Another month closer to normality. I can taste the warm beer already.
In all honesty, this month has been a bit of blur – my only concept of time is completely orientated around Manchester City games. So in that case, I’m just gonna get cracking for the sake of consistency.
SCRIPT OF THE MONTH
February was all about writing for me. I only managed to squeeze one YouTube video out because of it.
The reason I prioritised writing above all is two-fold.
I have recently got in touch with a screenwriter and they have been tremendously helpful to me. And before getting in touch with her, I was convinced that the film industry would continue to seem impregnable for me. But now, it feels like I’m finally cracking through the walls. Andy Dufresne style, but even he made it eventually. Anyway, she said she would have some spare time at the start of March to read over my stuff so I’ve gone gung-ho writing and rewriting to meet that aim.
The early-bird deadline for Austin Film Festival’s Screenwriting Competition is March 16th and this is one script I wanted to enter.
But anyway, the bastard is done (for now). I’ll wait until I get some feedback before I decide whether it’s just finished, or finished finished.
A couple YT videos hopefully. A final re-write of ‘Dying For An Inheritance’ in time for Austin. And hopefully, a scene-by-scene breakdown of the next script I’m going to write on Ching Shih.
Look her up on wikipedia if you have no idea who she is.
Anyway, this’ll most likely get no interaction but to hell with it, I need help on a title.
MOvie reviews of the month
Nomadland (dir. by Chloe Zhao)
As discussed last month, the lack of new UK releases is painful. So for the first time in years, I turned to Putlocker. And in all honesty, the constant pop-ups and the picture quality, especially the shadows, hampered my experience a bit.
But what I can say is that this is an Oscar frontrunner for a reason. It’s rare to find a film told with such honesty. There’s no embellishment, no stylisation. It feels like a documentation on a snippet of an ostracised community, bound by loss and humility. It is both bleak and beautiful. As soon as cinemas open I will be flooding in to re-watch it.
Also, Francis McDormand is going to sweep up awards left, right and centre. And having seen her performance, I will have zero argument with that.
⭐⭐⭐⭐
Rating: 4 out of 5.
Malcolm and Marie (dir. by Sam Levinson)
What can I say that’s nice about this movie? Well, in patches Levinson seems to capture a real life-like voice in his writing. And erm… well quite simply, John David Washington and Zendaya deserved better than the rest of the film’s self-aggrandising bullshit. Bar the patches that I previously described, the rest of the film is brimming with an adolescent impetuousness and angst. It’s well, boring. Plus, the best camera work is all in the first five minutes, after that it’s all a bit… meh.
⭐⭐
Rating: 2 out of 5.
MOVIE IDEA OF THE MONTH
This idea I had a while back when watching Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom. It was also an afterthought after I watched a Louis Theroux documentary on US prisons.
The idea is this – a play but told via film.
It would tackle very serious themes, such as the diabolical state of the US prison system and racism.
The cast would be as such:
The protagonist – a new inmate thrown into a communal cell. Beaten upon arrival.
A young kid (14) – got involved in a drug gang from a young age. The gang forced him to shoot someone.
An older, respected inmate – he would be due his release and would be protective over the kid.
A mentally ill inmate – no care for his mental illness. Extorted by other inmates.
A gang-member – fully indoctrinated by the make-belief laws with the prison system and gangs.
Two white prison guards.
And it would end in tragedy, the gang-member killing the older inmate who is due to be released. That’s the broad brushstrokes and I believe it could be an incredibly strong story.
However, I don’t think I should be the one to write it. I mean, what can a white, middle-class Englishman tell anyone about the struggle of the black community in America? I’d wager I am as ignorant as most people and although my intentions always come from a sincere place, I would be bigoted to believe that I can authentically write about these people and their struggles. So I will look elsewhere, but I hope a similar film will soon be made (perhaps it already has) because it is an incredibly important story to tell.
For many, a holiday is an adventure. An experience. An escape from mundanity.
For me, it was all three and also a giant pain in my arse.
Lesson number one of Going on Holiday with Friends… For Dummies: do not get pissed the night before your flight so you fly on three hours sleep. Leave the aching pains and despair for the flight home. Secondly, when I say ‘lesson’, I do not use it sparingly. For this post is essentially a catalogue of mistakes from which I hope my enormous audience of my mother, father and girlfriend will learn from.
Anyway, save the drinking until you get there. I doubt I gave my mates the cheery welcome that they imagined en route to the airport when I rock up without saying hello and begin whinging about my ‘big fuck off bag’. And I know I didn’t imagine the weeks prior that I would be slumped waiting for my flight to Krakow, anxiety-ridden and shattered.
