The sound of a thousand Uggs slurping across pavements and shopping centres does battle with the squelch of The Hunter Boot. The subterranean dungeon of Hollister vies with the eighties styled male models of Abercrombie & Fitch. White ceramic watches clash with pink ceramic watches. The proletariat coins are the spoils of this high street war.
Brands that have a cache amongst the self proclaimed famous are dangled in front of the credit and debit card carrying everywoman and everyman, like medals of honour in the no-class war. Burberry bore the brunt initially, as its recognisable check was high jacked by the Daily Mail christened Chav. YSL labels adorned the underclass; Channel was flaunted in Dagenham, Gucci bandied in Wanstead.
Shopping is a new battlefield. The young ‘Emo’ mortified by his mum’s idea of cool as he is dragged around the shops grumpily. The hordes of sensory challenged youth throng outside Top Shop; legs shackled by low slung jeans, heads permanently bowed at the behest of their mobile phone screens, peripheral vision hampered by hoods; these are the new Moorlocks. The salesman and the charity collector; one and the same on permanent look out for the next mark. The floor squatting group of girls with their decaf lattes and Australian inflections. These are the foot soldiers scurrying around at the orders of the Generals in Kensigton and Bond Street.
All in search of the label, the lifestyle association, the aspiration. An aspiration manufactured by former students and trustafarians, designed at a distance produced at low cost sold at a price. That price is the price of dignity; you really can fool all of the people all of the time.
I'm surprised that more people don't go on raged fuelled killing sprees.
I'm surprised that more people don't go on raged fuelled killing sprees.
