The Terrier has now Buggered Off
There is nothing quite so frightening as a blank sheet of paper...or in these digitised days a blank Word document...I have the urge to write but nothing comes to mind whatsoever. I am surrounded by the detritus of pseudo illness, the scruffily unmade bed...inhabited by a sadly expanding fat man and an elderly off white, wheezing terrier...oh, alright, only the fat man, the terrier has now buggered off to investigate more interesting happenings in the kitchen.
Oh hang on...the entire household has now buggered off...I am left in a ringing silence, punctuated by the ticking of the clock above my head and the incessant whirr of the fans in the two computer servers under the desk. It's past 10 o'clock and I have not bothered to dress, I am lying clad only in a pair of elegant blue boxer shorts, a black tee shirt lightly dusted with beard dandruff...yeah I know, disgusting...and the ubiquitous orange cast...oh, come on, how can the cast be ubiquitous? Well, yes, I know it can't...but, and this is very important, it sounds good, so ubiquitous it is, purely because it makes me sound intelligent.
Things have come to a desperate pass, I have resorted to poetry to pass the time of day...no of course you can't read it, even I'm not that cruel...where was I? Ah yes, so, no sooner had each of the separate members of my household buggered off, than the doorbell rings...fuck, bugger, wibble, I'm only clad in boxers...frantically scrabble around the bed for a pair of trousers...argh more wibble...no time, I'll have to answer the door in the boxers. Grab the crutches, hobble to the door and open it, to the horrified gaze of the postman who I'm fairly sure will never recover. Sign for a suspiciously heavy parcel and quickly heave the door shut. The parcel is too heavy to carry with the crutches, put it on the floor and scoot it along with the end of the crutch back into my hovel...sorry, bedroom, er office, place of convalescence, call it what you will.
This is genuinely exciting, I have not ordered anything and this came via the real postman, it can be only one thing...wait for it...my boots. Look, I'm quite excited and you will just have to put up with me. I have terminally un-shoeable feet, I have spent years in the fruitless hunt for footwear that is even vaguely comfortable. Several years ago I was put under the watchful eye of the Orthotics department at the Bristol Royal Infirmary who kindly took a cast of my feet and then built...yes, built...me a pair of boots. These were not the height of sartorial elegance, in fact they came within a whisker of causing the early demise of several of my work colleagues who nearly asphyxiated from a surfeit of laughter.
On the other hand, once broken in they were extremely comfortable and I wore them until they, wore out. I then contacted the Orthotics department to request another pair. They informed me that since I had not been back in for over a year they had summarily removed me from their books. What followed was some protracted negotiating which involved multiple visits to the GP before they would agree that they would see me again. Whilst waiting for my appointment I had to buy myself another pair of boots for work and found a pair in Matalan which were incredibly comfortable, ridiculously cheap and moreover did not cause my work colleagues to point and laugh.
On a whim, I took these shoes...they were brogue boots actually...to my new Orthotist and explained that although they were very comfortable, after a day wearing them my ankle was complaining vociferously, was there any chance he could use them as a template for my new boots rather than the horror that I knew was awaiting. It turns out they could do better than that, they could take them and modify the sole for me. Whoo hoo, I now had a pair of boots that were comfortable and relatively stylish.
This did not last, the NHS are a wonderful organisation and I won't hear a word said against them, but, their principle function is not as shoemakers and unfortunately they aren't terribly good at it. The sole started to fall apart after a month or so, I took them back and they repaired them, a week or so later they started to fall apart. I resorted to fixing them myself, over and over again. The nice, slightly inept, Orthotist suggested that I get another pair and they would repair one pair whilst I wore the other, so I went back to Matalan to buy another pair but they no longer sold them. I bought a pair online, they didn't fit. I went to any number of shops to no avail.
It occurred to me that if I bought a very expensive pair of handmade shoes that they would be easier for the NHS shoe surgeons to work on so I visited the Loake shop in Bath where I felt remarkably out of place. The assistant endeavoured to fit one of their boots to my foot but it appeared that there was no chance that it would ever fit. I have an arch that is slightly higher than the Arc de Triomphe and when they put my foot on one of those posh foot stools that all shoe shops used to have and applied a shoehorn it seemed obvious that this was a non-starter, what did not occur to me was to politely tell the assistant to 'fuck off' and try putting the shoe on myself, I just made my excuses and left forthwith. I started wearing the old worn out orthotic boots which had been attacked by my carnivorous toes and had a hole in the upper leather. It seemed that I was destined to wear orthotic boots for the rest of my life.
