New Soles

To walk in one’s shoes is to face fear

To tackle prejudice with imagination

To taste a life not necessarily meant for you

…Or indeed its owners. 

Never a rarer glass has been raised 

Then the one celebrating our differences. 

THE LAND OF LOST THINGS

A children’s story I wrote a few years ago for my first niece Meela May. A very feisty and independent little lady I thought the protagonist of this tale should be relatable ha. 

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It was a stormy Monday night and Elsa Thompson couldn’t sleep.
She had lost something. Something most precious.
It wasn’t under her bed, in the toy closet or next to Dad’s slippers.
She had checked these places first.
It wasn’t behind the sofa, in the sandpit or hidden in her hiding place.
She had made sure to check these twice.
It wasn’t even on the step Mum would send her if she had misbehaved
She checked here reluctantly, but carefully.

It was definitely lost.
The little chest she would fill with many things.
Beads, bracelets, pennies and pencils lived there.
Not to mention feathers, phantoms and frogs feet.

The chest was old.
Older than Elsa
Older than Mum
Even older than Dad

It was wooden and smelled like Granddad’s house.
Wise and full of stories.
Elsa used the chest everyday.
She would look at the many things she had collected.
They were shiny and dull.
Happy and sad.
Elsa loved to keep them all.

But now the chest was lost.
Lost somewhere.
Lost in the land of lost things.

Granddad had told Elsa about the Land of Lost Things.
It was very far away, further than France.
That was far away because teacher said so.
Granddad said teachers don’t know everything.
Granddad was older than teacher so Elsa believed him.

This land, said Granddad, was somewhere between a sneeze and a dream.
A place where you could find anything that had ever been forgotten.
Sunken treasure, ancient cities and the car keys.
Elsa knew her wooden chest would be there.
Elsa knew she had to go.

Later, laying in bed and drifting to sleep, Elsa sniffed the pepper she had taking from the kitchen that dinner.
The pepper tickled her nose and made her eyes go funny.
She sneezed loudly and the whole bed shook.

There was a whooshing sound.

Opening her eyes Elsa found she was no longer in her bedroom.
There was a mountain of gold next to her as well as a huge trunk full of mismatched socks in front.
Letters zoomed round the air like bats and nearby rivers were filled with scrolls and books.

This was the land of lost things.
Elsa knew this because she could see uncle Grahams old coat he had lost at Christmas.
The sky had no clouds, just brilliant ideas people hadn’t remembered.
And cat’s and dogs chased each other on roads made of train tickets.

Every lost thing seemed to be organised in big piles.
Elsa simply needed to find the pile of boxes and chests.
She began to walk.

First she passed the suits of armour, rusted and old.
Then she passed the skeletons who talked of wars long over.
The pirate ships which rocked in the wind.
And a dinosaur taller than a house.

After walking past the pile of chairs and tables Elsa stopped.
She could see her chest.
It was very high up.
Very very high.
Right at the top of a mountain of mismatched wood.

She began to climb slowly and carefully.
Elsa wanted her chest back no question about that.
She wasn’t scared, but still she never looked down.
Dad always said ‘don’t look down’.

Soon she had reached the top.
It was the highest Elsa had ever been.
Higher than the church behind her house
The moon and the stars even turned and said hello.

Grabbing her wooden chest tightly she slowly made her way back down, and after what felt like a long time Elsa was at the bottom and safe and sound.
Placing the little box gently on a close by table she slowly opened the lid.
Where her precious things still there? She wondered.

Elsa stood on her tiptoes and peered inside.
There was her feather, golden and proud.
The photo of her imaginary friend Jeremy.
And a collection of boiled sweets her auntie would always give her, but Elsa didn’t like.
Everything seemed to be in its proper place.
She was happy.
Now there was only one problem left.
How was Elsa going to get home?

Magic.
That was the only way.
Magic would whisk her home no problem.
Elsa just needed to find some.

Granddad hold told her that magic was not pretend.
Magic was very real.
Real but lost and forgotten.
Luckily Elsa was in a land of lost and forgotten things.

If magic was lost so were the books full of spells.
Spells that could turn day to night.
Make an onion king of Persia
And take someone home on the lightest of breezes.

Rushing past the snarly beasts, the toffee birds
and all other creatures that had vanished years ago
Elsa came to a huge library.

