What we put on our feet says a lot about a person. Shoes define our character. There are shoes that breathe, shoes for diving, shoes for driving, shoes that light up, shoes with wheels in them, shoes that look more like gloves than shoes, shoes by Kanye West, shoes for old people, shoes for the indoors, shoes for hunting, shoes for dancing. You get the point.
Neither of them is aesthetically pleasing – at least not for the sane amongst us
Then there are Birkenstocks and Crocs: two heinous additions to fashion and yet two very successful brands, albeit for different markets. They are at war. Battling it out for the nation’s feet on metropolitan high streets and in the gardens of our countryside dwellers; a great clog divide of injection-moulded polymer versus leather and cork.
Neither of them is aesthetically pleasing – at least not for the sane amongst us. But it seems these shoes refuse to die. Like tiny beanie hats, Peaky Blinders haircuts, and choker necklaces, these shoes have clung on for dear life. But what’s all the fuss about? And, more importantly, which shoe is the lesser of two evils?
I’ll start with Birkenstocks, which last week was valued at a phenomenal $9 billion. Now, I’ve never actually owned a pair of Birkenstocks, and I don’t intend to. If you ever catch me wearing them, please call the number on the bracelet around my wrist and inform the authorities I’ve escaped.
Birkenstocks don’t just make sandals for the exceedingly rich, they make clogs too. And boots. And whatever else the designers can get their evil hands on. I don’t really get Birkenstocks. I don’t think Birkenstocks get Birkenstocks. I doubt that Johann Adam Birkenstock sat in 18th century Hessen envisioning his name as being synonymous with Hollywood Boulevard and psilocybin-dusted beach parties. But here we are.
Birkenstocks still market themselves as a ‘comfortable’ shoe. A review online said they were like walking on clouds. I decided it was only appropriate I try these cloud shoes for myself. I went to a Jones Bootmaker in Canary Wharf’s labyrinthian shopping centre this weekend. The shop assistant told me that Birkenstocks were out of season. But before I could say, ‘That’s OK. I suppose a pair of Havaianas and an all-inclusive trip to Majorca will do,’ she said, ‘Actually, I think I have one pair in the back.’
She brought me the Arizona: Birkenstocks’s most popular sandal. ‘Thank you,’ I said. Slipping them on, I half expected to fall to my knees in tears, screaming, ‘Where have you been all my life?’ But that didn’t happen. The shoes felt like how they looked: misshapen. I know that Birkenstocks require ‘breaking in’, but how long are you meant to walk around with golf balls of cork sticking into the soles of your feet?
I took a look in the mirror. Ah, yes, I thought. There he is. I could almost sense the life I was missing. One of shouting at live-in staff, of cheating on my dissatisfied wife, of hiring a personal trainer to whip me into shape every Wednesday evening. But that’s not me. My name isn’t Bob Vicious and I don’t own a new build on the waters of Saint-Tropez. I handed the sandals back and lost myself in the endless corridors of Jubilee Place once more.
Crocs are a different beast. I have a soft spot for Crocs. I’ve owned them and admired their stubborn place on the world’s shoe rack for years. Crocs are a polymer dichotomy. They’ve been owned by glamour models and hungover aunties alike. They’re a statement – though not always a good one. Crocs – founded some two hundred and something years after Birkenstocks – have a timeless evil to them. There’s something anciently disturbing about these floating clogs. You can almost imagine some nefarious mage producing them from his sheepskin sack before the egregious king of a long-forgotten empire.
‘Pray, tell me, little cretin, what are those feet-boats made of?’
‘Why, my Lord, they are made of Croslite.’
‘Croslite?’
‘A material known only to the Gods.’
‘And what do you call them?’
‘Crocs, my Lord.’
‘Excellent. Guards, behead the little sorcerer and bring me his “Crocs”. My feet are sore and I’m in need of something to shuffle around in when I feel frumpy.’
Although I respect Crocs, I still think they’re awful. But for me, it boils down to one thing. Toes. I hate my own toes, but not as much as I hate seeing other people’s. And at least with Crocs, they’re semi-obscured. But with Birkenstocks, people flaunt their little nubbins for the world to see as they enter and exit vehicles, walk down the road, stop for a spot of lunch.
I’ll have to give this round to Crocs, as much as I hate to admit it. I just can’t stand the sight of a stranger’s gammy toe as I’m trying to enjoy my coffee. It’s not fair.
Crocs: 1.
Birkenstocks: 0.
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