Lesson Two: activate your travel card before you fly so you’re not immediately fannying about with borrowing cash from your mates and spending precious brainpower working out how many pints equivalates to the money owed. However, my travel card from Starling Bank works wonders so hey, maybe I’m good for something.
Lesson Number Three: bring earbuds. For me, this was the first time I had travelled for a lengthy period of time with these lads. The only occasions I had slept in the same room as them were occasions I was ‘concussion mode’ drunk. After drinking I would be able to sleep through the noises of a construction site even if it was in the next room. The first night in Krakow, I wasn’t capable of getting in such a state. I therefore discovered that one of my mates snores. Well, I knew that already. What I didn’t know is that throughout the night these snores rotate between sounding like a human traction engine and a dying boar. So yeah, another four hours sleep for me. I can’t complain, however, I just feel sorry for his missus.
Preliminary lessons taught. Tick.
Now time for the actual holiday. Destination One: Krakow, Poland.
Puns aside, Krakow is a cracking city. There’s a solid blend between the historical tourist attractions and the young energy of the city. Bustling with students and bars, a lot of the time you’re better off going off the beaten track. If you’re drinking, avoid the main square like the plague. As a young lad, you’ll get pests wandering up to you saying ‘cocaine’ and ‘titty bar’ every two minutes. My advice? Hala Glowna. It’s one of many bars situated 10 minutes NE of the central square. Instead of getting ripped off, you’ll be paying less than two quid for strong beer and four quid for an entire pizza. The area its situated in is brimming with a young crowd every night – essentially Krakow’s Northern Quarter. Deck chairs, unstable hammocks and a dodgy smelling club all to boot. What’s not to love?
Poland is a country of good booze and shit food. It must be pretty depressing when your delicacy is pork knuckle. Because of the quality of the restaurants (and because we were being tight arses) we resorted to cooking our own food a couple of nights. Trips to the local supermarché were therefore necessary and this is where I ran into a bit of trouble.
So first night, just arrived, eager to head out to the city. But we’re hungry, we want to stock up on scran, we want to see Europe’s array of Milka bars. The shop is just round the corner, we get there, my mates take out some money, I borrow some of their money. We’re strutting to the entrance of the shop when some big bald Squidward-looking fella comes out carrying out the bins from the shop. After clocking my accent, he goes to swing this bin into my leg as he’s walking past. Like any normal Brit, I apologise once, twice, thrice. Squidward stands still, eyebrows twitching as if they’re about to fly off his head and stares, no, glares at me until he’s literally forced to blink. Always picking on the little guy…
Inside, he keeps looking at me like he’s got nothing better to do. My Milka bars are calling me though (FYI Milka and Tuc goes off). Whilst the cashiers took half an age to scan a single item, the trip to the shop finished smoothly. That’s until, we opened our large bottles of water. Now sparkling water is wrong on an ethical, moral, humanitarian and sensory level. It is angry water. However, apparently it is socially acceptable a beverage that tastes like puddle water from Chernobyl. We bought four, yes FOUR, litres of sparkling water before managing to buy a single bottle of still water. Always open before you buy people.
Now that I have proven I am able to complain about anything, even water, I shall ease up and tell you all the positives of Krakow and its experiences. The main square in Krakow is the biggest in Europe and it is majestic. In European capitals it is often hard to find an ugly building. Krakow is no different. Enclosed within lines of tall pastel-coloured buildings are grand clock towers and churches and picture-taking-tourists. The main square is somewhere to amble around. It’s good for A pint because of everything around you but no more.
Next up on our grand tour of non-emotionally-devastating landmarks of Krakow… we have Wawel Royal Castle. In all honesty, this castle won’t take your breath away. It’s well worth the steps on the way up and a welcome departure from any you will see in England. A concentrated agglomeration of domed and spired towers is the highlight and the gardens are pleasant but don’t take more than an hour. Ultimately, it is free to visit and that’s a rarity. Go see it, don’t be lazy.
Now for arguably one of the most emotionally charged tourist destinations in Europe, Auschwitz. Because of the price and our budget, we decided to go here instead of the Salt Mines or Schindler’s Factory and I don’t regret our decision for a second. About an hour out of Krakow, you can feel the sobering atmosphere once you step through the gates. Some particularly harrowing highlights of the tour were the guide reminding us that since the Nazi’s burnt a lot of the prisoners bodies, their ashes would be scatted among the earth we were walking upon and the collection of shoes in the museum. Within the workhouses are now glass displays, within which one held thousands of confiscated shoes. Between the mountains of shoes and the glass was a small bare space and as I walked along the corridor of the exhibition, I noticed a single shoe occupying this space. A shoe that will have belonged to a little girl.
