I’m starting to feel solemn whenever the natural wine discourse comes knocking. One minute I’m sitting in a bar, any bar, drinking an Asahi, the next, yet again, it’s that cyclical conversation about Stoke Newington, cocktails in cans, seasonal modern bakeries and New Balance-clad people who cook Marmite spaghetti. Culture in modernity, the Vogue cigarette scenes; dissonance as regards what constitutes progress.
It makes me think London has become a meme and we are in it. I’m beginning to think there is nothing worse than those white background collages about London culture. They’re as bad as boomers talking about scones and whether cream or jam should go on first.
