It’s been a minute since I last hyped some goods. Like many of us, I’ve been a bit distracted by three things:
- The war in Ukraine.
- The chance it might result in us all being nuked to bits.
- The amount of people using the phrase ‘smashed it!’
Admittedly, the first two are more pressing.
Sadly, in the absence of any influence in Eastern Europe, all I can do is curl up with my despair and grumble about shit slang.
If you’ll acquiesce to a little moaning, what I find fascinating (intolerable really) is how readily ‘smashed it!’ has been adopted by the middle-aged, middle-class. If I was in H&M (this is hypothetical) I’d expect to hear it yelled by youthful and theatrically effete staffers. I can live with people like Rylan Clark-Neal saying ‘smashed it’ every other sentence; his Gen Z Kenneth Williams shtick demands it. I’ll even excuse hearing it from presenters of Bargain Hunt as they attempt to engage their student audience. But grown-ups I know say ‘smashed it.’ Professional people. They say it and they type it. Often.
Why is everyone still parroting this rotter of a phrase?
I feel like I’m stuck inside a zoetrope, giant silhouetted hands repeatedly high-fiving and a million different voices whooping “smashed it, smashed it, smashed it”, over and over and over… Apparently now ‘smashed it’ is the appropriate response for anything at all, no matter how unexceptional. A deal’s been done. Smashed it! Someone’s bought some new trainers. Smashed it! Someone’s eaten a Scotch egg. Fucking smashed it mate!
As with many things, it’s most awful arriving from the mouths of the middle aged, middle-class. Always used in earnest. Maxing on the self-belief. As though by adding ‘smashed it’ to an email they’ll be bathed in youthful relevance.
I’m just going to say it: the only thing using ‘smashed it’ achieves is making the user appear grammatically deficient and the kind of unimaginative, mediocre individual who jumps on whatever middle-of-the-road cultural piffle happens to be passing.
I hope I’ve sufficiently smashed the shit out of ‘smashed it’.
I promised to hype some goods, so here are a few pieces I’ve been gawping at:
New in at Nepenthes London. It’s a sporty cardie covered in letter forms and assorted swirly curlicue. I like the graphics, I like the palette. It’s like medieval graffiti. Different certainly, but that’s kind of the point. Best worn to a terrifyingly ‘intimate’ evening of comedy, in a cellar under a Chinese restaurant.
Too ‘banging’ for some, this monster of origami and white witchcraft costs more money than you’ll spend on a coat. That said, can you put a price on madness? This is basically a wearable dream sequence. I’m not sure English words exist to describe it, but in layman’s terms I reckon that waistcoat thing is removable, or at least tuckawayable? Although I’m also prepared to accept I’m not qualified to comment. You won’t buy this. I won’t buy this. But it makes me happy to know it exists. Whatever it is.
Charles Manson fanboying? A Beatles reference? It’s unclear what point Jun Takahashi of Undercover is making by stamping Helter Skelter on these kicks. Maybe there isn’t one? Maybe there doesn’t need to be one any more? Let’s all welcome the era of post-point. Perfect for brains that have soaked up a kajillion gallons of social media piss. Quick, someone make a pair of trainers featuring the words: ‘Dolmio Pasta Bake’. Profound? It is if everyone thinks it is.
I’m a big fan of Meanswhile. These days you can grab a few pieces over at Manchester’s This Thing of Ours. However, for this icy pop-over you’ll have to go direct to source. Cool neck and sleeve detail. It’d look great under a slouchy blazer for the kind of Logan’s Run meets David Niven look that makes the kids go wild.
In store now at the aforementioned This Thing of Ours. Looking crispy and airy, they’d be perfect for a lonely stroll around the Tate Modern wondering why you can’t get paid for throwing a tin of emulsion at a giant canvas. I like the double-layer look. It’s as though there’s a pair of shorts over the top.
Perfect, I suspect, for the kind of infantile individual who gets worked up over people saying ‘smashed it.’