At this point my brother enters the scene, he came to visit from Oz for a couple of months, as it turns out he also suffers from manky feet, although his are almost diametrically opposed to mine, flat, whereas mine are arched...but he can't get comfortable boots either. He disappeared out of our lives for several weeks crisscrossing the country visiting friends and, coincidentally, searching for a comfortable pair of boots. He found some in Debenhams in Cardiff . He'd got them on sale and paid the princely sum of twenty pounds for them when they were over seventy pounds elsewhere, and when he showed me them I was insanely jealous.
I made up my mind to visit Debenhams in Bristol at the first opportunity and set off full of high expectations. It turns out that Debenhams is not much of a shoe shop, they have a small selection of boots...I have to wear boots due to the distressing habit of my ankle to bend at an alarming angle which causes passing motorists to swoon and strong men to blench...wow, blench, there's a satisfyingly 1930's adjective.
I must have tried all the boots that they had several times over, none of them came close to being even slightly OK apart from the most expensive boots on offer. These were a pair of Loake Bedale brogue boots in light tan...yep, exactly the same ones from the poncy shop in Bath...just this time there was no frighteningly competent assistant wielding a shoehorn. As it turns out I am perfectly capable of putting shoes onto my own feet...who knew? The only problem was that I might have to take out another mortgage in order to buy them...what? yes of course I bought them...I even wangled two separate discounts which reduced them from an eye watering amount down to a, well to be frank a still eye watering amount. Bear in mind I don't think I've spent more than fifty quid on a pair of boots in my life. I spent years only forking over a much more reasonable eleven quid on a secondhand pair of paratrooper boots from the army and navy surplus store.
These boots were like nothing I had ever owned before, they were quite marvellously uncomfortable,
I'm used to shoes that are instantly comfortable, these were not, they demanded that I wear them in, I persisted and after about three weeks I realised that they had moulded themselves to the shape of my foot...not necessarily a good thing since my foot looks like an extra from the walking dead...but they were comfortable. I fell in love, I polished them to within an inch of their lives, I wore them everywhere, there was no chance on God's green earth that the NHS were getting their hands on them. I became obsessed with reading about handmade English shoes...and then the fucking things broke...yes, really, one of the brass eyelets became detached and I was suitably incensed.
As it happens the people at Loake are rather wonderful, I reported this distressing fact to them and they promptly requested I return the boots to them and they would repair them immediately free of charge...but I wear them every day, I have no other shoes, this was a conundrum. Until of course I was confined to my bed at which point I immediately sent my boots off, to be returned to full health and happiness by their makers, and they have now returned them, and consequently I am excited.
You have no idea the love and attention I have lavished on these shoes. I have bought them the best wax shoe polish money can buy...Saphir Pate de Luxe...this stuff is heaven...yes, well? I did tell you I'm obsessed...it's a mixture of beeswax, carnauba and turpentine and I have lavished it on my boots.
I have spent hours looking at other English shoemakers, turns out that Loake are actually very reasonably priced...jeez, did I just say that...You know the advert about beer that say's 'it's reassuringly expensive' well they could take a lesson or two from an English shoemaker I can tell you. Put it this way, a pair of bespoke English handmade shoes/boots is going to cost you somewhere in the region of £1700 - £2500 and £600 of this is just to make a last...the wooden doubrie that the boot is built upon. I've learned about different types of last, I've read about the history of English shoe making, I am currently lusting after a pair of Trickers Brett Derby boots, I fancy the Iris colour, just follow the link and you'll find out why I'm not actually buying a pair. The other problem is I can't find anywhere to try them on unless I go to London, this is a good thing 'cos I know that if I went and tried them on I would end up buying them. I've even bought cedar shoe trees to keep my boots happy.
If you have managed to read to here then I admire your fortitude...no doubt I will probably bore you in future with my musings on the safety razor and why you should use one, and the use of proper shaving cream and a brush. Under the fat bald man I am afraid there may be a hipster trying to escape...please, just warn me if I start sporting a handlebar moustache
Cheers for now
Charlie
Oh hang on...the entire household has now buggered off...I am left in a ringing silence, punctuated by the ticking of the clock above my head and the incessant whirr of the fans in the two computer servers under the desk. It's past 10 o'clock and I have not bothered to dress, I am lying clad only in a pair of elegant blue boxer shorts, a black tee shirt lightly dusted with beard dandruff...yeah I know, disgusting...and the ubiquitous orange cast...oh, come on, how can the cast be ubiquitous? Well, yes, I know it can't...but, and this is very important, it sounds good, so ubiquitous it is, purely because it makes me sound intelligent.
