The East End Thrift Store Part Deux.

So the East End Thrift Store had a new delivery of capes, sweaters, shirts and dresses. We thought it would be rude not to go down and take a look. A free bar was the main reason we went down there though. We stopped at the Blind Beggar on Whitechapel High Street, had a few beers, ordered a cheese board, played pool, had a couple of arguments then strolled down to Assembly Passage. I also knew there would be some trendy looking kids lurking about, so took my photographer, Pablo, along with me to snap some fashionistas. I wasn't disappointed.




This young lady seemed to coordinate her outfit with the Bow Wow at her feet. Bobble hat, Body Con dress, over sized leather jacket and matching tights with vintage boots. A great look for the upcoming winter months. Even her pup couldn't keep his eyes of her.

The massive scarf wrapped around her neck, with a khaki long coat and red hair. The crazy curls, distressed denim jacket, grandad jumper and black tights. Two looks that stood out from the crowd. Showing her support for our forces with a paper poppy, and the customary beers in hand. They deserved to be papped and posted.

Colour! A true statement outfit. Oxblood boots, red tights, a lacy yellow dress and mustard tweed jacket with hair in a bun. Grandma chic. You couldn't help but look at this girl as she scanned the rails for bargains.

Geek chic is still alive and kicking. A good mop of hair, fitted coat and checked scarf with skinny jeans and an air of authority. Another stylish lad photographed by Pablo for Style Council.

This lad had a real grungy look going on. Skin tight jeans, denim shirt, checked scarf, distressed biker jacket, NHS specs and beanie hat. Another winner in the style stakes.

Layers, layers, layers. You can never go wrong when teaming denim with a flannel shirt, a pretty dress, large necklace, silk scarf in your hair and headphones hanging at your side. The type of gal you wanna have a chat with and find out what she's up to. A cute look for a vintage shopping trip.

The owl sweater won it for me. I love silly novelty jumpers, very Flight of the Conchords. Teamed with a tatty looking coat and tight jeans and this guy has that messed up look down to a tee. Another find by Pablo my photographer, he never lets me down.

Cute brogues, cream tights, a pencil skirt, delicate top, chunky belt, sheepskin coat and a flowing scarf. A head turning look for the cold nights drawing in. The broach is a nice touch to an understated look.

Looking like Serge from Kasabian, this lad proves that you can put on your nan's fur coat and still look Rock 'n' Roll. Add a delicate scarf, two day old stubble and skinny jeans, and the look screams 'I'm in a band!' Doubt he's as well off as the boys of England's biggest band.

One all in black and t'other in fur, tights and ankle boots. Two totally different styles, but two totally eye catching looks.

A tweed blazer, flat cap, burgundy DM's and skinny jeans; this guy could be your grandad, but he isn't. Looking every inch the gent, simple but effective.

So I woke up this morning and realised that I had spent ninety quid on a pair of loafers, three jumpers and a cape. A bad mistake considering I don't get paid for three weeks and I have fuck all money anyway. To forget about my spending spree we went and downed a few drinks at the White Hart, jumped on the Central Line and had a couple of poached eggs on toast at home. A perfect end to a lovely evening..........

Jennifer Juniper rides a dappled mare.

Jennifer was hitting the ripe old age of 27. The anti wrinkle cream, which she has used since the age of 19, would have to be caked on in double amounts. Her back pains are getting worse and she complains about a lack of sleep. Jennifer has blossomed into a beautiful woman.

So we all went out for a bite to eat down Walthamstow Village, the only nice area in this section of London. 'Eat 17,' which has featured in Time Out's good eating guide, was our preferred destination. A lovely little restaurant selling English grub with a posh twist. I love Walthamstow Village, it makes me proud to be from this borough. Along with the dog track, now closed down, and Brian Harvey, who is probably running himself over as we speak, the Village has put us on the map, and it was a perfect place to go for Jennifer's birthday.

Most of the family were there. Kenny, the Ford clan's grandad, ex-sailor, ex-carpenter, was on top form. He opted for a medium rare steak and a dark rum, a true man's meal for a real gentleman. Born and raised in the East End, this man could whip up a wardrobe in the time you could brush your teeth. Always looking effortlessly handsome, Kenny wore a knitted jumper and trousers for the occasion. Famous for turning up at the Toby Carvery in a pinstripe suit, he has a style that no-one can match. A real pleasure when he makes an appearance, the man didn't let us down.

Young Alice and her hubby seemed to co-ordinate in nautical blue. An avid Tottenham fan, Andrew has had a bit of bother with the mother-in-law, who's a passionate gooner, but due to my allegiance to the mighty reds of the North, he seems to have slipped through the net. With Alice's hair getting blonder every day and tan getting deeper in that hot East End sun, Andrew is gonna have his hands full keeping hold of her. Having known her since she was 6 years old and witnessed her impression of Tina Turner on numerous occasions, the youngest Ford is always the life and soul of the party.

