Londoners Life 5 – By Phil Ryan

Winter is here in London. It’s official. The clothes say it all. And right now you can clearly see the London tribes. Clear and defined. In cloth, leather and appliqué. The Hoxton and Camdenite trendies. The monied Sloane’s of Kensington. The shady street dealers of Shepherds Bush. From the ludicrously large Fur Trapper hats and skinny jeans, to the silver and gold Puffa jackets plus obligatory bling. The thigh length Cossack boots to the new Paul Smith stripy scarves. Postcodes struck in wool and leather and nylon as clearly as an assay mark. A friend once remarked that the onward march of the chain clothing store would eventually destroy all individuality in style terms. But be that as it may, just like the swallows flying south each year off to Capistrano following nature’s imperative, the winter looks are as clearly and definitively ingrained at a genetic London borough by borough level.

In Whitechapel it’s the portly types in the Primark Gangster collection crossed with JD sports sale items. In Chelsea it’s the slim model like folk in black Yves St Laurent mixed with Yamamoto. London brands its citizens by fashion and by income so very clearly at this time of year. I’m surprised it’s not on their passports – a second picture of them in full seasonal look. Oh the customs officer would say peering at the small image of them dressed head to toe in Burberry check. You’re from Stratford. Through you go.

And as certain as the winter fashions the other London winter signs are gathering pace. The chestnut sellers are back from wherever they go in the warmer weather. You’ll find them at every piazza or open space. Traditional London winter prices at about 90 pence per charcoal blackened cremated chestnut. Or to translate – £3.00 for three grudging half mouthfuls once you’ve discarded the charcoal and eaten the non burnt bits. And of course the ever perennial pre-seasonal dodgy perfume sellers. Honest guvnor’ this Calvin Klein is genuine. Just a litre for a tenner. The crowds swarming round them like hyperactive bumble bees on Ketamine. Sadly without the sense of your average drone. Stolen or not – no respectable crook is going to give four bottles of Chanel no 5 away for nothing. So come Christmas they’ll watch in baffled dismay as poor Auntie Vi’s face falls off into her soup or the smell from the bottle attracts Zombies from as far away as Peru seeking dead flesh. A little bit of Del boy mixed with Jeffrey Dahmer. Typical. You just can’t trust criminals eh?

But London’s street people are changing. The old perennials giving way to more foreign imports. From Romanian pick pocket gangs to increasingly rabid street preachers. I saw two the other day on opposite sides of the street. One a Yemeni Muslim the other an American Christian Evangelist. Both completely barking mad. Yelling weird slogans about saving us all. Finding our way to their truth. My immediate thought being what and turn into you two nut jobs?

Just like my last column I’m sure I could be missing something here though. Did they have a spiritual truth? But the answer is in fact no. I’m just not convinced my path to eternal salvation starts outside the Car Phone warehouse. With people unburdened by the pressure of sanity. Although, if it has to start somewhere for me, there has to be cakes. And in London right now there’s a new cake shop explosion. I of course refer to the new muffin places. Time was you’d be lucky to get a chocolate one. Now there’s a plethora of new places offering every type you could think of. I saw Passion Fruit and Peanut butter muffins the other day. Although, this could have just been the first day for the new guy. He’s off the medication now and his doctors are hopeful he’ll soon be able to live a normal life. Muffins I ask you. A new fashion. Who’d have thought it? £4.00 a pop or £1.50 per tiny micro mouthful. But I’ve been to five separate boroughs recently and they’ve all got these trendy looking new tea rooms. Or Café’s de The as they like to poncingly call themselves. It’s a studied look. Coolness and kitsch in one. Brushed Oak and steel benches next to pictures of polka dot pinnies and old posters of apple cheeked children at a gas stove.

Cake stands with frilly lace overhangings next to a sleek black ipod docking station. Earl Grey tea caddies next to Red Bull cans or those weird energy drinks you’ve never heard of with extract of ginko root and killer whale ears. And the people who run them? All the owners all look like successful architects with a hint of mental illness. The women. Prada meets a lady factory worker from the fifties. And the men all look like Bertie Wooster meets Karl Lagerfeld via Oxfam. The rest of the staff doe eyed eastern European beauties working for the minimum wage. Of course the word home-made figures prominently everywhere. As does organic. As do eye watering prices. But hey ho. It’s cute. It’s retro. It’s wildly overpriced. But do we mind? No. It’s a London thing.