I went through a tracksuit period. It was similar to Picasso’s blue period but with far lower creative output.
Look at me in my old school, limited edition, three stripe, no emblem Adidas tracksuits! What a badass!
The jewel of the collection was my pink velour, extra baggy Nike number (below). When my dad saw me in it any hope he had left in me died.
I used to walk around in moody areas in Birmingham in the offending garments with a Jeffery West, snakeskin handle umbrella like a skinny, white and ultimately benign pimp.
I wasn’t working and I had a long term girlfriend so I wasn’t burdened by the sartorial constraints of impressing a boss or girl. Consequently, I wore one of these tracksuits every single day for a year straight. I sometimes slept in them. Thank god no one I knew died or got married during this time. I don’t think I would have dressed any differently for a wedding or even a funeral.
You’ll notice in some of the pictures I’m also sporting an N.E.R.D trucker cap and some yellow suede Nike prestos. This was probably the beginning of the end for my tracksuit period. I had pushed the boundaries of taste to breaking point.
The final desuetude arrived and I sold them all on Ebay. I got a fraction of what I paid for them, even though they were limited edition and should have, if anything, accrued in value.
I still dress like a complete cunt. Just no longer in tracksuits.