The library of magics looked a little like Elsa’s bedroom.
But one hundred time bigger.
Dust covered books lay everywhere.
Dusty books were Elsa’s favourite.

After ten minutes looking a book named ‘Tougoodes Travellers Handbook’ was found.
It had lots and lots of spells for going somewhere.
Page 27 had just the right spell for Elsa.
The ‘Going home on the beam of the sun’ spell.

Wiping the dust from her dress and holding her wooden chest Elsa read the spell aloud
‘I’m all alone, no-one around, please oh please can I go home’
She then did a silly dance and pointed to the sky feeling very unsual.
With this a bright yellow light covered Elsa and she began to spin round and round and round…

And then she was home.
The spell had worked.
Which Elsa knew it would because she had said it very clearly.
It was important to speak clearly teacher said.

Elsa was most happy she was back with her secret hiding chest.
It had been quite an adventure.
She would have to tell Granddad all about it
Granddad would laugh at her cleverness and give her biscuits.

Elsa put the wooden chest on her bedside table.
Then, having an idea placed a heavy toy on top.
That would keep the chest where it is.
Elsa didn’t want it disappearing again.
Oh no, she didn’t want it to become yet another lost thing…
Not again…

 

Not So Nine Lives

A short story I finished last year combining my interest in spooky things, love and life. 

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He would affectionately call her the queen of Sheba, after the cat food, such was her feline grace. They had met eighteen months ago under unusual circumstances that still remained crystal clear in Jeremy’s mind. It was New Years Eve and the then twenty-nine year old Jeremy had just been unceremoniously dumped, timing wise both heartbreaking and convenient considering that in three hours everyone got a fresh start once the fireworks flew. He knew tonights combination of red wine and wholesome country cider was one he would later regret but the beauty of having your heart smashed is you’re allow one to become the cinematic ‘broken man’ cliché. All red eyes and bitter stagger, booze in both hands and regret flying from the tongue. Sitting on the edge of the canal his glance soon found the moon and thus caused childhood memories of his dad chain smoking to Cohen and Waits records to rush back, it didn’t cheer his mood. Lost in self-pitying thought for a few minutes he slowly noticed the scent of clearly expensive perfume, probably Parisian he mused, and turning his head to the right found himself staring at a girl.

By girl he of course meant women, a rather attractive one at that, and despite the deepest urge to run from all things born of Eve in his current vulnerable state he still found himself smiling at her. To Jeremy’s delight she returned the gesture displaying glistening white pearls in doing so, it was like a toothpaste advert come to life, but classier and much more captivating.
“Bonsoir” she said

The word was delivered with tremendous Gallic charm but the accent somehow seemed older, more exotic to the recipient’s ears.
“Good evening…” he nervously replied
Jeremy swiftly nudged the half-empty corner shop red behind his back to remove the impression that he was a canal dwelling tramp and instead tried to shift focus to his brand new hundred pound brogues.
“Please, there is no need to be ashamed”,  she laughed “It’s new years; we’re all allowed to live a little yes? Besides may I be allowed a sip?”
Jeremy had a fleeting suspicion that he was being chatted up for his alcoholic possessions but one look at his new companion’s jewellery and dress sense said otherwise.

“Of course”
Handing the bottle over the mystery woman took a hearty glug and after wiping her mouth in a rather unique manner gently handed it back.
“Merci. What is your name” again the voice hit like a truck
“Jeremy, and yours?”

She paused, rocking her legs over the edge of the pitch black water is if trying to remember something long forgotten, something that once had meaning.
“Madeline”

And that was that. After some more idle but rather charming conversation the duo found themselves walking side by side along the canal discussing all manner of things. The stars, vintage fashion (for which they both had a strong love), solitude versus popularity and organic veg. Jeremy can’t recall how the last topic arose but he recalled how it made them chuckle. When the main stretch of the canal finished they decided to find somewhere untainted by drunk patrons to enjoy a few drinks themselves and see in the New Year. Amazingly, after a few twist and turns down an alleyway Madeline seemed to know like the back of her hand, they stood before a small dimly lit café only half full. The cliental were mainly aging locals, mostly couples, and none under sixty. A brief chat with owner while ordering revealed that he enjoyed to open his doors so late just once a year in order to give his most faithful regulars, and often widowed, somewhere to spend the night rather then their own living rooms. Despite the odd circle of friends they were able to locate a free table in the corner and sat down, quite happy with themselves for finding such an escape from the crowds. In the light Jeremy was able to admire Madeline properly, her hair a neat bob of shimmering dark hair that framed her features well and gave the impression of an old silent movie starlet. The rings as well, antique, overly decorative, but still demanding respect in terms of craftsmanship. He was happy he had opted to dress up for the night, it had always been irrational fear of his to be caught off guard and suddenly thrust into a formal situation, or in this case meeting a beautiful woman. This was the reason Jeremy had started wearing various suits from the age of fourteen. He brother called him a ponce.

