From the ages of eleven to sixteen, I wore twelve-hole second-hand Dr Marten’s that seemed to have been made from solid cast iron, men’s checked pajama bottoms, a padded lumberjack shirt and a child’s Adidas t.shirt. I had waist-length hair which I then chopped into a multitude of ill-advised shorter styles that I styled with crispy Wella spray gel, I was spending hours in my bedroom burning joss sticks and not being understood by anyone and wanting to go out with Darren Adams from the year above who had hair curtains and a Nike rucksack, and I idolised Kurt Cobain. Happy dayz. Before his fame sent him even more bat shit and he blew his brains out, he was a genius and an icon and he died too young. That’s it.
(For the little bellend, Sam. Xx)