Auschwitz is an intense experience and if it had not been 36 degrees and drained of all moisture, I would have shed a tear or two. The guides are genuinely excellent though and it would be foolish to visit Krakow and not visit Auschwitz. Just remember the tissues.
Krakow done.
Next stop: Bratislava.
‘Where?’
It’s in Slovakia.
Just a heads up, when interrailing, especially in the less prosperous countries of Europe, the trains are a pain in the arse. Our journey from Krakow to Bratislava was over ten hours in total. Multiple changes, three delays and two annoying twats sat next to me. I love them but when you’re in such confined spaces with your best mates there will never be a time when you’ll want to push them on train tracks. Bring headphones, a book and a deck of cards. And when dealing cards, never do it when one player is in the toilet or you’ll never hear the end of it.
‘You lot have cheated. You’ve given me all the worst cards. I’m not stupid.’
No, you’re just shit at shit-head.
So eventually, we arrived in Bratislava. Don’t get me wrong, we had fun whilst we were there. The cheap pints kept flowing, the unhealthy food kept on being guzzled and the heat kept us sleepless. Unfortunately, Bratislava is a graveyard of a capital that has cute little streets but monuments that scream communism and remind you of a Call of Duty map. The whole city can be seen within a day. 12 hours. 6 hours. 3 hours. An hour and a half if you’re quick. I’m being quite harsh as it did have it’s niche little spots. Umbrella-covered streets, sticker-laden walls and lego-constructed bricks. But ultimately, it was the most forgettable of all the cities that we visited. Even its castle looked like something my little brother would make on Minecraft.
Expectations vs Reality.
Thankfully, there was two perks of Bratislava. Firstly, we stayed in a hostel rather than an apartment which meant that we spoke with other travellers. While generally, I’m quite antisocial and people struggled understanding what we said in our accents, it was nice and refreshing to speak to other people. Finding out about other cities and other people’s stories always makes for fulfilling conversations. Although, I must say, the Australian we shared a room with needed his mouth strapping up with duct tape – Mr. Worldwide type. Naturally, when you meet more people you’re more easily convinced to participate in group bar crawls and that is exactly what we did. Now, bar crawls are a rip off and I tried telling my mates that but do they ever listen? Aside from that and paying over 30 quid for a round in the ‘club’ the bar crawl ended in, it was a pretty fun night. One highlight was when some random skinny kid we were with getting kicked out after being caught stealing Coronas out of an ice bucket that belonged to a Brock Lesner look alike. But the best has to be that we managed to convince an American girl that everyone in Manchester says something is Claude Makelele when they want to say it is rubbish. Because Makelele… macca… rubbish. Yeah, doesn’t really make sense to me either.
Undoubtedly the best part of Bratislava, however, was that it was only an hour away from Vienna. On our second day we got an early train to Austria and ticked another country off our list. While Bratislava is bland, Vienna is rich. The simplest architecture was substituted for glorious sculpted buildings and so forth. Vienna is one place that I wish I could spend a long weekend there for. It is arguably the most beautiful city I’ve visited. It’s large though and thus, the six hours that we spent there weren’t enough. Unfortunately we weren’t able to see Schönbrunn Palace or the Museums Quartier but FORTUNATELY lime scooters exist. £15 well spent on whizzing about all day seeing buildings upon buildings, each more majestic than the last, whilst simultaneously pissing off locals because you nearly run them over was the best £15 I spent whilst I was away. My personal highlights were the Karlskirche and Hofburg but honestly, spend three days in Vienna, it will be worth it.
Slovakia ticked off for once and for all, we went onwards to Zagreb. Another 10 hour journey of inconveniences and intimidating Slavic police checks and we arrived. Waltzing out of the train station we were greeted by the sound of two Croatians, guitar in hand, making George Ezra sounding even worse than usual. But the sun was shining, the relief was real and we were ready to meet another one of our mates that night – which meant one thing… getting pissed.
Zagreb, many of you will be glad to know, took the crown for the cheapest pint all holiday. In the majority of the city and the main streets for drinking and eating, we found that it was around £2 per pint, which is reasonable enough in my opinion. But then we found the holy grail – the land of the one pound pint. Now this place was tucked away in a secret square, you’ve got to look or you won’t find it. Unfortunately for you (if you ever go to Zagreb, unlikely with King’s Landing on the horizon), I can’t remember the name of the place, nor can I be arsed looking it up.