When the countdown neared the kindly landlord offered the use of the balcony which connected to the upset flat, a chance for ‘intimacy’ he suggested and hurried them up the stairs with a wry smile and reassurances that he did not mind.
“The fireworks are for the young” he whispered
“We’ve had our times, enjoy your new beginnings” and after switching on a dim lamp he turned and made his way back to his faithful customers to see in yet another twilight year.
They kissed of course, when the sky lit up, a passionate kiss on the balcony more real and true then any kiss Jeremy had experienced before or since. The whole night had been both simultaneously unusual and full of movie clichés so while his mind was racing with excitement it wasn’t overly surprised. He was just hypnotised. Running into the streets they danced carefree with a group of youths rather merry off the contents of their parents drinking cabinets, arms thrown towards the clear night sky, fingers playing with the stars.
Ninety-seven was now a year full of promise and of hope and strange dreams- of possibilities. In fact the recently heartbroken man had already forgotten his ex, despite the five-year relationship and fond memories, memories that were already fading link ink from the page. The night soon grew old and with dawn approaching the streets slowly lots its vibrancy. Madeline stated she had ‘no home’ and was currently residing in a nice little fifties hotel situated in the north of the city, so they walked, they checked in, and without any hesitations they entered the room. They made love till dawn, no words were needed, no awkwardness was felt. Amongst the cries, the sweat and the whispered promises Jeremy noticed the unusual tattoo’s adorning Madeline’s back and neck, ancient and sacred. Least he thought they were tattoos, he didn’t really care.

Fifteen months later and the happy couple found themselves living in a small but homey cottage a few miles outside of Edinburgh. It was an easy distance to work and allowed the lovebirds enough space to make a racket recording homemade folk E.P’s in the shed (aka Sheddy Road Studios). Jeremy found himself blessed with a nicely paid graphic design job while Madeline wrote history books for academia. Some of her theories were mildly controversial but she had a cult following and a steady stream of people willing to buy in bulk. All things said life was blissful, the best of times only rarely interrupted by what could be described as the weakest of arguments. Jeremy’s family loved Madeline and as Madeline had no family of her own, all long dead in a road accident, they were overly eager to shower affection on her. Drinks with friends were a twice-monthly occasion, which suited the couple nicely, both loners by nature and trips out rarer still. They were truly isolated and thus intimate and happy. They caused quite the stir upon arrival in the village; such is the case in small communities. Young couples are always cause for the most heightened excitement, especially a couple of ‘intellectuals’ and a foreigner to boot. Before long though they were on first name basis, first the butcher then the pub and of course the post office, such is the order of things. People liked ‘Jezza’ and ‘Maddy’, polite and charming – didn’t upset the balance.

Then the cats began to disappear. One at first, Thompson, Mrs. Greenly’s fat tabby which hung round the corners shop for fuss. The usual bold black and white poster went up around the village. Last seen on the night of the 12^th, liked kippers, answered to both Thompson and Tommy. Reward £50. Three weeks passed then Snudj vanished. Snudj was an opted Siamese owned by the teenage couple living above the fish and chip shop on Ockley Road, they missed him dearly. Then Red. Red was like a miniature tiger in appearance and lived near the park. No one claimed ownership but all knew he was missing. Eight more cases over the course of two months forced the police to door to door questioning but nothing of use was told. The cats with homes went out at night, they never returned. Jeremy liked many others presumed it was some disturbed kid, you read about it all the time, how they first started on animals and down line, Bam! You had yourself a full-blown nutcase of your hands, hockey mask and all. Madeline said he was being ridiculous and that a large animal was more probable and in addition that hockey masks were in short supply where they lived. Jeremy couldn’t fault her sensibleness.

