His silver chain was out over the neck of his vintage Burberry polo, a Stone Island badge sellotaped on to the nines.
Daniel Marchand removed his tortoise shell, oval-shaped glasses in favour of contact lenses, and opted for baggy true religion jeans over his usual rotation of corduroy and pinstripes. A shaky pint of John Smith’s out the can to prepare himself for what was to come. He was ready for the trip to the local pub.
Marchand reduced his home-county dialect to an Estuarine level of nothingness, to the point where no particular accent was audible – an amalgamation of London streetwear wannabe and middle of middle England. “One pint of Taddies please barkeep,” he said with fear in his voice, “and keep the change.”
Reporters from The Whip accompanied Marchand on his heroic journey, about which he said, “There’s seriously untapped culture in these places. The locals are full of amazing stories about, I don’t know, construction sites or whatever.
“Other students don’t know what they’re missing out on when they go to their by-students-for-students bars. Here there’s a real sense of anger, pain and world-weariness – which I really relate to,” he said before visibly recoiling when a man asked him if the next chair was free.
The evening climaxed into chaos when Marchand attempted a 3-pint trifecta carrying method from bar to table, only to drop all 1704ml of Holsten lager on his new-but-beaten Nike Air Force 1s.