Now, I’m not singing Zagreb’s praises purely because of the price of one bar’s alcohol. Zagreb had arguably the best atmosphere of all the cities I visited. It’s not bustling and stressful, everyone seems genuinely relaxed. No locals tried to kill me here which is always a bonus. But Zagreb had a grittier underground which we soon discovered. In our favourite gaff, we wondered which shit EDM club we could grace our presence with when a wallet fell out of a bloke’s pocket that was sat across from us. My mate, Charlie gave him his wallet back and this bloke started speaking to us offering his thanks. He told us he was a big Croatian actor, which I doubt otherwise he wouldn’t be mingling with the likes of us. Then came his second questionable claim – he told us that tonight, in exactly one hour’s time, there was a ‘big big party’ in a bunker that happens once every two years.
So off we go, no questions asked, like giddy school children with a belly full of beer. The more we walked, the more we said ‘where the fuck is this?’ Every step took us further out of the centre of town, to quiet little roads where old biddies walk their dogs. We thought he was having us on, until we heard a sound. Drums, drums in the deep. Google maps was thrown out of the window, we followed our ears like starry eyed fuck heads. A couple of minutes we were there, at the entrance of this clandestine tunnel. We went down into the rabbit hole. This seedy looking WWII bunker went on and on and on until it opened into this huge space, flashing lights galore, floor littered with Budvar cans and eyes covered with sunglasses. Store Street, eat your heart out.
So we run off quickly, apparently a bar next door was selling cans. Passing through lots of Croatians looking worse for wear and.. a small swarm of policemen. We begged and hoped for the best but alas, when we got back the rave had been shut down. Ten minutes, ten bloody minutes of bliss and feeling like we had cracked immersing yourself in a different society and it was over. Ah well, things went from better to worse that night as we went to a club, argued because Mario wanted to go home, forced Mario to stay and watched Mario projectile vomit across the dance floor. The night was cool though, a peak of the holiday probably. The next day, however…
Poorly… Missing School… Terminally Ill.
Was absolutely horrible. With fatigue setting in, every day after we went out we were MIA, shades of our former selves – soft arses. Be prepared for days of moping about and feeling sorry for yourself on holidays like this. I must say, however, we nipped shops and bought our own food and cooked ourselves a stir fry. Well me and Oli did, some of us stuck to the chicken nuggets and chips. But honestly, homemade food may as well have been Michelin star quality. I had consumed so much shit that I was becoming what I ate and it felt good to eat something other than pizza or a burek.
Luckily for us, Zagreb isn’t a city that you need a lot of time to do all the sights. It’s compact with no major standout attractions. A couple fancy looking churches, like everywhere else. A few unexciting museums, like everywhere else. And one glorious looking cathedral that was ruined by large amounts of scaffolding, like every other attraction, ever. And thinking about it, I cannot recall a single time where I have looked up in awe at something, groaned at the disrupted aesthetic and then said ‘fair enough’ when I realised there were workers on the scaffolding attempting to preserve the building. Not once.
Oh well, just another opportunity to moan before ending Part One of The Memoirs of Three (Four) Hopeless Travellers.
Before studying at university, you hear stories. You ask parents, friends, older siblings, teachers even. There are certain myths that circulate around university. The drinking, the workload, the ritualistic consumption of beans on toast, the copious amount of sex, and of course, the drinking. There are as many myths about fashion. To debunk both myths in one fell swoop, let’s talk to a bard – Qozeem Lawal, Creator of Achilles Clothing Ltd.
Qozeem and I swiftly became friends in the early weeks of first year through a certain disdain for the patterns we recognised. New students forming cliques with people they are likely not friends with now in an eager bravado that screamed ‘I need friends’ (be patient, people, you’ll find them). Those first conversations you had with one hundred plus people: ‘What’s your name, what do you study, where are you from etcetera, etcetera, etcetera’. And most importantly, the majority’s fits going from Abercrombie n Fitch to a floral shirt and Stan Smiths.
Since then our angst has morphed into acceptance.
What follows is a discussion of our experiences of the fashion culture in and outside of our Nottinghamshire bubble.
G: So, Nottingham… describe to me what you make of student’s fashion here.
