Like a young Jack Black/scruffy Jim Morrison, ruffled dark-blonde mid-length hair, week or so of stubble, roll-up hanging from loose lips, old black leather jacket, faded baggy jeans, black Doc Marten boots, saggy blue rucksack… sardonic expression of carefree cool.
To whom do I refer? Oh no-one you would know. Probably. Just a young chap on the train. No, there is nothing homoerotic going on here. I do wish I could take a picture of him, however – you know, without looking like some kind of weirdo. He doesn’t remind me of me when I was younger – but he reminds me of the kind of person I wanted to be – sometimes.
He looks confident. Perhaps a little stoned, but confident with it. Confident in his scruffiness, confident in the fuck you look on his face. He looks happy. He looks like he wouldn’t take no shit, but would walk away from it rather than fight it. He’s not a fighter. He doesn’t need to fight. Negative energy washes over him. There is no violence in his soul. He is the epitome of chilled, which may be the drugs, but I have a feeling it is also innate.
I may, of course, be entirely wrong, but to me he is The Man.