Another month passed and after one boring Sunday spent of his latest designs Jeremy opted for a quick drink and walk to escape the study. Hearing his lady typing away he decided to go alone, knowing better than to disrupt her work- that way pain came. After a hearty pint of Kings Gold and a sly smoke with Nick the bedroom fitter (his mum and M did not approve), Jeremy decided to do a round of the green, and wander home. What was planned to be a relaxing meander home was soon interrupted by a hysterical Mrs. Collins rushing over.

“ You see it Jez lad?” Squawked Mrs. Collins in her own uniquely irritating way
“ See what, Sue?”
“The shape! Over there by the hedgerow, heard my Arthur cry I did and looked over there a saw this bloomin’ massive black shadow” she was on the verge of tears.
Arthur was Mrs. Collins’ three-year old moggy named after her dead husband, it was a vicious bugger.
“ Shape? Over there?” Jeremy calmly gestured toward the hedgerow opposite the wood
“ Yes sir, it was over there, my Arthur…” Miss Collins eyes began to swell and she took a step back.
“ Right ok, lets have a look Sue, Arthur probably get himself stuck”
Jeremy really couldn’t be bothered with this on a lazy Sunday, lazy being the operative word, but he could see the woman was really distressed and had no intention of sullying his good village name. Wondering over it was clear the Arthur and the so-called ‘shape’ were nowhere to be seen, however it was quite possible he had run into the wood if startled. Knowing that the overgrown wood was too much for Mrs Collins dumpy frame Jeremy understood he must volunteer.
“ Right Sue, how about you stay here and I’ll see if I can fish him out, if he does a runner you can grab him.”
“ Oh thank you dear, I hate to bother you”
“No problem, be back in a mo”
Stepping over the thorny hedge Jeremy hesitated a moment and leaned back out.
“ Couldn’t look after this though could you, hate to scruff it up” and throwing his vintage suit jacket to Mrs. Collins waded in.

The wood reeked of something, most likely a dead badger or the sort, and from the off it gave Jeremy the creeps. He’d passed the slight bit of woodland on the eastern side of the village a thousands times but never had paid it much mind, it was just very non-descript. Once inside though it caused many a word to bounce in the head, dark, dense and thick as shit being a few. Every step made Jeremy stumble and on every branch something seemed to move or at least that’s what it felt like, he wasn’t able to make out much in the twilight. All this for a bloody cat he thought. After walking for a good three minutes in this mess he saw a clearing down below and what appeared to be a collar.
“At last’”

His relief was short lived. Scrambling down to the clearing it was the silence that first hit Jeremy. Complete silence. Unnatural and alien, the kind of thing that you first realise inside then finally out. The second and equally disturbing realisation was noticing the pile of pet collars nestled by a tree trunk, many of them, some coated in a dull crimson red. He wanted, no needed to run, but stood motionless anyway, he knew that he was spotted, by what he didn’t understand but he could feel it tangibly eyeing him. He turned slowly seeing noting but darkening greens as the sun became weaker, then at almost a full circle he saw Mrs. Collin’s so called ‘shape’. It was almost bodiless but the more Jeremy took it in the more it gained form, first human, then female, like smoke taking on weight and mass it shifted in till it became his Madeline. Not his Madeline though, not like this, it was similar yes, but the eyes, the eyes were yellowed and malformed, not unlike a reptiles but so much worse. And the jaw, gaping, endless and after fresh life, a collection of animal fangs attached to a cavern more terrifying than any imagintive child’s nightmare. It looked at him with knowing eyes; it’s gestures sickeningly familiar. Jeremy didn’t even notice his bowels emptying. Raising its left arm Arthur came into view, alive but motionless; Madeline opened her jaws wide, now a vacuum, a pit, and a noise indescribable and unknown emitted from the space. Arthur went in and down no trouble, no chewing no cry. Just in and gone. Jeremy didn’t look away. For some stupid reason he couldn’t get the image of a wishing well out of his head. Madeline slowly closed her mouth and looked something closer to herself, taking a small step forward she observed her man, an almost saddened look upon her face. Jeremy wanted to cry out, to scream or attack or denounce. To curse and kick and harm… most of all he wanted to wake up. Madeline turned and in a moment faded out of existence, a spectre soon lost in the light. Jeremy knew he would never see her again.


