Some time last year I was asked if I would like to go to the Nike store in Central London to design a pair of Nike iDs for free. I am, as it happens, quite a fan of free stuff so I didn’t say no. After making an appointment, I dragged myself and my hangover along one Saturday morning. It turned out when I got there that I would only have half an hour to complete the design, but I assumed this would be fine. To help me manoeuvre my way through the tricky world of embossed leather and reverse stitching the lady in charge assigned me a dim, offensively camp little worm working in the shop. He obligingly tapped away on the computer like a concussed mole with ADHD as I told him how I wanted each section of the shoe to look. Initially it seemed like things were going well but after crashing the computer three times and losing the design on each occasion, half an hour quickly turned into five minutes. The result was this visual monstrosity you see before your eyes, which I was informed I had no more time left to change.
There was then a six week wait, presumably while some poor fucker in China slaved over these shoe-shaped carbuncles for no more than 20 pence a week. Despite planning never to go and pick them up from the shop, after two weeks of repeated requests I eventually gave in. They currently reside in the corner of my bedroom like an unwanted new born baby. I sit there like a guilty mother giving them the odd sideways glance, too embarrassed to fully look. I just can’t bring myself to like them in any way. What was I thinking? They look like some bowling shoes someone has taken a massive shit on. I don’t know if you’ll believe me but they actually look worse in real life. The brown bit at the front is shiny, like it’s been covered in a thin layer of PVA glue.
I tried to get rid of them a few weeks back by giving them to the charity that comes and collects clothes for orphans abroad. I put them in the designated bag (with a load of free Fly 53 T-shirts that I collect for those less fortunate) and left them on my doorstep on collection day. When I got back the charity worker had carefully picked them out and placed them alone on the doorstep.