Mojo Revamp
A diary of todays conundrums:
As winter is consuming every nerve in my body as I plunder out into this tit-tingling weather of Britain, the concerned matter of clothing is running through my mind a lot recently. Well, it’s a topic that is usually all I thin
k about but particularly now I find myself constantly pondering about it; what designs I have in my head for tops, dresses and formal ensembles that are currently top secret from the inter-web (shhh Iain’t saying a word to ya!), which details I wish to add etc those who know will know the score, the troubles that are faced with these fabrics draped upon us. Despite being a love of my life, the garms in which I clothe myself in are in fact…irritating me. By that I mean WHY CAN’T I FIND WHAT I WANT. I ‘personally’ put it down to being so advanced and well established (wink wink) that the world of outfit traders simply can’t keep up with me. Obviously I soon disregard this and weep so so so many tears. (Inwardly of course…)
The ‘blip’ of clothing. Writers block of outfits. The brick wall of garments. The list could go on. My mind is probably about to implode with the amount of sketches and doodles I have made within my brain, yet no success in ‘reality’ so to speak. Which is, in all honesty, blood
y frustrating!
Alas, I plough on. I have plans. Always got to have plans…The reason for my extensive plan-making in something I am so passionate about (more like obsessed with but who can blame me eh?) is the race for individuality. I call it a ‘race’ because as far back as I can remember I have always felt very uncomfortable with being the same as another person. I actually think I feel slightly disturbed (how gothic of me). We all source our looks from somewhere and if it just so happens to be from the same place then you’re exceptionally dapper! However I will contest that everyone should have a significant trademark in what they choose to present themselves as. This is applicable to anything though isn’t it. I just think I’m allergic to people looking all the same. *cough sneeze
I guess this is the downside to being so engrossed with a half a century old youth development. Damn.
(Actually the downside is that my collection of suede has been cast away in fear of water stains…I can hear the tiny screams from the suede follicles as I type)
All this ‘gar
my’ business eh, I might just resort to strategically placed foliage and a toga drapage. Nahh calm down my little chocolate mousse’s, Scarl remains more or less still a Scarl, the toga
would be awfully nippy at this time of year, maybe a summer option.
The title: Mojo revamp. A renewed persona of the desirably quirky and blatantly strange. We like strange. Peculiar is very much ME. I’d like to think my bizarre infatuations can be depicted by the early Johnny Depp film ‘Cry Baby’. I typically sum this up with the description: tune 
singing-slack wearing-iggy pop bathing- Johnny D cruising- ugly smooching- wiggle dress film. Highly recommendable. HIGHLY.
In conclusion to this ‘wisdom-ous’ passage
(less of the wisdom), I pose a statement like no other: Welcome to the lounge of untypical and in the words of a certain A. Powers “This is my happening and it freaks me out!”. Dress well. Drink well. Dance well, and have an exceedingly smashing end of week!
X
en out on the razz and humorous jaunts to honour my day of birth and other celebratory shindigs! Who said Winter was miserable huh? Virtual drinks for every one of you at the Bamboo Lounge.
gsters? Maybe I’
m just odd and thrive off of the criminals that inhabited the 1960’s? I thrive off anything that inhabited the 1960’s to be honest.
ay the pleasure of taking part in modelling pieces from Rasha Swais’ newest collection. Such a relaxed day of which I can’t accentuate, other than saying it was ‘cool’. Cool’s the word, beyond cool even. Some may 
even stretch to…funky. But I’m not a glitzy twat and that word doesn’t belong in my vocabulary. Unless I’m wearing velvet and dazzled with rhinestones. The sheer quality and sharpness of her pieces are amazing and hanging about in north London for the day eating copious amounts of party rings was classic. Not to mention patrolling the paths with a gang of badass ‘boot-i-ful’ girlies. That was ace too. I have an infatuation with walking in a line. I LOVE marching around in a line of well dressed mates, knocking about, bit of slow motion action going on, the classic laughter and synchronised application of shades. Lavvv it. 
