My trainers and me
Ever since I was a young child I was slightly obsessed with trainers. I used to sit for hours in front of the TV whilst simultaneously thumbing the pages of the latest catalogues yearning for trainers that I knew I could never own. I would draw them and hang them on my bedroom wall.
My mum didn't have cash to spend on frivolous things such as over priced footwear for her growing boy. Bigger things were at stake for her, such as food, heating and maintaining a roof over our head. However, back then, I just thought she was plain mean.
I would be so optimistically excited whenever the day would finally come for us to go trainer shopping. The optimism would soon turn tragically into despair once I would look up at the shelves and was confronted with price tags that I knew my mum would find laughable. In fact, she never actually laughed. She just said "No." Repeatedly.
No matter how much I looked up at her with my extremely dilated pupils set inside the biggest, roundest eyes I could physically make. Think the cat in the film Shrek. The answer was unequivocally "No".
Often these trips inevitably ended with me walking out the shop traumatised and feeling sorry for myself whilst clinging to a box of unbranded trainers. OK, they were branded. Nicks, Matchstick, or Dunlop take your pick. They were brands I guess. However, the worse offenders were probably a pair of trainers from the high street shop Marks and Spencer's. They were heavy, thick soled, with upper white leather and accents of a hideous green. On the heel was emblazoned "XL 3000." Having to wear those during my first year in secondary school were particularly trying times.
Running within the popular circles, my credibility took a major hit as my peers looked down at my footwear and then snobbishly down on me. I'll never forget when Owen asked: "What's XL 3000?!" to which I could only retort with a sheepish look and a shrug of my shoulders. I had no idea what XL 3000 was. I just had to stand at the bus stop getting slated by my mates while praying the earth would just open and swallow me up. That, or the bloody bus would hurry up. However, over time, I would learn to develop a thick skin just like the thick soles of these XL 3000's. Aged 13, I began learning intricate lessons in life, whilst attending my academic school lessons.
Then came the next step up the trainer ladder. A fresh pair of New Balance, that I actually liked and chose. They had a white sole, and white upper leather with accents of navy blue. They were quite aesthetically pleasing to the eye.
However, the problem that I failed to realise is that New Balance in the mid 90's was not quite old enough to be retro yet. So, when I turned up to school feeling like I had finally turned a corner, I was again to be probed by the same boy that questioned me almost a year ago about my XL 3000's.
"What are New Balance?" Again, I had no idea in all honesty. For the second time Owen had made my stomach sink and my heart drop. My throat dry, my palms sweaty. That day something inside of me snapped. Aged 14, I vowed never to be ridiculed about my trainers ever again. Enough was enough.
Immediately, I began plotting on to how to obtain a pair of bonafide trainers that I could finally wear with pride and confidence. I set my sights on world domination. The next pair had to be big. They had to make up for years of walking around in shame. The years of my mum saying no. They had to be Nike.
With that I got a paper round, and started working for roughly just over £5 a week. That was only £20 a month. Minus £5 to £10 which was primarily spent on sweets, cup drinks and ice poles. That took me back down to £10 saved for the month. Five months to barely reach £50?! Things were looking bleak. Drastic action had to be taken. Then it hit me.
I used to visit an older friend of mine in Leyton frequently. He was a friend of the family, and had his own place. Anyway, I remembered he would have numerous catalogues dotted around his messy unkempt flat. The plan was hatched. I would convince him to order me a pair of trainers and pay him weekly. Eric fell for it.
Finally! The glorious day came that I finally got to turn up to school in a pair of fresh out the box Nike Air Max! I spent hours lacing them up, wiping any mark off with my spit and cuddling them in bed. These "1996 Nike Air Max II's" (As pictured) were a somewhat futuristic design, consisting of white leather over a blue material upper, yellow trim and about twelve thousand air bubbles. I'll never forget the little mini plastic packet hidden in the box which possessed two small pink curved bits of foam and two sticky back tabs. With intricate precision I applied these arch supports into the underside of the insole's.
So, off I bounced to school, with a spring in my step that not even Owen could break. Like my man Puffy once said: couldn't nobody take my pride. Couldn't nobody hold me down. Oh no. I had to keep on moving!
Unfortunately, for Eric, my visits to his flat strangely dipped in frequency, averaging about once in never. I shamefully only paid around £15 of the £110 catalogue bill I lumped him with.
