Heavy is the ankle that wears the crown. Whether your kingdom is on your step mum’s pull out couch, or whether it’s on the best slab of concrete at the local BMX park, these shoes scream lower socio-economic suburban royalty.
Typically, the original set is stolen by a hectic cunt who still throws house parties for the local school girls of Bunbury. Although he is 32, his DC’s are immortal as they are passed down when each subsequent DC King is dethroned by the tight laces of incarceration.
Much like bringing twins into the world, once you have a set of these babies your entire perception of life changes. The last remaining tethers of employment, grooming and literacy snap, and you float aimlessly in the void of goatees, speed dealer sunnies and talking shit on your baby mumma’s Facebook.
Your days now involve riding around your neighbourhood peeking into cars, starting fights with minors and slamming back lukewarm cans of Wild Boar 9% bourbon, that you keep in a backpack with spray paint and your best trolley pole.
But, what makes the DC such a perfect accompaniment for public nuisance? This is a question that has plagued sociologists for decades, however, the answer may lie in their moon boot size.
If you’ve ever had to use your foot as a brake while fleeing Galleria security, you’ll know the difference a little extra padding makes.
Whatever the reason, the DC skate shoe is iconic, but remember, you don’t choose your DCs, they choose you. Be patient, terrorise your neighbourhood, and good things will come to you eventually.
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?