dok

The snow cleared up almost as fast as it arrived, which was a bit of a pisser because I was enjoying the tantalising prospect of spending a few impromptu days off. Still, I’d made the decision that my Doc Martens were no longer up for the continuing shitty weather so after leaving the office and trudging through the rapidly happening slush I found myself in Covent Garden in the Doc Marten store browsing more contemporary versions of my trusty black 10 holes.

My now ex-Docs were one of the last pairs made in the UK. When I bought them they were being featured next to boxes containing the first of the batches made in Thailand, this was back in the days when they weren’t remotely in vogue so they were only £60. They’ve served me incredibly well but over the last few months the sole has split and I got sick of super-gluing them together. During Italy water started to get in so it was only a matter of time they’d need replacing and I figured sale-season was the best time, though so far nothing I want has been included in any fucking sale on account of my excellent taste.

After much bumbling on account of the shop staff, with a bit of my own chucked in for good measure, 30 mins after entering I walked off with a pair of 8 hole jobs with a toe cap. They’re as tall as my old pair but are satisfactorily the same, but slightly different, as the classic pair I’ve gently packed away in my flat. My newly purchased footwear and I met up with my bro in Seven Dials and we marched off to The Ship on Wardour St. to meet Harry, Frank and the two Robs to break my 2-day drinking amnesty. Lovely evening I must say, in addition to the company and ale the music was bloody marvellous, even The Dead Kennedys got a spin. By the time I hit the tube at 11 I was a bit squify, on account of the recent spell of dryness and the fact I’d forgotten to eat (and wasn’t prepared to do so at such a late hour) it was as if I was 8 pints down or so. The tube journey came and went in a flash with my i-pod inserted into my ear canal in order to save my fellow passengers from an onslaught of horrific black metal.

Oh, some good news, my ex-buyer, the one whose deposit I won after her bank fucked the deal up is trying to sue me to claim it back. So there’s some news right there. Jesus Christ.