A shirt is NEVER acceptable unless it’s denim or disgusting
A typical Leeds evening, I head to Sainsburys to withdraw some cash and am immediately put off by the sight of a drunken tramp lolling at the back of the queue. Fuck living in Hyde Park. I join behind, avoiding his bleary eyed gaze. At which point he turns round “aight bazzzzza”. It shamefully dawns on me, this isn’t a tramp; it’s much worse, a “Streetonian”.
Three years ago these boys left school with a wardrobe dominated by checked shirts, argentine polo belts, and neon face paint. What changed? Their Ralph Lauren chinos now lie discarded in the attic of some lavish country pile in Shropshire gathering dust until the next shoot dinner. Instead they now inhabit a world of Dunlop and vintage “adidas”. Suits are now tracksuits, the hair that used to be doused in sun and longer than Bon Jovi’s is now shaved to an inch of its life on both sides and NEVER washed. The accent that once made Boris Johnson look ghetto now mirrors that of a drunk Jamaican from the East End.
You never say mate always ‘brrrrothaaaa”, things aren’t cool, they’re only ‘siiiick’ and don’t say “k” cos it just ain’t pure in Leeds anymore boiz. These people don’t dance, they skank, and only to artists who names relate to weed or end in dogggg (yes “Leaf Dog” – we’re referring to you.) They spend their nights at the Brixton jam, raaaarving, sweat pouring down their aptly bronzed “summered in Monaco darrrrling” complexions as their family crest awkwardly glints on their pinky.
Every item of clothing is the ultimate example of class confusion. Church’s loafers are now an abominable faux-pas having been replaced with the rebok claaaaaaaassic. A shirt is NEVER acceptable unless it’s denim or disgusting, and must be buttoned to the top. And you’re nobody without a piercing. In fact this last part of the mantra has been causing the ultimate trustafarian catch 22: Which side to pierce? As a friend eloquently stated last week “It’s not that I’m a bender I just can’t do the left brow it’s the side I shoot with boi”.
As these awkward bi-products of middle class guilt drag themselves home every Sunday morning with Daddy’s emergency Coutts card covered in coke in their pocket after a pre hooch at the Hyde Park pub ended up getting way out of hand, you’re forced to ask how these places claim to churn out the ultimate gentleman.