Monday, 24 October 2016


Nike, SportChek, Dri-Fit, Nike Pro, workout gear,
I foolishly assumed this Nike outfit's $200 pricetag was a gentleman's promise that it wouldn't disintegrate on the first wear.
I have a confession to make: I buy overpriced Nike workout gear. It's part of an ongoing effort to trick myself into going to the gym often enough to counterbalance a diet of constant pasta and booze and a work environment comprised of so much sitting my arse is literally starting to take on the shape of a chair. An ergonomically designed, lumbar-supporting, executive office chair, mind you, but still: a chair. Nobody wants a chair-shaped ass.

So I think I can be forgiven if, on my few precious days off, I sacrifice my wallet at the altar of SportChek so that I'll feel obliged to drag my body to the altar of GoodLife. Hence I've been treating myself to everything from mesh trainers to psychedelic track suits and venturing further and further afield to find ever more psychedelic outfits at ever more exorbitant prices until finally ... I hit the wake-up wall. 

This happened when I fell in love with a black-on-black Nike Pro Dri-Fit track suit with a fluorescent lemon-meringue-coloured swoosh. It's a little more subtle than the Nike Pro Dri-Fit track suit I got for Christmas but it has the same great fit and feel and, to be honest, the same cachet that comes with a swoosh one paid 200 bucks for. So you can imagine my chagrin when I got home, slipped into my hot new getup and heard a sound that can only be described as "rrrrrrrrrrrrrip." And looked in the mirror to see that the beloved "swoosh" had split in half and was curling up at either end like a scab. An obvious political protest to which I responded with a mix of rage and shame.

Because here's the thing, Nike: I already feel dirty enough for buying a product you paid some nine-year-old to cobble together. I already feel dirty enough paying $200 for a product that probably cost you $12. Your role in this disgusting charade is to convince me that, at some point, some major quality control honcho is brought in, perhaps even paid a living wage, someone who sees to it that the seams, the zippers and most of all THE GODDAM NIKE SWOOSH do not explode the second one of us materialistic Western mall whores tries it on. That is your job. Your only job. (Well that and, presumably, ensuring the underage Indonesians don't burn like kebabs when the shithole factory goes up in flames for the thirtieth time this year.) 

It doesn't seem like too much to ask but apparently it is and so guess what, Nike: I'm finished with you. The appalling shoddiness of your overpriced gear has, belatedly I admit, brought me to my senses. I will not EVER, I promise you, pay so much as five bucks for one of your wretched pieces of shite, even if it means I have to go to the gym in the nude. Furthermore, I'll be shipping this particular piece back to you and expecting a full refund, which I will then spend on pasta and booze, because what the hell, at least I don't have to picture Indonesian children succumbing to heat stroke while I'm enjoying it.

EDITOR'S NOTE Although, to be fair, those Indonesian kids are tougher than you might think. As this video clearly shows.