Prior to today, if you searched for The Most Awesome Shoes in the World on Google you would find a two pairs of Nike trainers under- in searing pink and acid green respectively. Trainers are for running in or walking in. Trainers are functional footwear. Trainers do not deserve the accolade of the Most Awesome Shoes in the World. So trainers run along now, begone because from today if you Google The Most Awesome Shoes in the World you will (I hope) find this blog post. This blog post is about a pair of truly awesome shoes by one of the most awesome people on Twitter, Rick Morton. You can find him there and say hi. If you are shy or stunned into an awed silence mosey on over to his blog The Ambiguity Report, Maybe. You will be in for a the literary equivalent of a roller coaster ride so hang on tight.
It was a moment of such ridiculous religiosity that for a brief point in time I thought I might have believed in Jesus.
That is, if he could turn water into this awesome pair of shoes.
These shoes, though they now look like something you would see a Mad Max extra wearing, were at one stage the height of fashion and I purchased them as my first foray into actually owning nice shoes.
Previously I owned sneakers and slip-ons and black work shoes of such a crushing mediocrity that they would have been quite readily adopted as the official footwear of underachievement.
But a gay man cannot go contrary to the central tenets of gaydom (there is no gay Kingdom, just a Queendom) and I needed some stylish shoes, pronto.
These unfortunate suckers were that pair.
They are a brown faux-leather shambles with what looks like the cartoonish imprint of a snake that has been steamrolled and plastered across the top of each.
They curl up ever so slightly at the toe, inviting you to put bells on the end and pretend to be an elf.
They are, for all intents and purposes, dead animal chic and I loved them dearly because they made me look like a cowboy and I had only recently seen Brokeback Mountain.
I wore them like Germaine Greer wears a chip on her shoulder: with pride and a disagreeable sense of awesome.
I wore them too much.
Occasionally I still wear them except the soles have had two rather large holes friction-burned into them after one too many disgraceful dance moves.
Prevent me from wearing them at all this tragedy has not, for they have simply become a ‘dry weather shoe’.
On occasion, I have been caught out as late night thunder clouds roll over and my socks get drenched.
If you have ever smelled the pungent ambience that is wet sock you will appreciate that there are worse fates in this world than wearing bad shoes, though not many.
This pair is criminally out of fashion.
In fact, I once got arrested while wearing them by the actual fashion police. Except they mentioned something about ‘public nuisance’ but I was too busy judging their belts to take any notice.
But you know how you have something so daggy and yet you love it anyway, like that old t-shirt, your husband, or your children?
That is the category into which these shoes fall – barely functional signals of yesteryear, a fashion relic preserved unwisely on my feet when I feel like wearing my brown belt.
These shoes have a history.
They’re my Waterloo.
They have been swimming in at least two water fountains on the Gold Coast, dropped over a balcony from a great height and fallen on to a highway at speed in circumstances I am not quite willing to reveal to anybody.
They are not just little leather vessels into which I can slip my sexy feet (creative licence may or may not have been taken) but little open shoe jars in which I can store my memories.
I could, I suppose, take them to a shoe repairer to get those soles fixed, but that’s a little bit like going to a Yogi to get my soul fixed.
Original or nothing, baby.
I will wear these brown numbers until the day the soles give way completely and they become unwieldy ankle bracelets.
And it will be a sad day where I light candles and hold a footwear séance in the hopes they will make it to a nicer place.