Tall tales, small talk, and entirely useless tangents inspired by the daily wardrobe rotation

My teens weren’t quite pre-internet, but they were pre-YouTube. Depending on your generational cohort, that might as well mean the same thing. I belonged to an era of relative technological blindness, one that kept learning curves painstakingly steep, personal style painfully conservative, and collective tolerances to new things painfully low.

All of which made skateboarding in Liverpool during the late 90s a pretty rough experience. Ever the undisputed voice of reason, my old man’s advice on anything countercultural was always exactly this: skate the damn streets, mosh the damn pits, and if any of your classmates have a problem with it then, well, fuck ‘em.

Vans were one of the first brands that provided the same level of you-do-you freedom espoused by my father. I didn’t know anything about the brand back then, just that they were present at every skatepark, band night, gig venue and house party that punctuated my formative years. As a shoe, a pair of Vans provided the perfect blank canvas for the custom works of scribbling artists and angsty writers alike. It provided both a common ground and a solid foundation for budding styles, sounds, and subcultural attitudes.

I took up skateboarding again during lockdown after a decade and a half hiatus, and picking up a new pair of Vans Checkerboard Slip-ons just made sense. Things have changed a lot over the years, though. Not only have the bones and cartilage of my knees and ankles been replaced by glass, but the Vans slip-on no longer belongs to the subcultures that bore it.

Now, I’m not about to hit you with the I-was-into-Vans-before-they-were-cool bullshit, for the simple fact that a) I’m not old enough to back said bullshit up and b) they never weren’t cool. That’s just not my fight. What does drive me to put up my dukes, however, is the eye rolling that the Vans Slip-on gets from more discerning (read: pretentious) post-sneaker menswear commentators.

I get it, the checkerboard design doesn’t offer the same if-you-know-you-know, dad-chic sophistication as a pair of New Balance; it doesn’t get the made-in-Japan, kiln-fired kudos enjoyed by Moonstar; and it certainly doesn’t boast the same aggressively utilitarian minimalism of a pair of Common Projects.

What it does offer, though, is all the playful style and ease of the sundrenched coasts of Southern California circa 1960; it provides a menswear mainstay that not only goes with damn near everything, but looks better with every misstep, mishap and mishandled kickflip you throw at it. And for my part, it’s a style so deeply ingrained in the scenes and subcultures that forged me that each new pair I buy comes with a hefty, boxfresh hit of old school nostalgia.

Sure, they’re ubiquitous to the point of absurdity. But you know what else shares that honour? An ice cold bottle of Coca Cola. You’ll find Coca Cola in every corner shop in every city across the globe, but at no point does the fizzy brown drink’s mainstream credentials deter from the classic charm and damn near patented coolness of that contour bottle. Like Coca Cola, Vans is a brand so iconic, so steeped in history and design wherewithal that it’s entirely trend proof. The Slip-on is proof of that. The slip on is, for want of a better word, unfuckwithable.

In lieu of anything even close to an actual point I’ll just leave you with the following: sometimes I think we just shit on things in a bid to convince ourselves we’re cooler and more carefully curated than we used to be. In that respect, I think we could all do with giving less of a shit. So wear the damn slip-ons, skate in your damn thirties, and if any of your haughty-taughty menswear professional friends don’t like it then, well, fuck ‘em.

Seriously though, look after those knees and ankles.