On a coach the other day I saw a young man, maybe in his late twenties, who was startling to behold.
A classic late-70s skinhead look. Twelve or fifteen-hole Doc Martens; jeans in a classic, unbleached, bold blue with the bottoms tightly folded up to ankle height; a white Fred Perry shirt under a spectacular Harrington jacket with the authentic tartan lining; sideburns, and - best of all - the required red braces, worn down, hanging around his arse. Genius.
He did seem to have slightly mixed his genres, as he was carrying a small satchel hung by a shoulder strap upon which he, or persons unknown had written the words, "NO FUN - NO FUTURE".
No fun. No future.
He had a leaflet for IKEA in his jeans back pocket.
A classic late-70s skinhead look. Twelve or fifteen-hole Doc Martens; jeans in a classic, unbleached, bold blue with the bottoms tightly folded up to ankle height; a white Fred Perry shirt under a spectacular Harrington jacket with the authentic tartan lining; sideburns, and - best of all - the required red braces, worn down, hanging around his arse. Genius.
He did seem to have slightly mixed his genres, as he was carrying a small satchel hung by a shoulder strap upon which he, or persons unknown had written the words, "NO FUN - NO FUTURE".
No fun. No future.
He had a leaflet for IKEA in his jeans back pocket.
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