IT WAS RIGGED

I just returned from a release event where everyone’s Uniqlo chinos were purposefully hiked a couple of inches above their Eras or dirty bucks, and costly SLRs with HD capabilities outnumber an already substantial head count. That’s how I’m living, but it means I’m racing against time to write this blog post in the 20 minutes before Wednesday technically ends (and failing). I actually instigated a low-level debate about journalism and blogging a few weeks back for which I feel  a little remorseful. Not because I retract any of those statements, but because I’m concerned my fellow debaters may rue the minutes spent pondering and typing in return when they’re on their death beds and curse my name in their rattling final breaths. Sometimes it feels good to hop from screen to print.

It’s timely that in a rare CD purchase I just grabbed the ‘Station to Station’ reissue (not the version that comes with faux fan club replicas, badges, vinyl and samples of Bowie’s actual D.N.A. at an immediately regrettable price), and at the same time, ‘The Rig Out’s issue 3 kindly reprints an old piece on David Bowie from this very blog (though it’s been significantly tweaked at this end to make it more paper-friendly), that discusses his habits in the year leading up to the album’s recording. Many, many thanks to Mr. Glenn Kitson for asking me to submit. The layout blew me away. It beat this WordPress ‘Journalist’ theme in a major way, and I’m infatuated with the imagery, fonts and layout.

I hate anything I write immediately after submission—there are never exceptions. It always reads as formulaic, rushed claptrap, and I’m immediately disgusted that I could even have the audacity to Tweet an alert that drives anyone to such mediocrity. I’m not sure this self-loathing leads to stronger work either—it’s just a cycle of self-disappointment and returning to it is just masochism. But for the first time ever, I was blown away to see my nonsense displayed in this fashion. For it not to be about anything pertaining to sports footwear makes me very, very happy.

I’m not going to link to the original piece on this blog or post the piece as it’s shown in the magazine —buy the magazine you cheap shit. It’s only £3, and the overall photography and piece on the ‘Paninaro’ justifies the outlay. Oi Polloi is the store with Europe’s most relevant buying policy—they were weird about outerwear long before you, and while the world is filled with embittered also-rans who could’ve been contenders, this Manchester establishment evades Cold Crush status by using gut instinct to dodge the new breed of biters. It was nice to be involved, no matter how loosely. I guarantee that when you’re denying ever owning Woolrich after the wool, khaki and workboot implosion of 2011, you’ll still be admiring Oi Polloi’s latest stock and lured in by those talkative weekly bulletins.

I’m not going to reiterate what the internet’s already told you. You know where to pick this publication up.