So after we ate, we were walking back to the car when we heard some rock and roll music blaring through the doors of the Queens Arms, and decided to take a peak. As you can see from the pictures above, the live music of 'Double Trouble,' who looked like a couple of scaffolders, was too much for Kate and Jennifer. Adam was tempted to ask for an autograph from the lead guitarist but was scared he would start a stampede, and I just sat as usual. It's good being a cripple sometimes. Least I never have to go to the bar.

It was a very important day coming up. A barbecue for 30 people at my house and also the start of the football season, perfect. We hailed a cab home and opened a bottle of wine to wind down. Five hours later we were still drinking in the front room as the sun started to come up. The mix of painkillers, wine, beer and anti depressants was a perfect cocktail for the 16 hour bender that was ahead.

So the girls got up after a couple of hours sleep and proceeded to cook tons of food and arrange the house so that the many people who were due to arrive could squeeze in. My job was to blow up the balloons. Another perk of just getting out of hospital. I decided to wear my liquorice all sorts knitted jumper and tweed jacket, I don't know why, maybe the lack of rest had affected my mind. We were all geared up for the day ahead.

Dave Hughes, aka the 'Budgie Smuggler,' turned up and instantly recognised the house from many years ago. As an awkward teenager, I had a party when the old folks were away. A few friends ended up sleeping in the front garden, one passed out in my bed and I woke up in the bath; those 3 hooch's really went to my head.

Outfit of the day went to Adam Mulhern. After his 'Thomas the Wank Engine' ensemble of a few weeks ago, he stole the show again in black bow tie, fitted white shirt and black skinnies. Hiding behind a pair of RayBan's due to a thumping headache, the man owned the barbecue. Producing burger after burger (Nottingham Chris had just arrived) his energy levels increased as the number of Carling in the bucket fell.

We were honoured that he lovely Miss Draper came to the do. Drinking vodka and coke in a wine glass, her Amersham class couldn't be suppressed. Calling me 'Philium' all day, which I may change my name to on depoll, I always get a bit morbid around her, which I apologise for. Now living in Leeds, I can report that she hasn't picked up a strange accent.

Cheeky Nottingham boy, Chris, a University friend of the middle Ford, became obsessed with my hat. Nicknamed 'Chrissy two burgers' for his ability to munch fast food in seconds, he fell asleep kneeling on the floor at about 4 o'clock in the morning. Rumour has it, Chris wants to move to London but has to man up if he wants to live in the big smoke. A lovely lad, if a bit of a lightweight, he's welcome back to my gaff anytime. Just warn me and I'll get the fridge filled up.

Even Stevey Ward turned up to the party. Having been banned from nearly every licensed premise in Chingford, and even friends houses for being a general pest, the lad was pretty well behaved. His karaoke performance was shocking, and the slurring of words increased with every jack and coke, but the dancing was inspirational.

All in all, the day went without a hitch, apart of the pissing down of rain all afternoon and the Chelsea score. The neighbours were probably fucked off, and the house looked like the shoe bomber had made an appearance, but I heard through the grapevine that Jennifer had a good time. And that's all that matters.

So, after 11 months, numerous operations, and a metal rod being shoved down my leg, I'm hoping I'll be able to walk again soon and get blogging properly. Thanks to everyone who came on Saturday, you know who you are.

Spare change guv'ner?

When Harvey met Lola.

It was the talk of Walthamstow, the day that Harvey would finally meet Lola. People were rumoured to believe that there would be more passion in the room than beneath the covers in the big brother house. It would be the wedding of the year, a seven figure sum would be on the table for a picture of the first pup. Videos would be circling the internet of the first arse sniffing, some believed it would get more hits than 'One night in Paris.' Unfortunately, these reports were way off the mark, it was a game of cat and mouse all evening at Bridge End. Lola was indifferent to Harvey, and Harvey was indifferent to Lola. There were barks, nips and playing dead. Lola ate Harvey's food, Tom ate Lola's food. It was all a bit up in the air.

So the day kicked off relatively quietly in E8. Lola picked a somewhat Dickensian outfit for a day in the park. Teaming a white cravat with polka dot waistcoat, she looked elegant in the London rain. She was on her best behaviour, saving all her energy for the night ahead. At one point she ignored the flirtings of a six month old whippet. There was only one thing on her mind, Harvey, the pretty little King Charles Spaniel.

As the afternoon rain began to lighten and the sun slowly emerged from the clouds, Lola settled down on the picnic blanket in a mustard cardigan and flowery scarf. The contrast of monochrome neck piece and vibrant knitwear attracted the followers more so. A terrier was literally salivating at the mouth as he strolled by, a rough looking staff (from the towering estate yonder) bowled over and kissed his sharp teeth. Again, Lola was not impressed. Hackney boys just aren't her thing. She had a spot of lunch, stole some of my strawberry cheesecake and pilfered some wine, a little bit of dutch courage for the night's encounter.

