Sometimes you have to ask yourself: how committed am I to the buckle doctrine? “Sometimes,” in this particular case, meaning one hour and three shops in. But cowboy up son, because that’s weakness talking. The buckle doctrine exists for your own good and you know it. It exists because, what, you’re gonna walk around in plain black loafers like some schmuck? You’re gonna settle for laces? Get the fuck outta here.
Wildly veering linguistic register aside, you do need some kind of trademark. Stick with your bog-standard thirty-quid Dunnes effort time after time and it starts to seep into your brain way worse than any tie or shirtsleeve; you’ll be walking The Man’s walk in no time. Did they put up with that shit in the eighteenth century? No sir, they did not. A man’s gait was his own. And do you know why? Buckles, my friend. Buckles.
The only problem is the price. The b-s D-e, as alluded to above, is cheap. Character is not. Especially for a man such as myself, who hesitates to exceed an annual outlay of fifty of your earth Euro in sheathing any given body part. I exceeded it most grievously this time – presumably due to inflation, since what I ended up getting is an ever-so-slightly-updated version of the shoes I’ve been wearing since Maastricht. But these are the shakes, and there’s no point complaining. All you can do is find a way to balance the scales, whether by cheaping out on runners or persisting in wearing jeans made out of holes. No matter how much your mother gets onto you about it. That’s right, wussbuckets: I am exactly as cool as you think I am.
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