University changed me a little bit. I laid off the sunning and started to listen to proper music. Music with a guitar. Music with deep lyrics. Music made by people with a bit of talent. The DJ Luck and MC Neat tapes were thrown away and Bob Dylan began to sing on my Walkman. They were better times. I was no longer shouted at in the street because I was trying to look like David Beckham. They were happier times.
Then I started to dress a little bit weird. Maybe I was trying to hide my many insecurities by looking like a twat. I really don't know. Anyway, as I was going through facebook this morning I noticed a few outfits that were absolutely awful. So maybe you chavs out there, with diamantes sparkling in your ears, can laugh your tiny little meat head brains out at some of the shit things I've worn.
This beaut of a jacket was bought down Carnaby Street in a shop called 'The Face'. I think it cost me about £200 (yes, I know, I was bent over and raped) I wore it to a Topman party thinking I was the next Daniel Craig. The tube journey from Walthamstow to Oxford Circus was a long 22 minutes. Children were crying on their mother's laps, rudeboys actually laughed and left me alone because I was such an easy target, people on their way home from work looked at me with disgust (their taxes had paid for this lovely blazer) I think I had about 7 pints in the Goose for dutch courage. Needless to say that was the only time I wore that jacket, a kid bought it off me for £125 a few months later (it felt good raping someone else)
This is when I went away to Europe for a few months. I truly thought I was a hippy, I wasn't. I didn't brush my hair, I didn't shave, I put a massive orange headband on, I bought a cotton 'hippy' bag, I smoked roll ups, I had my hair braided, I wore a lot of beads, I slept in a van, I drank cheap lager. I was a prick. However, to this day I really do wish I grew up in the 60s. I would love to have been a hippy, but my mum isn't a wayward artist, my dad isn't a stoner who makes a living by playing music on the corner of Hoe Street. They are teachers. Boring I know.
Wow. Big hair, very big hair. I think I may have just seen Russell Brand in Highgate a few weeks earlier. I really don't know. Anyway, I coated the hairspray on, I back combed with a ferocity that hasn't been seen since the early 80s. Looking back, I think it was a mistake. I remember turning up at the pub to cries of laughter. My head looked massive, maybe it matched my ego. I shocked out this look for a few months, until one morning when I woke up and looked at the back of my head in the mirror. Balding. The Bobby Charlton comb over had to go. I miss it every now and again.
This look was during my Carnaby Street days. Days when I didn't eat. Well, maybe a bowl of soup here and there. No, I'm not pretending to be one of those druggie pricks who says 'Ah man I was so wasted all the time I used to live on cigarettes and alcohol.' I just didn't eat. Anyway, the tight jeans, very low tee shirt, shit waist coat, with shit hair and lots of eye makeup really does look horrendous. I'm about the same size as the girl mannequin next to me. Oh, and the white cuban heeled beatle boots! Well, I'd probably still wear them today but I have no heel and an ankle the size of Vanessa Feltz, so I couldn't pull them on. Fucking lorry. Shame.
We're getting near to the end of my portfolio of shame. Above is when I arrived in Bangkok, looking somewhat malnutritioned and eager for a hiding of a guy heavier than 9 stone. The 'McShit' size zero vest was not a comment on capitalism or the global domination of a fast food restaurant, I don't know what it was for. Teamed with white jeans and too much pubic hair, this photograph represents all that I was, a bit of a bell end. Had a good time in Bangkok though; not many propositions off prossies, but to be fair, I did look overtly homosexual.
And to finish off the gallery, here I am looking like a chav. Like many trendsetters do when harping back to the 60s Mod look or the 80s Glam look; I'm reliving my 90s c*nt look. Horrible bright blue shirt, cut off jeans (and probably a pair of Patrick Cox Wannabe backless shoes on my feet) this photograph finishes off my blog very nicely indeed. Girls, form an orderly queue.
Thanks for reading. Anyone got a job for me? I'll gut pigs, I'll test suppositories. Anything.
Spare change guv'ner?