Harvey welcomed Lola with a snarl, he was unimpressed. This was his territory. He had styled his beard and trimmed his hair, hoping this would be the beginning of a wonderful relationship. However, jealousy rippled through his bones. Being a cheeky bitch, Lola ran through the house, pissed on his lawn and nipped at his ears. Harvey retreated to the arms of his owners and proceeded to sleep the evening away. Any friendship formed would be on his terms, and his terms only.

Jason Barra, not wanting to be outdone by the lovely people of Southend, donned socks and sandals for the occasion. Add a pair of grey, Nike tracksuit bottoms and we have the style of a true Walthamstow boy. Harvey seemed embarrassed to be seen with his owner, and at one point tried to bolt it out the front door. Harvey was beginning to like Lola and her quirky ways and didn't want to be shown up by his landlord.

There was much dancing and merriment to be had at the Barra's. Lola did a jig, Harvey bum surfed and Steve had a fit. The evening was running very smoothly indeed. Everyone was talking about the sexual chemistry between Lola and Harvey. They just couldn't leave each other alone. Lola tried to mount Harvey, Harvey was playing hard to get; the OK! magazine deal was on. This was going to be bigger than Katie and Alex. A fly on the wall documentary was on the cards.

So I had a chat with Harvey, asked what he thought of my bitch. It was all positive. He thought she was pretty, had just enough junk in the trunk and had nice dog breath. He wants to meet her again. And Lola, well she'll hump anything. But there is some bad news, Harvey's had his balls chopped off and Lola's been spayed, so there won't be the pitter patter of tiny paws.

And the last word went to Mr Barra. He warned me that if Lola ever fucks around behind Harvey's back, he'll hunt me down and put a bullet in my head. But don't worry about me cos I've already put in a complaint to the fashion police.

Spare change guv'ner?

The world ends in Southend.

So I was kinda interested in discovering whether the style and grace of a lot of Londoners had spanned its wings and ventured further afield. Past the suburbs of Walthamstow and Chingford, down the A406, through Buckhurst Hill and Loughton and ever speeding down the motorway towards the wonder that is Southend. It hadn't. They were at least 15 years behind the rest of us. Some, if not most, had no teeth. Weather beaten men in shiny leather jackets were gambling on the shitty fruit machines at 10am, some were on the john smiths. And for some reason, 70% of these Southenders were steaming around on mobility scooters. They were actually pulling up to the bar, parking up, jumping off and strolling to the toilet with ease. Yes people, Southend truly is Tower Hamlets by the sea. It's a shit hole.





Miss Kate Ford and I (she looks remarkably like the Pint Sized Snapper, who was spotted at the superhero convention) settled down outside a lovely pub called 'The Hope;' apparently an 18th Century Coach House, with as much charm as the Nelson Mandela Estate. I set up shop, hoping to spot the trendy amongst the crowds. There were no trendy people, there were no crowds. I remember as a kid, getting in the car for a day out by the beach. I thought it was brilliant. I would buy my bucket and spade, settle amongst the obese, shell suit wearing, mullet sporting Essex dwellers, and quite happily dig up the toxic waste and swim in the piss sodden sea.
I witnessed kids of this generation doing the same thing. Poor bastards.




Last year when I was bumming around the world, I stopped at a place in the middle of the desert called Las Vegas. Apparently stars such as Frank Sinatra, Elvis Presley and even Barry Manilow have graced the towering hotels along the strip. In Southend, I could imagine Bernard Manning, Jim Davidson and Rick Waller donning their Sunday best to wow the locals. They would love it.




This gentile looking fella was on the hard stuff at 9.30am. Sporting a greased back look, brown fleece, leather look coat and Rockports, he was the pick of the bunch outside the Hope Hotel. With trademark homemade tattoos and a distain for people who 'aren't from these parts'; the Willie Nelson look was attracting the toothless women cruising by on their scooters. A true Southender to the core.




I spotted this guy and his Mrs sitting outside the pub (can you see a pattern emerging here) I loved his clip on aviator style shades, his native American tee straining to cover his ale filled stomach, blue plastic bag, retro tattoos and week long stubble. Obviously gasping at 9.45am, a nice pint was just what the doctor ordered.

Now, I would never mock a human being for having a disability. It truly is a dreadful thing to live with. But I believe I have the right to question people who zoom around on their scooters, only to get up onto their feet to change up a tenner for the one arm bandit machine. Have I missed an advertisement along the way somewhere? Is Southend the place to migrate to when our legs let us down?