He told Mrs. Collins that he had seen nothing and before she could protest or enquire to what took him so long he walked home like a man possessed. He somehow knew she wouldn’t be at home, he knew he was safe but he also grasped that he could never return to this place. Packing some basics, and cleaning himself up Jeremy headed to the city not looking back even once. After three months the company were able to give him the requested transfer to their London branch and some leads on a new flat. He never spoke to anyone about his previous life, always joking about how the future is what matters and throwing ‘Carpe Diem’ around to such a degree he sounded like the uncaring bastard he never wanted to be - or worse his brother. His flat was modest, his wardrobe new, a peace lily his only companion. He tended to avoid cats from now on.


 

Tender Age In Bloom - Nevermind 20

My unedited article for Artrocker published earlier this year on Nirvana’s seminal album.

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Tender Age In Bloom

This year marks the twentieth anniversary of Nirvana’s seminal and game changing album Nevermind. Still as influential and powerful today Sam Walker-Smart explores how one band’s defining statement put a musical genre on the map and raw emotion into the ears of millions…

 Writing about Nirvana is nothing new. The sixteen years since Kurt Cobain’s untimely departure has supplied the interested with a small library of personal accounts, rock n’ roll anecdotes and psychological dissections. These however are of little true importance; it’s the music that counts and the music that still grabs new listeners every week by the scruff and demands to have your attention. Over enthusiasm for a subject can often blur its true intentions, punk rock is simple, pure, and after all it was the man himself who said “I don’t wanna be a fucking spokesman”. Nirvana were simply three guys making a lot of racket over the course of seven years, and a handful of albums. Through dumb luck and relatable content they just happened to be the perfect antidote to the bloated industry of the time, the audio anemia mainstream music needed.

 

“I gotta find a way, a better way…”

 

 The late 80’s were the product of years of excess. The disheartening seventies now long over, coupled with American economic growth, resulted in shoulder-padded ecstasy, as even rock music (a genre normally relied on as the voice of the downtrodden and dangerous) became a glossy, hairspray soaked ode to ridiculousness. Even those not as guilty as the Poison’s of this world became detached stadium fillers, one-time miserablists or beer drenched metalheads suddenly able to sell out Madison Square Garden or the Dodger. Naturally the kids not happy with what was getting fed to them started their own thing. A knee jerk reaction resulting in underground lo-fi cultures in towns such as Boston and Seattle. The fuzz was on, the kits battered, the rooms dripping with spit and sweat; the only pyrotechnics you were gonna get at these gigs came if somebody accidentally knocked a joint into the air. Labels such as Sub Pop were quickly founded to try and capture the excitement via compilations releases (Sub Pop 100) and E.P’s featuring the likes of Green River and Soundgarden. Within months Bleach appeared. Now, infamously, the band’s debut but then a critically admired low budget oddity that failed to chart. Despite plenty to please Bleach suffered from following the upcoming ‘Seattle Sound’ too closely, and while angst filled, lacked the lyrical charm of the bands future work. It would take two years for Cobain to find his own voice, one that would soon knock the ‘King of Pop’ off his pedestal.

 

“I’ve found my friends. They’re in my head…”

With a young power horse of a drummer called Dave Grohl now on board and a deal with DGC Records allowing a $65,000 budget the band entered the studio with Butch Vig and recorded from May through June 91. Twelve tracks emerged (excluding the terrifying secret song Endless Nameless) totaling in at a modest forty-two minutes and thirty-eight seconds, proving length and grandeur does not equal artistic achievement. Opener “Smells Like Teen Spirit” may arguably be the most overplayed rock track in history but it’s initial impact on first hearing even twenty years down the line is undeniable. A sparse yet catchy guitar line accompanied by a burst of Bonham worshiping drumming immediately became the calling card for teenagers across the globe to run into the other room and watch the gymnasium destroying video on MTV. A year spent listening to R.E.M and the Pixies had added a distinct melodic as well as surreal edge to the material, the structure of pop backed by the fury of punk. In simplest terms; the winning formula of being ‘nice enough’ for girls and dirty enough for the boys, personal despair and sexual frustration delivered via a few chords and often in less than four minutes. Upon release Nevermind gained momentum like a runaway train, eventually achieving Geffen’s hopes of a final sales figure of 250,000 units weekly and then some. Michael Jackson got a taste of second place, Gun’s N’ Roses were smacked down a peg or two and charity shop sales soared as baggy jumpers and flannel became the new black.

