RE-APPRAISING THE FASHIONABLE EAST*

MIDDLE CLASS FREELANCER FROM WEST COUNTRY GRANTS ROYAL FUCKING PARDON TO "FASHIONABLE " LONDON". FROM ELEVATED HORSEBACK POSITION. EC HUMBLY OFFERS THANKS SQUIRE.

I've been in London for about a year so who am I to say where is and where is not but what I will say is that I'm fucking bored of the adjective Hoxton.

In terms of journalistic cliche its up there with x on y drug; if z never happened.

"So Hoxton"= Haircuts (any) electronic music (any except handbag trance) Fashion (any that doesn't come out of Knightsbridge or a Jay Z video). Living in a flat with big windows. Living in a flat with big windows and a wooden floor.

Hoxton's alright really- I mean you should live in fucking Soho. An endless parade of euro-muscle and drug-lean fuckmeat. All squeezed into hidious aspirational fashions- tight D+G tops and distressed / distressing jeans. Lunatics scream abuse at you from the moment you wake up. Other shady toughs just mumble darkly in strange and martial languages.

Compared to this the wild frontiers of east London seem like the promised land. The trouble is (and i'm covering a lack of research here) is that when the (what I am told by real-estate pals is a standard thing) prostitute to artist to real estate to numediadotcom exchange happened in this part of town, no one told the old media. Or the inhabitants of West-end style-bars- who colluded and decided to fight this new menace for all it's worth.

ITEM ONE: A WELL KNOWN SHOREDITCH FANZINE

This local oddity is still around. Its role was two fold:

a. to ensure a regular stream of revenue from a pissweak brand of american lager to keep a famous nightclub open through its numerous lineup changes

b. to tell all those denied entrance to the hot new East-end party in the first place that they were even less cool by trying to get in on shit. Fuck we own this shit and we don't even care.We say its rubbish. How needy are you? Yeah, come to our club that we don't even like, yeah fuck it why not. Ha! you could even drink some crap beer- which we're scamming money off. Ha! please come.....

Last issue it changed its name to "Camden Twat" Usual targets. Giles Petersson. All very funny, meanspirited- and beautifully done. Got to be a lesson here somewhere about hating the things you love / apocalypse now style shooting the boss but I guess we'll come to that.

ITEM TWO: TREVOR "ACTION" JACKSON

Funny looking fellow to be sure. Kind of like Art Garfunkel mixed with Maurice Fulton. Undeniably a genius in the fields of both music and graphic design. Unashamed resident of EC2. From Jockey Slut, next years James Lavelle speaks:

"I know its seen as fashionable to live in East London, But I'd rather live here where people do something genuinely interesting than west London which is full of fucking idiots. Hoxton is seen as an insult. What's that all about? If I went up to someone with a silly haircut they'll probably be a web-designer, fashion designer or someone doing something creative, and that's great."

Cringey but probably Fair enough

ITEM THREE: BARS NAMED AFTER SHOE SHOPS

All This probably has most sharpenning their daggers to stick through the back of my Zoltar the magnificent T-Shirt(for fucks sake- I'm joking yeah?) But christ, if your a designer who likes little fashon girls with cute affectations where else are going to go to get your kicks. The two bars I have frequented most in the last six months are: a covent garden subterranian style bar and a kingsland road dj bar/artspace. In the former I invariably end up pissed out of my mind on poisonous cocktails chatted up by wimmin 15 years my senior while at the latter I get to scowl at all my fuckhead contemporaries in Trucker Caps and Silas Pharell Williams tops all the while chatting up sexy/ awkward looking art-school girls. I am scum, duplicitous, ungrateful scum, but where else do you want me? I'm kindly offering to stay out of your gene pool.

This doesn't mean collecting expensive Japanese toys, Choppers and trainers are forgiven mind.

ITEM FOUR: CHARLIE BROOKER

Don't even mention Nathan Barley. "Thats like, jumped the shark or some other shit. ferreal." Anyway, do you think Mr Brooker spends his evenings after a hard day down the satire mines with a steak and fosters dinner down Wetherspoons. Does he fuck. The guys total fucking genius is fuelled on the red diesel of self loathing. As I suppose is all that. and all this. if one was being kind. there. a conclusion. why not.

(Anyway. I'm moving back down to Camberwell. Word is Mclusky's got a club night there and everything. Catch me if you can.....)

(*Disclaimer. Yes, this is a totally fatuous article about nitelife- nothing more. You want social comment. get off the bloody internet and read "Brick Lane" or something)