An amazing return to form here for this lovely looking lady. The 'number 1 wag' top was the best item of clothing I saw all day. Teamed with peroxide hair, with roots growing through, and a couple of kids in tow, this lady caught the eye. I actually did some digging and rumour has it she was spotted leaving Jermaine Defoe's flat in the early hours of last Saturday morning.

So this guy was my most stylish man of the day. Tracksuit bottoms, Velcro sandals with socks, an ill fitting Ben Sherman style shirt, 80s specs and baseball cap. I caught him loitering outside the pub. Majestic.

So, I think I may have to travel back towards London to spot the style conscious amongst us, because I think the people of Southend worry about other things. After all, the scooters don't run for free, the dental bills are a nightmare and the bar tabs are sky high. So, if you fancy sharing a toilet with a random on a night out, or sunbathing under a grey sky, or paying over the odds for a bag of doughnuts, Southend beats the South of France every time. Maybe I'm just a cockney snob, but give me the big smoke any day of the week.

So, after a spot of crazy golf, a go on the 'Rage' roller coaster, about 6 pints, a greasy hot dog and a deep fried doughnut, I thought it was time to jump back in the supervan and get back to Walthamstow. I was disappointed. Southend, you let me down, you let my readers down, you let Essex down, but most of all, you let yourselves down.

Next stop, Selbourne Walk, E17. Be scared.

Spare Change guv'ner?

The cool kids and the East End thrift store.

So I put my leg together with some duct tape, jumped on the Hammersmith and City line, had a pint at the Blind Beggar pub where a certain Ronnie Kray blew the brains out of a rival gangster for calling him a poof and hobbled to a cobbled passage where I thought young trendsetters may be grazing. Oh, and also to spend some of my dole money.

A free bar and a chance to rummage through cheap second hand clothes seems to attract the snappy dressers, and last night was no exception. The East End thrift store, just off Mile End Road, was awash with the style conscious, the retro fanciers and the forward thinkers. With a glass of wine in one hand and vintage pieces in the other, the London fashionistas had a chance to pick out a bargain for those long awaited summer days. Check out the guys I spotted as I scanned the rails.

Craig Holloway, a 28 year old tailor, described his look as "Classic English." Looking effortlessly stylish in denim shirt, tailored khaki shorts and espadrilles, teamed with cropped hair and groomed beard, Craig pulls off the 'just out of bed' look with ease. The perfect outfit for weaving in and out of that London traffic.

Luke Ferris, 24 year old manager of the East End thrift store, looked edgy in a classic Ralph Lauren shirt, cut off denim shorts and brown brogues. With his closely shaved back and sides with lip and nose piercings, Luke brought the 70s punk look into 2010. Describing his look as "Johnny Depp in Cry Baby meets dodgy Ralph Lauren," he mirrored the individuality of the Hollywood star.

I love this look. Gene Mcquillan, a 22 year old student, brought the country to the city. Tailored barber jacket, turned up drain pipe jeans and tan deck shoes transform the young lad into pipe smoking gentleman. A simple outfit, but none the less, stood him out from the trend setting crowd.

Simply teaming a red tee with skinny jeans, deck shoes and slanted hat, 25 year old photographer, Kris Myhre, shows us all how to pull off the perfect summer look. Add a distressed leather jacket, handlebar moustache and sailor tattoos, and you have a style hungry, human cannonball lookalike, perusing the thrift store rails.

Conor Fitzgerald, 17 years old, student.

This fresh faced youngster was doing it in soft leathered boots, cut off drain pipe chinos, vintage rock tee and worn denim jacket. Perfectly suiting his slim frame and adding class to a ruffian look, Conor could have stepped off a boyband stage. The swept red hair enhanced his individuality.

With grungy hair, battered boots and baggy grandad top, you could mistake Ed Parmer for an East End vagabond. However, the 18 year old student brings the chic to the hobo. The muted colours work perfectly with his happy disposition and I love how Ed brings confidence to such a dressed down look.

So, this is my mate, Mr Adam Mulhern, a 26 year old Red Bull rep. I thought I'd put him in here because he's got that Klaxon/Drums look going on at the moment. In double denim, which everyone loves (as long as they're contrasting colours) school plimsolls and vintage looking t-shirt, Mr Mulhern has that edgy 'boy next door' look, or as his Mrs calls it, "unclean and unironed." That's love for ya.

Tim Metcalf, 35 years old, lecturer.

I love the NHS specs, buttoned down shirt, old man's brogues and flannel trousers. I reckon Mr Metcalf looks trendier than most of his students. The one thing I hate about English society is that men don't dress like men anymore, but Tim brings back the 50s gentleman. I just wish lads would iron their trousers like him now and again.

So, I woke up this morning and the leg was fucked again, couldn't walk, tried, but couldn't. But when I'm up and running I'll be papping those stylish peeps out there. I might pop down to Walthamstow market or see what's happening in Loughton. So keep reading.

Spare change guv'ner?