Q: The second I arrived in Nottingham, I said to my dad ‘I can feel my fashion sense leaving my body’. I saw a bleak landscape; sad students getting on trams. I saw lots of art, lots of neeky folders, lots of wannabe arhcitects – but not much fashion, at least on the surface. Looking in deeper, there are some nuggets of gold.
Imagine this: boy, girl – average students at Nottingham. What are they wearing?
Well, they both shopped next to each other at Urban Outfitters. Probably wearing the same thing because girls wear boy’s clothes anyway. They are wearing a champion sweater *gestures at my jumper*, maybe Dickies, Air Force 1s. Girls probably wearing a champion sweater too, pants from misguided with the stripe down the side of them or flairs and they are DEFINITELY wearing some white Fila Disrupters. My mum has those, that’s probably a bad sign.
Would you say there are distinct looks that large numbers of people adhere to in Nottingham? Or across the whole spectrum of students is the fashion sense very varied?
You could split it up into subjects. When you chill around engineering/physics buildings, you see these Mark Zukerberg looking people. Plain tees, jackets with pockets in them.
Shirts from Marks and Sparks…
Yes, basically. Moving onto the more liberal artsy people, you start to see hippie fairies like ourselves. You start seeing colours, rainbows, perhaps things that don’t make sense. There was one individual walking around Hallward Library (sorry if this is you, I really do like your confidence but I wouldn’t wear it myself), he was head to toe in black. What I mean by that is black cowboy jacket, black trench coat down to his ankles.
BTEC Dex the Freak…
BTEC Dex the Freak that needed resits.
How much of an influence is vintage clothing within university?
Vintage clothing is the staple of fashion in uni. Without vintage, without your UO, uni students would be forced to be all like engineering students or would be forced to go all out expensive like the internationals: head to toe Balenciaga, Gucci, Valentino – all because their dads could afford it, lucky.
We have been seeing the re-glorification of Oxfam, charity shops in general, Cow is filled to the brim on those candy-coloured stairs everyday with students. Yourself, how much vintage would you wear?
Firstly, I don’t rate vintage shoes. They don’t tend to be in good condition. Plus, I like where shoes are headed at the moment. Vintage is a good place but it’s important to branch out. You use a vintage statement piece, that’s cool. But head to toe vintage is a bit safe: you think you’re not safe because you’re wearing vintage but this is old school, this has been worn before. You think you’re cool but you’re really not.
People were cool back in the 70s and 80s when they wore it. But so is fashion, cycle after cycle…
I just realised, there is no such thing as originality. Can you think of anything original? No. It made me sad. But so there must be an original art form, but perhaps we just copied nature.
Vintage clothing is a huge aspect of the fashion culture at university. Do you think there will ever be a place for it among contemporary high-end fashion? Certain brands, such as Ralph Lauren, obviously. But when you think of silhouettes, say from Ader Error, even small brands, such as Unknown, the silhouettes are very similar to something you could pick up in a vintage clothing store. But do you think there is any place for vintage in high fashion.
No and I’ll tell you why. Obviously, everyone has their ‘hand-me-downs’, people go steal things from their dads, myself included. But now that it has caught on so much, you have brands trying to commodify this increasing rush to buy old vintage pieces. They weren’t really high fashion pieces when they were realised but now, when they’re at their most expensive they are now considered high fashion. Then time passes, their last seasons and they dip in prices. Few years pass by and they become rarer and their prices spike up again and we say ‘boom, this is vintage fashion.’ That works for proper respected high-end brands, say Champion, Nike and Adidas. I don’t think anyone is going to be rushing a vintage Primark piece.
But you could definitely blend the two. So for example, do you think you could rock Balenciaga Triple S with the rest of the outfit all vintage.
It could work. I feel like you see a lot of it today. A lot of modern trainers and vintage top and maybe, a fast-fashion lower half.
It would just seem, to me at least, at university: you have the people who can afford the higher end clothes, whether that is brands such as Gucci, Valentino or more down the streetwear route, Supreme and Palace come to mind, people with these clothes tend to be decked in it head-to-toe. There seems very little merging. Unless a streetwear boy finds a rare Polo piece.
If you have the money to wear everything from Italian or French designers, you’re not going to go out of your way to buy a vintage piece. There is also a cult following with a lot of these brands.
To any budding first years out there, attempting to ‘find themselves’; perhaps after a summer trip to Asia; what fashion advice would you give to them?
First things first, look what you’re bringing to university. You should have at least one thing that no one else with have. Step out of your comfort zone but make sure you can adapt to what you’re wearing. Sometimes, even if someone tells me that I look good, but I’m not comfortable, I’m not feeling it, something is itchy – whatever – that reflects on how you carry yourself.