Sorry Eric.
Joshua, TCC
My mum didn't have cash to spend on frivolous things such as over priced footwear for her growing boy. Bigger things were at stake for her, such as food, heating and maintaining a roof over our head. However, back then, I just thought she was plain mean.
I would be so optimistically excited whenever the day would finally come for us to go trainer shopping. The optimism would soon turn tragically into despair once I would look up at the shelves and was confronted with price tags that I knew my mum would find laughable. In fact, she never actually laughed. She just said "No." Repeatedly.
No matter how much I looked up at her with my extremely dilated pupils set inside the biggest, roundest eyes I could physically make. Think the cat in the film Shrek. The answer was unequivocally "No".
Often these trips inevitably ended with me walking out the shop traumatised and feeling sorry for myself whilst clinging to a box of unbranded trainers. OK, they were branded. Nicks, Matchstick, or Dunlop take your pick. They were brands I guess. However, the worse offenders were probably a pair of trainers from the high street shop Marks and Spencer's. They were heavy, thick soled, with upper white leather and accents of a hideous green. On the heel was emblazoned "XL 3000." Having to wear those during my first year in secondary school were particularly trying times.
Running within the popular circles, my credibility took a major hit as my peers looked down at my footwear and then snobbishly down on me. I'll never forget when Owen asked: "What's XL 3000?!" to which I could only retort with a sheepish look and a shrug of my shoulders. I had no idea what XL 3000 was. I just had to stand at the bus stop getting slated by my mates while praying the earth would just open and swallow me up. That, or the bloody bus would hurry up. However, over time, I would learn to develop a thick skin just like the thick soles of these XL 3000's. Aged 13, I began learning intricate lessons in life, whilst attending my academic school lessons.
Then came the next step up the trainer ladder. A fresh pair of New Balance, that I actually liked and chose. They had a white sole, and white upper leather with accents of navy blue. They were quite aesthetically pleasing to the eye.
However, the problem that I failed to realise is that New Balance in the mid 90's was not quite old enough to be retro yet. So, when I turned up to school feeling like I had finally turned a corner, I was again to be probed by the same boy that questioned me almost a year ago about my XL 3000's.
"What are New Balance?" Again, I had no idea in all honesty. For the second time Owen had made my stomach sink and my heart drop. My throat dry, my palms sweaty. That day something inside of me snapped. Aged 14, I vowed never to be ridiculed about my trainers ever again. Enough was enough.
Immediately, I began plotting on to how to obtain a pair of bonafide trainers that I could finally wear with pride and confidence. I set my sights on world domination. The next pair had to be big. They had to make up for years of walking around in shame. The years of my mum saying no. They had to be Nike.
With that I got a paper round, and started working for roughly just over £5 a week. That was only £20 a month. Minus £5 to £10 which was primarily spent on sweets, cup drinks and ice poles. That took me back down to £10 saved for the month. Five months to barely reach £50?! Things were looking bleak. Drastic action had to be taken. Then it hit me.
I used to visit an older friend of mine in Leyton frequently. He was a friend of the family, and had his own place. Anyway, I remembered he would have numerous catalogues dotted around his messy unkempt flat. The plan was hatched. I would convince him to order me a pair of trainers and pay him weekly. Eric fell for it.
Finally! The glorious day came that I finally got to turn up to school in a pair of fresh out the box Nike Air Max! I spent hours lacing them up, wiping any mark off with my spit and cuddling them in bed. These "1996 Nike Air Max II's" (As pictured) were a somewhat futuristic design, consisting of white leather over a blue material upper, yellow trim and about twelve thousand air bubbles. I'll never forget the little mini plastic packet hidden in the box which possessed two small pink curved bits of foam and two sticky back tabs. With intricate precision I applied these arch supports into the underside of the insole's.
So, off I bounced to school, with a spring in my step that not even Owen could break. Like my man Puffy once said: couldn't nobody take my pride. Couldn't nobody hold me down. Oh no. I had to keep on moving!
Unfortunately, for Eric, my visits to his flat strangely dipped in frequency, averaging about once in never. I shamefully only paid around £15 of the £110 catalogue bill I lumped him with.
Sorry Eric.
Joshua, TCC
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