Trainer Day

Trainers, sneakers, runners, fancy man shoes, bits of plastic and leather made by kids in sweat shops, shoe champions, not-gloves, foot warmers, trouser stoppers – whatever you want to call them, I’m going to buy some today. Once a year I have trainer day where I spend far too long trying to find one pair of trainers that will endure endless wear and tear for an entire year. I would not survive without trainers, they are the only shoes my feet get on with. I have others, oh yes, but they only appear on rare occasion. My smart shoes are there for suit days, my Timberlands arrive when its stupidly cold, or I need to kick someone very hard or cut trees. Then there are the Birkenstocks which appear a few times every summer to cut the crap out of my feet. But above all of those are the trainers. They are used for stage, life and general feet action. Currently my pair of Adidas and me have been through a lot. They’ve travelled to many a location with me and occasionally I’ve rewarded them by singing ‘My Adidas’, which I think they like. However, carrying the weight of the Douieb has taken its toll and there are visable tears meaning its time for them to visit the big trainer scrap heap in the sky. I like to think of trainers chatting like in the Shoe People, discussing who’s feet they used to enclose. Each one trying to trump the others. Somewhere Michael Jordan’s trainers sit on a throne, knowing they were made especially. Meanwhile a pair of matchbox trainers sits enjoying the fact that it ruined the life of a child who was constantly mocked in the playground and occasionally beaten up for the shitness of their trainers.

At my school trainers were a big deal. We had no uniform, which was seen as liberal and clever. It was nice in a way that students had their individuality and – as long as it didn’t have swear words or rude images on – could wear what they liked. IN theory great. In practice dangerous. Mostly because kids are materialistic bastards. Day in, day out, those that wore clothes with no labels or kept that pair of Hi-Tec slightly longer than the ‘fashionable until’ date were picked on. Several faux pas were made, personal ones including some large black Kangeroo trainers that looked like I was wearing a small bear on either foot, and a Wolverine t-shirt, that now would be cool but back then, irony was lost and perhaps not even intended and I was deemed a geek. Various insults were given, hard times were had. It was curious how the kids from the estate who never had enough money for lunch, always had the best trainers and therefore would dish out the viciousness if no one else did. If the malnourished and uneducated wear the best clothes it seems to be a fast track to the top of school hierachy. This also happens in the real world. Look at Jordan for example. Although I suppose her career has been based on a lack of clothes. And sucking cock.

So it has been ingrained in me to buy trainers that others won’t mock. I wouldn’t assume people spend time doing that anymore, but I often sit on the tube and laugh at other people’s poor dress sense. Therefore if I am that materialistic and heartless, then its highly likely others will be too. Last night while out, Layla noticed a man who was wearing the same girly ring as she was. That pretty much ruined my night, as I could not look in his general direction without saying something snidey and giggling a lot. So today will be an arduous task. I hate shopping like a woman but for trainers the constant in and out of shops must be done until I find the perfect pair. My favourite shop is a place called ‘Size?’ I like it not only because of its good range of good trainers, but more because I have to pronounce the question mark whenever I refer to it. A rugby playing drama student at my university used to say he would call his first born child ‘Steve?’ with that question mark firmly in place. That way when he called him it would always sound like a question and when he said ‘I love you Steve?’ it would place doubt on whether or not it was meant. Barry was a very odd man, which I suppose should’ve been evident from the love of both scrums and performance spaces. Whenever he was teching a show in any of the Drama spaces he would often turn all the lights out briefly and then say out aloud that he was going to skull fuck you. I am still a little bit scared that this day will come.

Later tonight I’m at the Komedia in Brighton, just for the late show, due to a drop out. I was pencilled in for Latitude this weekend but then I got pencilled out again. This is the problem with pencils – the ability to erase all evidence. I should have gone to the bookers offices and rubbed a crayon over their diary so it appeared I was still on the line-up. Saying that, the rain has made me feel a lot better about not being there. Instead I will grace the Komedia stage with my swanky new trainers.

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