Perry Boy Floyd.

Perry Boy Floyd was born somewhere between the Hacienda and the Arndale, raised on a strict diet of Vimto, fried egg butties and the sort of clothes that made his mum ask, “Are you going out dressed like that?”. He came of age when Manchester’s scooter boys and soul boys started swapping notes, and before long the city had developed its own particular way of doing things. Trainers, terrace trousers, a sharp jacket, something obscure from somewhere nobody else had heard of. The trick was to look like you hadn’t tried, while having spent the previous three hours trying. By the time everyone else caught on, Perry was already onto something else.

This was a problem for Perry because, frankly, he couldn’t leave it well enough alone. The second the city centre boys started wearing something, Perry stopped wearing it. Someone got the same jacket? Gone. Three lads down the precinct had bought the same trainers? Finished. His mate’s cousin had turned up at The Haçienda in the exact same shirt? Straight in the wardrobe, never to be seen again. Perry treated clothing trends like Greater Manchester treats a decent bit of sunshine: enjoy it while it lasts, then immediately find something else. These days you’ll find him decked out in a carefully assembled combination of Oi Polloi favourites, looking like he’s either just stepped off the platform at Piccadilly or is about to explain to someone why their shoes aren’t technically proper trainers.

Long live Perry Boy Floyd. A man forever three steps ahead, usually walking very quickly, and absolutely refusing to tell you where he got his coat. He knows every shortcut from the Northern Quarter to Deansgate, has strong opinions about which side of the tram to stand on and once spent an entire Saturday pretending not to recognise someone because they’d bought the same jacket. Some call it casual culture. Perry calls it survival. Either way, the clothes are good and there’s a fair chance he’ll have changed his outfit again by the time you’ve finished reading this.