as raising my eyebrows as I was snipping. Naturally, I had presumed I had finished, and my eyebrows relaxed and revealed to me the ACTUAL height of my fringe. Higher than the heavens it was. You could say it was a bit Paul Simon-y. The shame. I can ensure now that I’ve perfected my ways of cutting my own fringe. But don’t quote me on that.
this of course. Anyway once the red replenished my look I decided to go ‘short and fringey’.
g near my swede that’s for sure. Last Christmas I was in a right mare with the barnet fair. It looked horrid and was far too long. The longer my hair got, the more I felt it lacked style. So, back to the drawing board I went,and just as well as the yearly haircut change was due; I must subconsciously know when it’s time. January was the start of shaven necks and an
Anyway, point being is that you can imagine my excitement and elation when all of a sudden a message pops up on my twitter regarding the clothing company Art Gallery. We like to call these ‘Oh my god moments’. The title is self-explanatory.
NOT a morning person.
like to point out after many people have titled me as an ‘inspiration’, that my intentions way back when I was a young young’un (now I’m just a young’un) were never to inspire, but just to be me. I’m good at that. Being me. Getting into something that has progressed yet been maintained for over half a century is a delicate one. Always someone with an opinion. But then again in the little time that I have spent on this earth, I’ve understood that’s just life in general (how philosophical of me). As a result of this ‘realisation’ I composed three personal rules for myself: dress as smart as one can, engross oneself in knowledge and don’t EVER act like a twat. “Have a bloody laugh will ya!”.
? (In the words of Sir Robert Burr, I was a ‘bedroom mod’. Good job I had quite a nice bedroom) For probably the first time in my life, I had done something right. Haha, ya joking? I posted this picture of myself, and bam! Complete chaos! (blatant exaggeration but it still went a bit mad nonetheless). The picture was of me standing, unbeknown to you, next to the fridge and I had to crop out a pack of Warburton’s rolls from it. I’ve come a long way…
do in my local Town now.
of exercise. I’m an original, what can I say. I did however win the ‘most unique’ award, so I’ve been told. If I must be honest, I would have been terribly confused if I hadn’t (joke…or is it?) as there’s not many who’d forsake the feeling in their hands so that they were able to carry a holdall to school everyday. I guess it was my destiny to be different ever since my mum clothed me in stripy flares when I was a tiny human. (Cheers for that, life-giver).
he man who fathers me would like to believe it was his doing, I will always say the reason for my sudden development in style is due to my guinea pig. Yes. The loves of my life. To me it was a mid-life crisis that drove me to just say ‘sod it!’ and chop all of my fairly long hair (believe it or not) off and look like a prepubescent boy for my early early teenage years. Obviously I use that story to make me sound a little more insane and less stereotypical, my dad was really the reason why I ‘got into it all’. (Don’t be so quick to dismiss my guinea pig story, one of them really did die and I really did dramatically go for the chop afterwards despite many people not believing me *cough *cough you know who you are…)
many 12 year olds could you name that go rooting through their dad’s CD collection, piling the tunes on to their little 2009 iPod nano. Not many, I tell ‘ya. My days then consisted of having to correct people and explain why The Small faces don’t ACTUALLY have small faces. Tiring. Truth of that is they did have small-little boat races though didn’t they. But I was bombarded by mickey-takers at the time. Tut Tut.
me the week before, introducing me to the one, the only Master Jimmy Gilbert. Take note kids, this ones going places. So, as a very random yet very very brilliant result of going up to a city that I typically visited once a year, the fantastic Emma Rosa-Dias got in touch with me regarding her pending documentary about the London Mod Scene (see below for further details on Emma’s work). Few weeks later I was sitting in this classic car down Southbank, all microphoned-up. WHAT?? Me? Nah, having a laugh mate. No laugh there I’m afraid. I was 14. It was very strange and that was the moment where I felt I belonged.