 

“Don’t tell me what I wanna hear…”

 

The knock on effect meant that almost every other band with long hair and a distortion pedal got a record deal. Seattle was swamped by A&R men snatching groups from indie labels that actually cared more for the material than the dress code. The big fat cheques just couldn’t be argued with. Grunge was the new punk according to the spin; the early nineties just got its future fancy dress cliché. Two decades can add a lot of mythology to a subculture so Artrocker caught up with author Jon Savage, punk chronicler/survivor and Cobain interviewer to cut through the crap and give a firsthand account. “To me Nirvana were the only group of real substance. Some of the others were good, like Soundgarden or Alice in Chains, but only Nirvana were IT… the whole atmosphere of rumor, danger and uncertainty surrounding the group reminded me of the Sex Pistols in the UK during 1977… a hugely popular group that actually shifted the culture. Nirvana represent the final flowering of US punk from the deep underground to the mainstream.”

From the horse’s mouth then, the forest fire of apathetic music and fashion we look back on was actually something, what exactly and it’s worth is disputable but September 24 1991 was the date it came kicking and screaming into the mainstream. It was on this day that the initiated walked home clutching an image of a nude baby swimming for a dollar, an unsubtle and ironic up yours in the face of the American dream as many happily sat watching Operation Desert Storm with their TV dinner. The floodgates had opened; the youth wanted revolt, and as revolt sold well the corporations were happily to supply it in a host of variations. All wrapped nicely, with a price sticker slapped neatly on the front of course. Viva la revolution.

 

“It’s now my duty to completely drain you…”

 

It’s a shame that the scene’s popularity destroyed Grunge and in the end Nirvana. Some fluff and middle class whimpering disguised as ‘reality’ were undoubtedly released but some gems also emerged. As a subculture the movement has became a calling card for any teenager, a starting point before moving on to bigger and better things and Nevermind has everything to do with that. It remains devastatingly simple, Polly, the first song learnt on acoustic for many, Territorial Pissings’ with its repeated screams getting eventually lost in a sea of feedback and cymbal crashes before abruptly ending. Lounge Act’s opening bass hook leading the listener into two and a half minutes of pure pop with a grudge to bear. It’s accessible, attainable, planting the image that with just a lil practice and some serious parental issues you could make the same noise in the garage. Everyone’s got a hyperactive mate, hell, stick him behind the skins and see what happens, devil may care, Come As You Are is mainly played on two frets, piss. Something In The Way may contain cello but the mumbled delivery and haunting beat proves minimalism done right trumps instrument wankery every time. That’s all Nevermind’s really about in the end; it’s mission statement-stop messing with yourself and just play.

“Our little group has always been, and always will until the end…”

 

Today Kurt Cobain has become the Che Guevara of alternative music, a poster boy with often sickening displays of hero worship, but just maybe he deserves to be. Recounting his meeting and the frontman’s now iconic status Savage gives his two cents, “I liked him a lot, but could see that he was not in good physical shape. He lied to me, of course, about the true nature of his heroin use but then I wanted to believe him. I’m very glad that he has become legendary: he deserves it. The material is extremely powerful and it cuts very deep. No other rock group would dare write a song like “Rape Me”… they have a dark heart which cannot be recuperated. For much of his superstardom, Kurt conducted himself with great courage. And in the end, he was only human.” Humanity, the key ingredient to the album’s success and continuing legacy, reducing musicians once again to mere mortals and not cock rocking pre-madonna’s so far removed from the world us, the little people, exist in. The L.P is vulnerable, immature and pissed, the soundtrack to a bad day and a call to arms for the disenfranchised. It’s just twelve great songs, twelve great songs that perfectly encapsulated a time, a mood, and a state of mind. So give it a re-visit, chances are you have a copy on the shelf somewhere, gathering dust, ready to be unleashed. Best album ever? Definitely not. Damn good? Hell yes. Happy Anniversary….A Mulatto, an albino, a mosquito, my libido.

