting the Nigerian dying techniques do their upmost to mark me out as a dude of sophistication and discernment. Although living as I am within the remnants of Johnson’s tiers of a clown, I’d have to make do with a walk in the park. Or a ‘promenade’, as I have taken to calling in after devouring the entirety of Netflix’s Bridgerton.

Sadly I notice that over at Matches the large is ‘low in stock’. Which rather suggests, that by drawing attention to this, I may have hoisted myself with a petard of my own making. And there was me thinking the residents of Dover were the biggest idiots of 2021.

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