You sent Alexi Duggins to a workshop for creating blinged-up eyewear. Unfortunately, this was the result…
I have a very specific routine when it comes to craft. It goes like this:
1) Carefully lay out materials.
2) Formulate intricate plans.
3) Mangle components into gluey ball of disaster.
4) Bang head on table in despair.
5) Realise head is now glued to table.
So the ‘Pimp Up Your Sunglasses’ workshop at Drink, Shop & Do in King’s Cross worries me. Particularly as there’s alcohol involved. And it’s run in a bar – albeit with access to enough sparkly knick-knacks to make a magpie hyperventilate – so it’s largely unsupervised. Disaster, here I come.
Seat and drink procured, I’m given some photographic ‘inspiration sheets’. There are women whose glasses look like they’ve been dipped in daisies. Will.i.am appears to have treated his jewelencrusted frames to a vajazzle (guess he took the instruction to ‘pimp your sunglasses’ a bit too literally). And there’s a pair whose feathery rim would prove pretty unfortunate if you were ever embroiled in investigations regarding a lost buzzard. This, I decide, is the style for me. Well,I’vealways wanted to be hawk-eyed.
So I begin my routine.
1) I carefully lay out lots of feathers and metal studs.
2) I formulate intricate plans for a look that I’m mentally calling ‘badass chieftain’.
3) It goes really well…
By the end of an hour, I have produced something I’m so proud of that I take a photo, put it on Twitter and text it to my girlfriend. Within seconds my phone is bleeping. No wonder. These shades are excellent. ‘FAB!’ tweets one reader. Clearly I have a great career ahead of me as an eyewear designer. ‘More like a funny sunglasses model,’ adds the reader. Hmm. An anomaly, no doubt. These sunnies are definitely cool. ‘Well, they do make you look like an Angry Bird,’ says the photographer, unconvinced. Then my phone lights up with my girlfriend’s response. At least I can count on her. ‘Lovely,’ she says, ‘if you were fronting a gay metal band.’ ‘Goddamit!’ I yell at the photographer, jabbing my finger into the table to emphasise my words. ‘These sunglasses are the future! I’ve got my finger on the pulse here! I know what I’m on about! I’ve got my finger on the… on the…’ At this point, my words trail off. Suddenly, more pressing matters require my attention. I have, after all, just glued my finger to the table.