It’s last Sunday.

I find a Comme des Garçons Homme Deux shirt in my size, for half price. Obviously, I must act. Doof. Then my girl spots a Molly Goddard handbag. 50% off again. Doof.

I’m worried about my bank balance. Nevertheless, I pull out my app and shuffle some funds about over a salmon omelette at Rose Bakery. Then we’re up and out. Leaving Dover Street, with ‘a thing’ each.

Doof, doof, doof, doof, doof…

There are three topless men pissing against a wall. An addled fool drops a full bottle of vodka on the pavement, it smashes; he grins, seemingly void of shame. There’s a sound system on a passing lorry (doof, doof, doof) and a voice over the PA shouting, “lovely jubbly”.

It’s a protest. Our clubs aren’t allowed to open, and a million pairs of JD Sports trainers jump up and down demanding to know why?

Haymarket is rammed, there’s no escape. So we turn back up Orange Street, past the three topless men still hosing the wall with their dongs.

Ahead, on the left, there’s another chap squirting his fungus up a drainpipe, then another two; we have to step over multiplying rivulets of slash. Everywhere we turn there’s another phalanx of phalli. A man is laughing while forcefully kneading the last few drops from his urethral meatus. 

From Comme des Garçons to piss party in seconds.

I look at my transparent Dover Street bag. I look at the guys pissing in the wind. Did I really need to buy another shirt?

Did someone order a metaphor?

High fashion to low life in a footstep. That’ll learn me for leaving the house. Then there’s the pressure shopping IRL brings. Dover Street at sale time is an incredibly seductive mausoleum  — last season’s ideas at drop dead prices. And you’re there, looking, touching and very quickly paying. How can you leave without ‘that thing’? It quickly becomes unimaginable.

I didn’t wake that morning intending to drop the best part of £500 on stuff we didn’t need. So I’ve come to a conclusion. If I don’t want to lose control of my finances or feel another man’s hot piss on my Yuketens it’s best that I never leave the house again.

If I only shop from home I can look at stuff like the incoming collection from Post-Imperial without the whole ‘buy it before it’s gone’ pressure. I can just stare at the screen for a bit. I don’t have to do anything. Spend anything. In fact, when it comes to this Post-Imperial gear over at Mr Porter, I literally can’t spend anything, most of it’s ‘coming soon’. My Paypal account can stand down.

The trousers and shirt/jacket are patterned using Nigerian Yoruba techniques  — no I don’t know what that means, but look at the result.  Elasticated waistbands, wide legs, satin trims, snap-button fastenings: why wouldn’t you? The cuts are generous, the statement enormous.

I’m strongly down with the Post-Imperial vibe, especially the hats. Look at the yellow one! Hold the phone. Does a hat get any more summertime than that?

Or does it look a bit like piss?

My mind’s been poisoned.

Never. Leave. House. Again.