Pret Couture

Moving to London (from up North, no less) is a big deal. I mean, there were no banners/balloons/clowns or anything, but it was still a moment in my life that was important. I think some people felt that this move - to pursue a career in journalism - was a brief stint; a phase.

  

When I was fifteen I got into the habit of buying plain white clothing (tshirts, polo shirts etc) and tie-dying them. Somehow, somewhere, it made sense and I was convinced it was a good idea. Maybe I was going to start a revival, or catch onto a new trend. Not quite. I spent one of my non-uniform days at school looking like a spiky middle class hippie boy thing. All incriminating photos have since been burned and the ashes ground into a paste that was used as a cement to construct a small hut that I blew up with TNT.

  

THAT was a phase.

  

People think this is a phase.

  

But it isn’t.

  

So I moved ’Daaaahhn Saaaarrrff’ and, in theory, I’m not going to move back. And since moving down, I’ve been very busy, very drunk, very confused and very lost for words.

  

So writing about The Real Real World has taken a back seat. It’s a shame, because there’s a lot going on, and a lot to make sharp social commentaries on, yet so little time to do it. But as the days and weeks merge into a singular chilly blur, snapping at my fingertips and eating up my money, I shove responsibility to one side in order to tell the next part of my tale.

  

Moving to London carries something of a culture shock, but I hope you understand that this isn’t as radical as say, a panda adjusting to life in a caravan. While it’s odd, and different, it isn’t perplexing beyond belief - I’m able to eat and survive and communicate like any northerner should. But some of it’s just weird.

  

For example, look at coffee culture. Every corner has a bloody coffee chain on it. A coffee chain that sells pretty average coffee and foul food. This is a trend that bled over from the states, and you do find it in most big UK cities. But Carlisle has only had its Starbucks for a couple of years, and nobody really likes it. On the high street, we quicken as we near the confusing green lettering (and why a mermaid on the logo!?), eager to get past it and resume our normal pedestrian pace, looking at normal things and thinking normal thoughts.

  

The flood of stuffy businessmen that invade coffee shops in the morning is ridiculous. I’d be less confused if the coffee was good value for money, but a large cup in Starbucks roughly equates to a jar of Nescafe, and I know which one makes sense. Yes, working in a big city is a mad rush, but get up 10 minutes earlier and have a proper coffee you idiot.

  

I remember meeting a girl in my third year at University. She was somewhat precious, fragile to the ways of the Real World. Luckily, not only was she insulated by the student-university bubble, she was also kept warm by a thick layer of money her parents wrapped her in before scooting her off up t’north.

  

We met in the library. I had drunk enough coffee to give me bladder cramps and a twitchy left eye, while she was wafting left and right as if a desk fan was stuck up her bottom. I drank another coffee, fully aware I was going to externally combust before my dissertation was finished, this girl was opening a ‘fresh’ salad box from Pret.

“I love Pret,” she said in a honey-soaked croon. “Lurve it. It’s lush. I’m having a mango and crayfish salad. It’s totes delish.”

  

I looked at the wilted box of salad. There was a couple of mango chunks and the most pitiful looking array of seafood I think I’ve ever seen. A pot of dressing accompanied the salad, but the girl had set this pot on the edge of the table, glaring at it reproachfully.

  

“The dressing is full of calories,” she said. “Empty, empty calories.”

  

“Is that your dinner?” I asked. She nodded. “That won’t fill you up.”

  

“Oh, but no but it’s fine,” she reassured me. Granted, we had just met; she wasn’t someone whose general health and wellbeing was much of an issue to me. “I had a Pret snack bar at lunchtime.”

She continued.

“I had a bowl of porridge from Pret this morning. Pret snack bar for lunch and Pret salad box for dinner! Yum!”

  

Anyway it turns out that this is how the girl ate. Every day. WITHOUT FAIL. Coffee? Pret. Super healthy carrot and scrotum smoothie? PRET! And every meal in the day (though these seemed few and far between).

  

Not only was this the most unhealthy idea in the world, it must have been costing the girl an absolute fortune. She always stuck in my mind, because if you think about it, that mentality - that these high street café eateries are healthy, fresh and good value for money - is absolute rubbish.

  

It’s like going to McDonalds for the carrot sticks and apple slices. YOU JUST DON’T.

  

It shouldn’t bother me, but I see far too many people every single day looking like utter dickheads and saying “Sorry I asked for my skinny no-fuss extra-effort faecal macchiato to have cream made from the milk of a goat” far too often. None of that means anything! Have a normal coffee.

  

They look like 'Apprentice' rejects - the women wear quirky thick framed specs and Ralph lauren shirts while the men look like they’re thinking about feeling guilty for thinking about looking at their receptionist at work who feels like she’d like to look like Samantha from accounts and - CAN YOU SEE HOW IRKSOME IT IS?

  

So I’ve created a strategy for these pricks. If you’ve been reading this and think to yourself ‘Chris has captured the very essence of my lifestyle’ then I suggest you follow these words of wisdom yourself.

1. Buy a jar of Nescafe or other branded coffee.
2. Get an alarm clock. Set it earlier than usual.
3. Get up earlier and have a coffee before you leave the house.
4. If this may wear off due to a tumultuous commute, buy a flask. Fill it with a bounty of coffee and you won’t need to drink expensive rubbish all day.
5. Like mango? Like crayfish? If it’s too pretentious to buy in a supermarket, don’t buy it at all (this includes SUPERFOODS, ie assorted magic beans)

It's tentatively known as the Buy-Get-Set-Have-Flask-Magic-Beans approach.

If these point’s prove useless, a 6th, emergency point, is give yourself a massive kick in the head. If you aren’t limber, get a friend to do it for you.

Until the world follows these steps, it seems like London may be gripped by Pret Couture for quite some time.

Just another facet of The (Real) Real World.