Things have come to a desperate pass, I have resorted to poetry to pass the time of day...no of course you can't read it, even I'm not that cruel...where was I? Ah yes, so, no sooner had each of the separate members of my household buggered off, than the doorbell rings...fuck, bugger, wibble, I'm only clad in boxers...frantically scrabble around the bed for a pair of trousers...argh more wibble...no time, I'll have to answer the door in the boxers. Grab the crutches, hobble to the door and open it, to the horrified gaze of the postman who I'm fairly sure will never recover. Sign for a suspiciously heavy parcel and quickly heave the door shut. The parcel is too heavy to carry with the crutches, put it on the floor and scoot it along with the end of the crutch back into my hovel...sorry, bedroom, er office, place of convalescence, call it what you will.
This is genuinely exciting, I have not ordered anything and this came via the real postman, it can be only one thing...wait for it...my boots. Look, I'm quite excited and you will just have to put up with me. I have terminally un-shoeable feet, I have spent years in the fruitless hunt for footwear that is even vaguely comfortable. Several years ago I was put under the watchful eye of the Orthotics department at the Bristol Royal Infirmary who kindly took a cast of my feet and then built...yes, built...me a pair of boots. These were not the height of sartorial elegance, in fact they came within a whisker of causing the early demise of several of my work colleagues who nearly asphyxiated from a surfeit of laughter.
On a whim, I took these shoes...they were brogue boots actually...to my new Orthotist and explained that although they were very comfortable, after a day wearing them my ankle was complaining vociferously, was there any chance he could use them as a template for my new boots rather than the horror that I knew was awaiting. It turns out they could do better than that, they could take them and modify the sole for me. Whoo hoo, I now had a pair of boots that were comfortable and relatively stylish.
This did not last, the NHS are a wonderful organisation and I won't hear a word said against them, but, their principle function is not as shoemakers and unfortunately they aren't terribly good at it. The sole started to fall apart after a month or so, I took them back and they repaired them, a week or so later they started to fall apart. I resorted to fixing them myself, over and over again. The nice, slightly inept, Orthotist suggested that I get another pair and they would repair one pair whilst I wore the other, so I went back to Matalan to buy another pair but they no longer sold them. I bought a pair online, they didn't fit. I went to any number of shops to no avail.
It occurred to me that if I bought a very expensive pair of handmade shoes that they would be easier for the NHS shoe surgeons to work on so I visited the Loake shop in Bath where I felt remarkably out of place. The assistant endeavoured to fit one of their boots to my foot but it appeared that there was no chance that it would ever fit. I have an arch that is slightly higher than the Arc de Triomphe and when they put my foot on one of those posh foot stools that all shoe shops used to have and applied a shoehorn it seemed obvious that this was a non-starter, what did not occur to me was to politely tell the assistant to 'fuck off' and try putting the shoe on myself, I just made my excuses and left forthwith. I started wearing the old worn out orthotic boots which had been attacked by my carnivorous toes and had a hole in the upper leather. It seemed that I was destined to wear orthotic boots for the rest of my life.
At this point my brother enters the scene, he came to visit from Oz for a couple of months, as it turns out he also suffers from manky feet, although his are almost diametrically opposed to mine, flat, whereas mine are arched...but he can't get comfortable boots either. He disappeared out of our lives for several weeks crisscrossing the country visiting friends and, coincidentally, searching for a comfortable pair of boots. He found some in Debenhams in Cardiff . He'd got them on sale and paid the princely sum of twenty pounds for them when they were over seventy pounds elsewhere, and when he showed me them I was insanely jealous.
I made up my mind to visit Debenhams in Bristol at the first opportunity and set off full of high expectations. It turns out that Debenhams is not much of a shoe shop, they have a small selection of boots...I have to wear boots due to the distressing habit of my ankle to bend at an alarming angle which causes passing motorists to swoon and strong men to blench...wow, blench, there's a satisfyingly 1930's adjective.
These boots were like nothing I had ever owned before, they were quite marvellously uncomfortable,
As it happens the people at Loake are rather wonderful, I reported this distressing fact to them and they promptly requested I return the boots to them and they would repair them immediately free of charge...but I wear them every day, I have no other shoes, this was a conundrum. Until of course I was confined to my bed at which point I immediately sent my boots off, to be returned to full health and happiness by their makers, and they have now returned them, and consequently I am excited.
You have no idea the love and attention I have lavished on these shoes. I have bought them the best wax shoe polish money can buy...Saphir Pate de Luxe...this stuff is heaven...yes, well? I did tell you I'm obsessed...it's a mixture of beeswax, carnauba and turpentine and I have lavished it on my boots.
If you have managed to read to here then I admire your fortitude...no doubt I will probably bore you in future with my musings on the safety razor and why you should use one, and the use of proper shaving cream and a brush. Under the fat bald man I am afraid there may be a hipster trying to escape...please, just warn me if I start sporting a handlebar moustache
Cheers for now
Charlie
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