For my day job I spend a lot of time in Shoreditch, east London. Shoreditch is the capital of the hipster culture. It is the epicentre of beard. Shoreditch is to beard what Cornwall is to pasties.
I don’t really have a beard. I have a face with hair that is just as old as the last time I shaved. I mean, I don’t cultivate a beard. I just use clippers to cut the hair every 10 days or so. After day 9 or 10 it gets scratchy and I have to start the growth process again. It’s just a part of my body that grows and then gets cut and then grows again. If I have a beard then Tony Blair has morality: sometimes there and sometimes not. Continue reading →
Being desired took me by surprise. It happened later for me than for most people. I’m 30, so I’m just a little bit too old to have grown up taking selfies and posting them online. Like most young men I worried off and on about my stomach, which isn’t flat, and my paleness, which stops below my upper arm and then becomes freckles. These worries were off far more than they were on. ‘On’ has never lasted for more than a second; I am always more interested in reading another chapter or having some ice cream. I honestly don’t care: I am not desperate for love or sex, I prefer thoughts over clothes, laughter over straight teeth.