Watch as excessively refreshed lasses in cheap clumpy shoes and muscle-bros in Palm Angels tees stagger out from ball-pit bars to compete to see who can be the most obnoxiously screamy. The whole area might as well be one bottomless brunch. That said, fans of arseholes are well served. Even the Ace Hotel has undergone an anaemic transformation into 100 Shoreditch.

Menswearists Present went a while back, Sunnysiders is shuttered and if you’re looking for Artwords books you’ll now have to head to Broadway Market. If any non-Londoners are in any doubt, the area’s once progressive reputation is long dead. The only reason I visit Shoreditch these days is Goodhood. I sometimes erect the ironing board, top up the iron with water and then think about all the shirts I could iron at some point in near future. Like repairing that loose handle in the kitchen, or watering the near-dead houseplants. I find not having a job also provides plenty of time to think about things I could do. Then you can look out the window again to see if anything’s changed. You can start reading a novel, then put it down after four pages satisfied that you’ve ‘done some reading’. Then you can use your hands to scoop up any bits of fluff on the coffee table, cup the bits and then carry them to the peddle bin. You can pick up a big coffee table picture book, flick through it, then replace it on the pile. Principally I’ve discovered that when you haven’t got a job, there are quite a few things you can do to fill the time.

Here’s another dispatch from the frontline of joblessness for you - you never know, it might be useful one day. I’m yet to figure out what role an individual motivated entirely by menswear should play in this apocalypse? When I’m being shot at by guerillas and my arm is on fire, does it matter if my Undercover tee is a couple of seasons old? Will Mr Porter‘s swimwear selection be more or less popular when half of London is underwater? Spare a thought for the gas and electric barons, you could get a nasty paper cut sorting through all those bin bags of cash. We’ve got Liz Truss and Ukraine and Pakistan and on top of it all NASA’s forgotten how to launch a rocket.Įven those at the top are hurting. There are over 100,000 vacancies at the NHS. My corner shop is now offering an instalment plan on a loaf of Warburtons Seeded Batch. Capitalism, it is broadly agreed, will be the death of us, which is apparently inconvenient as there are loads more NFTs to mint. One minute the world is going to burn, the next drown. But everywhere I turn these days, the spectre of tragedy is prodding me with his scythe. I know I can be prone to a mildly nihilistic outlook. In an attempt to draw pleasure from the idea of appreciation rather than ownership, here’s a round-up of pieces that have caught my eye but not (yet) my wallet. It’s a weird liminal space, neither one thing or the other: pulling the trigger on a purchase can feel frivolous, but what if the piece you want sells out before discount time? What’s worse being broke or missing out? Plus of course, the festivities are incoming, and with them the joyous inconvenience of having to buy other people stuff.īeing too into clothing is both a delight and a curse.

Late-season pieces are still dropping, but you know the sales are around the corner. An awkward time for the clothing enthusiast. It’s hardly surprising we haven’t solved the climate crisis, the rise of the far right or the economy, we’re still a race bewitched to a standstill by a string of coloured bulbs. It was like trying to squeeze through a Spartan phalanx made of Adidas Gazelles, H&M bags and iPhones. Quite by accident, I recently found myself trying to cross through Oxford Circus just as the Christmas lights were being switched on. Twenty five hours of simplistic word games and ironic prizes later, I have learned nothing. I thought that studying a dude at the top of his game might provide me some insight into what it takes for me to realise my personal ambitions. I decided to watch Richard Osman, the massively successful presenter, author and TV personality, to get some inspiration. But even so, it just seems fundamentally unfair. And yes, she works incredibly hard and has a positive can-do attitude, qualities that make me feel queasy. I mean, yes, she’s got a great job, one I’m uniquely unqualified for. I’m writing metres of cover letters, she’s pinging me lists of celebs she’s spotted. I’m scrolling through Linkedin looking for a new job, she’s shopping in Williamsburg. I am at home in Peckham watching Richard Osman’s House of Games. My girl is away in New York on business - a whirl of fashionable meetings in Soho House and dinners at The Wythe.

Dazzle dry broadway beige