I am a short, middle-aged, white bald man in glasses and I’ve got a Supreme obsession. Every Thursday I, along with a few thousand mostly much younger and cooler Supreme-heads, visit the Supreme shop in London’s Soho, and spend vast wads on the hottest items from the latest drop. I pore over every product in the weekly drop-lists, get unfathomably excited by each rumour of every new collaboration, and bathe in a warm feeling when I manage to ‘cop’ a particularly sought-after piece. Especially the ones which feature its almost mystically appealing box logo – the word ‘Supreme’ in Futura Heavy Oblique against a rectangular box background. Known to all Supreme fans as the ‘bogo’.
When I first clapped eyes on the big logo outside its original store on Lafayette Street, NYC, in 1994, during one of my many trips to the city, it was love at first sight. The design was in the red and white of my beloved Arsenal, and at the same time felt like a perfect symbol of New York authenticity. But it was a daunting place for an uptight little Briton to enter. Yet I braved the totally harmless skater gangs who hung out there and the rap music blaring out at ear-splitting volume, to gingerly enter this perfectly minimalist shrine to skateboarding and brilliant streetwear. I had had a skateboard as a kid so I felt I somehow belonged there. Kind of. The staff turned out to be thoroughly friendly and helpful, although when I naively enquired about the perfectly cool box logo Supreme T-shirts they were wearing, but which didn’t seem to be on the shelves, I was brusquely told they weren’t available.
Undeterred, I visited the store pretty much bi-annually while on my freakishly frequent holidays to the city, a regular escape from the dank, grey and fundamentally Supreme-less London, way before the brand found its way into one or two select UK outlets. At some point being a bald little Brit who kept showing up in their lower Manhattan shop worked in my favour. The staff began to recognise me, and eventually they let me buy one of the bogo tees held in the mysterious stockroom area behind the counter. I distinctly remember the special thrill of finally getting hold of a Supreme tee with the actual logo on it. It felt as symbolic of the glamour and excitement of New York as a Woody Allen film or an episode of Seinfeld.
For a long time, it felt like I was one of the few Brits who even knew about Supreme, though I’m sure there were plenty of other similarly obsessed would-be skate dudes trying to be cool by wearing stuff you could only get in New York. This was pre-internet by and large, so there was no way of knowing who else was interested, except for the occasional glorious moment when I’d glimpse someone else wearing a Supreme item around town and we’d exchange knowing nods. Bonded by the bogo.
Now we live in a world where bogo hoodies are among the most sought-after items of clothing in the world, and rebellious Supreme has shared its DNA with luxurious Louis Vuitton. This was the last straw for some Supreme fans, who recoiled at the idea of splurging 40-grand on a skateboard trunk. But for an ageing media twat like myself, the LV collaboration was all part of the fun. In fact, I welcomed the co-mingling to such an extent I couldn’t resist acquiring one of the ultra-rare red leather monogram bomber jackets – an item so blindingly loud I may never pluck up the courage to wear it in public. It’s also the most expensive thing I’ve ever bought, aside from my home, even pricier than my Arsenal Platinum Club season ticket. But at least I get a permanent sense of satisfaction from knowing that my jacket, in all its flashy red and white Supreme-y glory, is hanging there in my flat, never to be sold on eBay, always to be coveted.
Despite the Vuitton thing, Supreme’s still keeping it real in my eyes. It seems that the first person who gets to don the holiest Supreme grails each week at the London drop isn’t a cool young thing with hundreds of thousands of Instagram followers, but a similarly aged dude to me called Lance. Few things give me greater pleasure than spotting Lance on his Berwick Street market stall, round the corner from Supreme’s London HQ, counterintuitively clad head to toe in fresh Supreme.
It wasn’t long ago that Supreme employed Neil Young, the most authentically grungy folk-rocker of our time, who famously railed against pop stars doing commercial activity, to front their campaign. So I need never worry about being the oldest, whitest, craggiest Supreme-head around. I like to think Neil’s rocking a red leather monogram Supreme/LV bomber jacket right now as he cranks out his latest epic guitar workout. Like me and that Lance from Berwick Street market, I know our love for Supreme will never die.
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