How would you describe your own fashion sense and how has this manifested into the thought processes in designing your own clothes?
My fashion sense is two years delayed. Ever since I started a fashion brand, I have not bought myself clothes. Why invest in someone else’s business when I can invest in my own? Number 2: I have a couple of key pieces which can make any outfit shine. I have one coat which I know George has been eyeing up the moment he stepped in here…
It’s his pimp coat. He’s the Cruella Deville of black men…
So if I want to stun anyone, I can do. But nowadays, my outfits are more practical. The more pockets the better, tactical vest etcetera. I know fashion is headed in that way, but I have a lot of things to carry anyway. If I look better carrying them, all the better.
How has your fashion sense manifested itself into the designing of your own clothes?
It hasn’t. At all. My clothing is based off what I wish my fashion sense was. It’s about what I find interesting, in art and architecture, painting. I love all forms of expression, not just fashion.
What’s the biggest influence then? Classical art? Or is that one of many? A specific designer?
It’s not any designer. It’s a mood really. It’s that mood when you’re on holiday, it’s the sun making the back of my neck black, it blaring down upon some ruins, it’s that peace and serenity you lull yourself into. You don’t have to check the time, you just exist in an eternal moment for a little while.
You say that, but your designs can be a little dark at times…
That’s just what I find cool. I think of landscapes and I imagine what clothes would look good in photographs against those landscapes. I’m a visual person, I wish I had the time to get more into photography. Luckily, taking photographs, making promotional videos, are a big part of running a brand. That’s probably my favourite part of the creative process. Creating the whole vibe and look with the clothes. That’s what people look for in a brand. People buy blank garments with a little logo on them because they’re buying into the brand, the mood and the vibe that has already been established.
Would you say some people are not aware of the surrounding aspects of a brand before they buy it? Supreme, for example… how many people do you think buy it purely because they’ve seen other people wearing it?
I rate around half the people who wear it know that it is a skate brand. I think more people know it as simple streetwear. The people who are a little bit aware of the idea they’re buying into, I think it happens naturally. When you’re interacting with the brand, looking at the website or the promotional material, in an idealised way you could tell what sort of individual they’re trying to get at.
How important do you believe it is to imbue a brand with its own narrative?
Sometimes no narrative is required. For example, brands will make Yeezy inspired clothing for the people that can’t actually afford Yeezys and that will sell. But sometimes, if a brand is to have longevity then often a brand needs to transcend simply fashion. You think of Ralph Lauren and it isn’t just a name, he is a figure.
You don’t see him, you see the polo bear too…
Exactly. It wasn’t a narrative, it was just a mood. After speaking to a manufacturer who pressed me into creating one, I got that mood into words. Essentially, my middle name is Achilles and I, as a Greek, am interested in Greek mythology. Now Achilles is known for having a flaw but he is also remembered for being a hero. I am trying to make people understand that you can be open about your flaws and get over them but you can still be considered great.
What are the difficulties that you have faced trying to begin a venture of this ambition whilst juggling the responsibilities of university?
The biggest one is financial issues. My last drop was nearly £700 for the clothes alone. Then you have to factor in everything else, posting, web-service, URL. Time isn’t as big an issue as you might think. I do most of my designing in the summer holidays, painting, shooting etc. That’s when I have done my drops because that’s when I have the most time. I have a backlog of designs that are ready to go. But there are so many other things that go into running a brand, running a business. You have to know laws, HMRC, Companies House, know taxes. That bit was the most mentally straining.
Do you think, now in retrospect, that university may not have been the best path for you to take with a view to you achieving your dreams, or are you content with your decision?
Personally for me, no way. What an L. What a mistake. The issue is, we are not taught simple things like land lords. Often we’re extorted. All I get on my lecture slides is a random quote – I miss a lecture and that’s what I’m left with. I guess you can say it’s an experience, you have independence. But it’s not that deep, you don’t need university to experience independence. Living by yourself isn’t all that. All you do is cook. And then you realise your cooking is nearly killing yourself. And then you start to order a kebab. And then the kebab man knows your name. And then he’s asking you how your mother is.
And now, a few words of inspiration, because I called you a bard and I know you like to give them, as if you’re some low-level Martin Luther Junior…
There is no wisdom for fashion. For life, there is no such thing as ‘If it’s meant to be, it will be.’ The truth is, if you want something then go and get it. Don’t be passive, be aggressive and chase up opportunities.
INFLICT 