Dispatches from the Capital #1

29/08/2010 

It’s been four days since I moved down to foggy old London town, where the streets are paved with gold/phlegm. As of yet I’ve not explored much of my new city, save for a jaunt to Ikea and a few trips to ASDA. Now I know this sounds terribly tragic and thoroughly middle aged and anyone reading this must be thoroughly disappointed at my lack of heroin abuse, supermodel shagging and generic NME coverage, however it’s a period of adjustment so accept it or I’ll smash you in with some wood... 

...not that I’m going to abuse heroin, I’m fine with tea thankyouverymuch. 

The hat in question, only mine is charcoal
(least interesting caption ever)

My first foray into greater London (not ever, I’m not a fucking tourist) came courtesy of a half-arsed stroll into Shoreditch in the search of somewhere to watch the mighty Liverpool take on West Brom (I’m still trying to convince the world that I am a man dammit). We soon found out that Shoreditch is too trendy to show footie, well aside from one pub that was showing Everton vs. Aston Villa – fuck that. I’m actually still surprised that they showed any football at all, the best I was expecting would be something ‘quirky’ like a Wimbledon 1985 season review or Icelandic, blind beach football, but hey everyone just wanted to hang out, drink coffees and revel in their own beauty. Little did we know (being new to the area) that Sunday was market day on Brick Lane with a variety of little stalls selling everything from vintage smoking jackets and KISS tees, to Lego jewellery and meatballs, as well as booming business in the local Rough Trade record shop. I came this close *pinches fingers to symbolise distance* to buying some old hardcore punk fanzines and a couple of Converge records, but the ever present icy stare of my bank balance burned into my back like a hot skillet. 

I managed to also uncover a sample sale of OBEY clothing on the edge of the market, a three-day smash-and-grab kinda job offering new season clothing at massively reduced prices. I gave in to my new found pretentiousness and splurged on a pork-pie hat for only £20. Apparently I wear it well, but I can't help but feel a little like Gadget from This is England...

06/09/2010

I have been here for nearly two weeks now, and I remain jobless. Granted, my search has been, well, kinda half-arsed so far as I’ve achieved little more than sprinkling a few CVs around (of course they were to good places though; BAPE, The Hideout, Eastpak etc. – outlook on myself landing ANY of these is very slim indeed) and I am in the midst of filling out an application form for Foot Locker. You may be thinking “Stop blogging to no-one and finish that form you overweight idiot” and you’d have a point, but it is such a banal piece of literature that I’m having trouble convincing my own being to not stab myself in the throat.

EXAMPLE; “Tell us about a time when you provided extraordinary customer service by delivering the unexpected.”

If this form wasn’t so important, and, to a lesser extent, if I didn’t actually want to work for Foot Locker (it’s just a ‘for now’ thing, not a lifetime career) then I would crumple it into a tiny ball, insert it directly into my anus, light the protruding tip on fire then spend the following 45 minutes smashing my head into my desk.

Away from the job search, London continues to treat me fairly well. I’ve yet to be harassed, stabbed, mugged, threatened, raped or even looked at with shifty intent. My female-friend popped up for a few days (check her blog - wintagenetvoodle.blogspot.com) and made me feel loved and relaxed. Again, we checked out the Brick Lane market as it was one of the bargaining tools I used in coaxing her down for four days. Needless to say she loved it, and I managed to pick up a vintage Stüssy cap for a tenner off of a bloke in the street. It’s my kind of area – busy, yet somehow cut-off. Friendly, yet not ‘in-your-face’. Quirky, yet not annoying. Once I get the ball rolling career-wise, I could definitely see myself living there.

However the pangs of no fixed income snapped at my heels for the entirety of her stay. A trip to Size? unearthed a varsity jacket for £50 that would usually be eaten up like yesterday’s curry, but was instead left to hang like a high-five from a knobhead, and my search for a denim shirt (never thought I’d find myself searching for a denim shirt) only produced depressing examples of how urgently I need employment. I may have to swallow my pride and go with anything. I may go all Midnight Cowboy on yo’ asses and attempt to pimp myself out to wealthy 40+ women, befriending a diseased Dustin Hoffman in the process and eventually immigrating to Florida...

...now I come to think of it, that’s not such a bad idea after all.