Blue Sky and the Zen of Leafleting

This was the stunning blue sky over London this morning as I took to the streets to hand out leaflets for the exciting new garment house 'A Suit That Fits'. The last time I was out beneath a cold October sky for any significant period was probably during school football matches, when I'd stand, shivering, in the corner of the pitch, praying the ball wouldn't come near me. This morning was an entirely different affair, in some ways reaching heights of Zen-like proportion.

It started with a sinking in the pit of my stomach as I pitched my stall outside Moorgate Tube and realised I'd become what everybody hates: that nuisance on the corner who dispenses cards that nobody really wants. Responses varied from ignoring me completely to throwing me looks of pure, simple loathing, followed by a side-step and a firm 'No'. Only occasionally did someone smile and say, 'Thank you," which was usually followed by a swelling in my heart with which nothing could possibly compare. Never before have I observed the speed of this world with such clarity. It was frankly disturbing to see so many unhappy faces pouring from the Tube, too busy to acknowledge a poor leafleteer.

Beside me a Polish guy handed out 'City AM' papers to the passing bankers and traders. This guy was a miracle, I swear. Not only did he stand there looking reasonably comfortable in his thick Winter hat and gloves, he also never stopped smiling. There was I, becoming more and more browbeaten by the disinterested crowd, and he was smiling a beatific smile whilst hopping from foot to foot like a carol-singer left on the doorstep in the cold. I wanted to shake him by the hand - to somehow absorb his fighting spirit. For no matter how many frowns or gestures of disinterest he received, nothing could alter his cheerful demeanour.

If there's anything I can take away from my leafleting experience, it's the knowledge that the poor man is great in spirit. If I could choose between the hectic life of a city trader, too busy to acknowledge the humanity before my eyes, or the Zen-like richness of the Polish leafleteer, I'd easily choose the latter. On a similar note, if there's one other thing these city-suits miss as they scurry along the pavements, in and out of buses and tunnels in the ground, it's the beauty of the crystal clear sky that shimmers over London in October.

Be enlightened. Stand out from the crowd. Visit A Suit That Fits.

Suits That'll Make You Late

What better way of banishing the Monday morning blues than waking up in the bed of a handsome man who's just returned from the bathroom smelling of toothpaste and cologne and who is now slipping into a bespoke cashmere suit, fresh from the garment house A Suit That Fits? You watch as the trousers fit snuggly around his legs, close around the contours of his arse, then you reach over and put an arm around his neck, straightening the cashmere collar around his nape. All you want to do is pull him down on top of you but the clock is ticking, it's already 8.00 and you haven't even showered yet, have you?

Now it's too late. There's just no resisting. His suited embrace has begun to overwhelm you. As he presses himself against you, a single thought drifts through your mind: if only those suits were a little less enticing, if only your man was less irrestible in them, perhaps you'd make it into work on time... The morning passes in a blaze of desire. You stumble into the office at just gone 10, and when your colleagues ask you why you look so bedraggled you tell them: "It's A Suit That Fits."

A Trip to Harrods

When I took my mother to Harrods today, I thought the unavailability of everything would depress me (I wanted to buy an umbrella, but the cheapest I could find was 15 quid). Instead, something happened that was rather unexpected. I was wandering confusedly from room to room, becoming more and more exhilarated by the sights and sounds, when suddenly I realised I was moved. Perhaps it was the music thudding from the walls. The thick mist of scent carried on the air. Or the crowds of people pressing around me. Whatever it was, it was powerful. As if I was breathing the consumerist fumes.

By the time we reached the Food Court I'd become like a child, pointing at everything in awe. An old lady sipping pink champagne at the fish bar was the most elegant thing I'd ever seen. I practically worshipped the green-slippered feet of an incredibly beautiful Japanese girl eating sushi in the corner. Even a group of Americans pointing at the plastic pig carcasses on the butcher's ceiling seemed so innocently happy I couldn't help sharing their amusement.

At the top of a pair of gold escalators we stood looking up at the glitzy, gold-plated walls, when suddenly, as if from nowhere, the tinkling strains of Gounod's 'Ave Maria' filled the air. By far my favourite piece of music, here, at the top of the escalators in Harrods, it was as if I'd never heard it before. These celestial notes, at once so familiar and so strange - almost too beautiful, in fact, to be made by human hands - were somehow perfectly suited to the glamour that surrounded us. I clutched my mother's arm. She was listening too. Not quite knowing what we'd just experienced, we walked happily down the escalator together.

Breathe the consumerist fumes yourself at www.asuitthatfits.com

The Fetishised Body of Victoria Beckham

Before you visit A Suit That Fits and purchase one of their excellent suits, pause for a moment and let me inform you about the exact nature of this thing you're about to do. In this age of consumer capitalism, one Marxist concept remains tellingly accurate: the phenomenon of commodity fetishism. Marx distinguished between the 'use value' and the 'exchange value' of a product; the former, he argued, had little to do with the value of a product in the capitalist system; rather, capitalism created its own economy, in which the commodity's ability to be exchanged was the real determinant of its worth. Later Marxists, such as Herbert Marcuse, explored the 'fetishism of commodities' that arose from this system of exchange. Integral to this phenomenon, they said, was the belief that power resided in the product. Purchasing this product meant that power would be bestowed upon the owner.

One may argue that this 'power' is illusory, that by emphasising illusion, consumerism is shallow. But in the context of a society that values this illusion, its power is no longer illusory at all: it becomes the determining means by which some are empowered and others are excluded from power. Victoria Beckham is a case in point. By hiding her face behind Jackie O glasses and stuffing her ritually starved limbs into Rock & Republic jeans, she oozes the essence of consumer power, utilising the fetishism of commodities to bestow her body with a mystical power. Her greatest talent, then, is perhaps the way she adheres so rigidly to these rules; by adorning herself with a surplus of fetishised commodities, leaving us with no doubt as to the artificial, socially constructed nature of their power, her appearance contains a devastating critique of consumer capitalism itself. She is, in fact, a great deconstructionist; and whereas the theorists of old sat writing in their ivory towers, she is on the carpet, posing before the cameras, undermining the very system she upholds.

It's the same with this blog. Like any advertising endeavour, its existence relies on the fetishism of commodities. The belief that the bespoke tailored suit bestows power on its wearer is central to my attempt to get you to buy a suit from A Suit That Fits. The effect the suit produces is different to the mystique of Victoria Beckham. But it's certainly no less seductive, representing wealth, commerce and power. Its authority arises from an all together less mysterious, masculine physicality, which our culture - the City of London - fetishes above all else.

This blog entry was made possible by A Suit That Fits.