It’s on days like today I find myself wistfully drifting away to an ethereal soundtrack involving dramatic rock music with loads of geese squawking in the background. I find myself asking deep, deep questions of myself. Who or what am I? Where am I going? What would it take for me to wear Spring/Summer Supreme? That sort of stuff.
I’m taken away to a far less self-conscious version of me. One that has never been Section 60’d, drank cider in a park or eaten a Pot Noodle. It’s me if I had dual heritage, lots of tattoos and absolutely no care in the world. It’s me if I wasn’t really me, basically. I’ve often wondered what life would have been like if I’d been called Marc rather than Mark. I was born a year to the day after Marc Bolan had his last hit (alas, a big fuckoff tree) so by rights, the C rather than the K should have been a formality.
Maybe if I was a Marc my life would have been different. Maybe I’d have been comfortable wearing a tracksuit top that looks like a futuristic stained-glass window. Perhaps my burgeoning boxing obsessing would have taken place while wearing a shirt that makes me look like an actual peacock? Perhaps the thought of wearing a t-shirt featuring a picture of Morrissey wearing a t-shirt would be something I’d be compelled to wear, rather than buy then put on eBay in six months.
Who knows, or cares? Not you. I know that much.
Here’s some photographs anyway. I’m off to have a big sleep. I think I probably need it.