Dear Primark,
Having been forced to wend my way down your miserable end of Oxford Street today in the pouring rain and amidst the swill of half-term all in the name of Proctor and Gamble (another story entirely, for another day), I was perhaps in a bad mood anyway. My oversized black umbrella was bashing unfriendly, dazed touristy faces out of the way and my bag was 69% heavy with an average Elective grade, plus my boots were leaking something dire. All if which made for an unhappy little Lauren.
I have always hated your store. Point blank. Always.
You for me signify the end of fashion as we know it. Your neon blue Primarche sign, the harbinger of commercial doom.
My plan was fairly simple- get the XL cashmere jumper and round-neck T-shirt and go, however nothing is simple once in your indigested belly. To my right there is a girl who is pouting by the doorway awaiting her Prince Charming (obviously in the form of Storm modelling Agency or so she would have us think). To my left, there is a small pack of children, sitting about aimlessly like refugees, waiting for a flustered mother and an over-eager "teen" sister. Why are they here? Neither club, nor creche, this is meant to be a shop.
Your hapless style of store design leaves little to be desired. For a moment I am lost, but then this will come as no surprise to anyone that knows me well enough, since I am almost always lost at one point in my day, but this was mainly due to the vast throngs of idiots I am having to wade through to even reach my first escalator. Reminder: All I am after is a jumper and T-shirt. To distract me on my journey there are rows upon rows, piled high of repetitive poorly made, shoddy pieces of cotton crap. Dear Primark, you have killed the individual. And this is my main issue with you.
Some say you have eliminated sumpturory class divides, others that you are providing a means of sartorial participation in an otherwise elitist industry. But, please, (excuse my Primarche) fuck off. What you have rathermore done is destroyed the fashion industry, you have it on its knees with your under-priced, under-stitched garbs. Now for a price everyone can be a Kate Moss circa 2006, or Daisy Lowe when she was dating that Ronson, or a "goff" Alice Dellal, but where are the actual people? We have become high street homogenised. We feign personality via the likes of Topshop, but ultimately are all contrived. Come back 2005, your chavvy sentiments are all but forgiven, at least that was the last time we saw people out in their genuine wardrobes!
London I pity you.
Having been forced to wend my way down your miserable end of Oxford Street today in the pouring rain and amidst the swill of half-term all in the name of Proctor and Gamble (another story entirely, for another day), I was perhaps in a bad mood anyway. My oversized black umbrella was bashing unfriendly, dazed touristy faces out of the way and my bag was 69% heavy with an average Elective grade, plus my boots were leaking something dire. All if which made for an unhappy little Lauren.
I have always hated your store. Point blank. Always.
You for me signify the end of fashion as we know it. Your neon blue Primarche sign, the harbinger of commercial doom.
My plan was fairly simple- get the XL cashmere jumper and round-neck T-shirt and go, however nothing is simple once in your indigested belly. To my right there is a girl who is pouting by the doorway awaiting her Prince Charming (obviously in the form of Storm modelling Agency or so she would have us think). To my left, there is a small pack of children, sitting about aimlessly like refugees, waiting for a flustered mother and an over-eager "teen" sister. Why are they here? Neither club, nor creche, this is meant to be a shop.
Your hapless style of store design leaves little to be desired. For a moment I am lost, but then this will come as no surprise to anyone that knows me well enough, since I am almost always lost at one point in my day, but this was mainly due to the vast throngs of idiots I am having to wade through to even reach my first escalator. Reminder: All I am after is a jumper and T-shirt. To distract me on my journey there are rows upon rows, piled high of repetitive poorly made, shoddy pieces of cotton crap. Dear Primark, you have killed the individual. And this is my main issue with you.
Some say you have eliminated sumpturory class divides, others that you are providing a means of sartorial participation in an otherwise elitist industry. But, please, (excuse my Primarche) fuck off. What you have rathermore done is destroyed the fashion industry, you have it on its knees with your under-priced, under-stitched garbs. Now for a price everyone can be a Kate Moss circa 2006, or Daisy Lowe when she was dating that Ronson, or a "goff" Alice Dellal, but where are the actual people? We have become high street homogenised. We feign personality via the likes of Topshop, but ultimately are all contrived. Come back 2005, your chavvy sentiments are all but forgiven, at least that was the last time we saw people out in their genuine wardrobes!
London I pity you.
Yours wistfully,
L
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