The Rise of the ‘Dickheads’ and other Cultural Observations

Despite some nice feedback from editors the hipster thing got covered a lot last year. Up on the blog now…

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It’s 2.48am on a chilly coastal night and the house party I find myself partaking in is slowly coming to a close. It’s a student affair, similar in tone and appearance to countless other parties happening that very moment up and down the U.K. Sweat coated rooms filled to the brim with young, fashion conscious men and women all wearing Ray-Ban styled sunglasses despite the absence of any sunlight. The music (controlled by the figure covered in the most U.V paint) is a combination of cutting edge beats and old pop samples, providing an authentic but contemporary retro edge which drives the crowd into a frenzy. The platinum blonde creative next to me leans closer “I love this song soooo much” she cries. I inform her that the bass line is in fact from an iconic record released in ‘83 and get rewarded with a look of pure confusion and disdain as she turns her back on me. MDMA, and for richer attendees, Cocaine, are the drugs of choice, making those partaking as bright and synthetically happy as the coloured jeans they sport. All is cool, everyone is happy. Despite the heat, and enthusiastic dancing, carefully managed fringes and quiffs on show stay firmly in place as the crowd sways back and forth in skinny-fit ecstasy. A stumbling drunk in ill fitting skate wear, enters the crowded room loudly declaring that “the birds are all right, but this place is dickhead central aint it!” the room turns sour and I leave the beautiful and mustached to their own game.

‘Being a Dickhead’s Cool’, the Internet viral mocking the trend setting, and image obsessed British youth of today, has, at time of writing, over three million Youtube hits. Critically dissecting the more extreme causalities of ‘trend’, the video effectively manages to advertise the recent flock of southern graduates and students heading to London, and other more metropolitan locales to take part in the media and music focused scenes. East London however is merely the focus point and unofficial headquarters for the current style movement sweeping the UK’s sixth forms and universities. Topman and Topshops meteoric rise to high street supremacy has insured that the latest fashions affordably make it on to the backs of a high portion of today’s consumers, in turn causing two key cultural changes. One, creating a youth culture more inclined, and due to convenience, more likely to follow the latest fashions and stylistic trends, and two, a branch of more invested parties who try harder to ‘strike out’ of the norm and take their fashion choices to a whole new level. Arguably when everyone is dressing to a certain standard those eager to stand out from the crowd are forced to find new ways to garner a sense of ‘originality’ and thus ironically become a sub-section of similarly dressed people with a more inflated sense of ‘cool’. The grunge movement’s sense of apathy fills these chosen few despite the clear conscious effort they have made to not seem ‘like the rest’- for a movement that spends a large portion of its mornings in front of the mirror they do seem rather nonchalant about their image at times.

Rupert, 20 from Bournemouth, is what critics may label ‘a dickhead’ but personally considers himself “no different to a thousand others in this town”. Over a franchised coffee he tells me that “today’s youth are all about looking good and having fun but with a more artistic edge you know?” I do, and consider how in all honesty it’s been the same every few years since the counter culture began, or even since Byron and pals all got a bit weird and pretentious to scare the stiffs of the time. I ask him about his outfit, an interesting combination of cowboy boots, braces and bowtie “It’s about trying to take the best out of what’s come before you know? Combining them, mixing things up till you get something fresh” Rupert rushes to the toilet and I catch a group of female student’s watch him as he passes. He is obviously desirable to them and who am I to judge.  The ‘dickheads’ costume may be questionable but so were the 80’s.

The states have their own term for people such as Rupert; ‘Hipsters’.

There are similarities- the cigarettes, tattoos, man cleavage and thrift store aesthetic but overall they just don’t seem to have the social peacockery as their British counterparts. Style and culture publication Dazed and Confused acts as bible to these dedicated followers of fashion, with its cutting edge photography and ‘finger on pulse’ tone it proves popular with near every person I talk to. At a fine-art exhibition with free booze many trendy conscious folks meet and discuss that nights ‘secret mash-up’ an event it seems which will dwarf all other similar nights in its pure awesomeness. “Better than last weeks then?” I query to be given a look of almost pity, “Ahhhh yeah. We have a 10K sound system and it’s all on a need to know basis”-“but I know” I retort to be left standing alone in a gallery, clutching a glass red wine, stuck with the question of why anyone would give up manners and general social niceties to wear pink socks and three quarter denim jeans. I leave and go to the nearest bar.

- Illustration Simon Gregory