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September 14, 2009 | by  | in Opinion |
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Sando says


Through out my university life I have furiously masterba… Wait, no! I promised a Salient column that wasn’t about some sort of psychological problem stemming from some sort of attraction to my step-sister Jay. Oh god, that early childhood educator is just so hot! My cousin who was raised kind of like my brother dates my other step sister, so it’s okay to harbour these secret fee… NO! NO! NO! Umm. Anyways, Throughout my university life, I have furiously promised myself that one day, before I left varsity I would manage somehow to either scrimp and save or just blow heaps of people for long enough to be able to afford a pair of Doc Martens. I fucking love those shoes.


  • The Sun Maid Raisin Packet Lady
  • The Ultimate Warrior
  • The teacher who had an affair with my primary school principal
  • Jasmine Freemantle
  • Shahir, my very first film tutor

Doc Martens, like most good things, came from a Nazi. It’s okay though, the Nazi in question wasn’t a Jew killer or even a Pole killer, though he may have hated us queers. You see, Doctor Märtens was a really terrible skier, so while his country was at war, he was on the slopes, having himself a great time. Then he died. Well, he didn’t ‘die’ die, but he fell over and hurt his foot, and then he had the gall to be too prissy to wear regular German Infantry boots with his sore leg hand.

Obviously, he didn’t realise the Germans had invented methadone in the years before his fall, or he wouldn’t have created his distinctive soles that are just awash with air-cushioning comfort. So, thank you Doctor Märtens for being to medically incompetent. Oh, or pethidine could have worked too, you know, hey, give it to women in labour, the Nazis invented that too. Pethidine, not procreation.


  • Manned rocket flight
  • Fanta
  • Rotary engine
  • Magnetic tape
  • Romantic love
  • Methamphetamine

So, finally I managed to get my sausage-like fingers wrapped around a pair—slowly choking the life out of them. As soon as they were broken in my corpulent feet would be kings strutting the courts, saying “Hey, fuck you peasants. Go mill some wheat.” My Docs, well, they really are a beautiful mash up between business shoes and the boots I fantasised about from age 18. Glorious in shining black leather they be. Argh. I look like I could be a Proletarian minister awkwardly trying to fit in with the cool teens at his youth group. Or, like a skinhead who has realised that if he doesn’t get an office job soon he’s one facial tattoo away from being a criminal offence in Whanganui.
These magnificent shoes cost enough that I can’t afford to buy another pair any time soon, and are too impractical for me to wear anywhere or to anything. I make the best purchasing decisions with my money.


  • Moby Richard
  • Dear Fatty
  • Whales and Dolphins of the World
  • Leviathan
  • Wales (Lonely Planet Country Guide)

The woman who sold my Dr Martens to me said I should be careful not to throw up on them, as while acid won’t damage my kick-ass soles, they will seriously fuck the buff on my polish. As her hollow eyes sent me the message that she knew this from a painful personal experience, I vowed to myself to give up my bulimic habits, at least while fully dressed. Oh god, why do I binge? Oh Shahir! I miss you more than Britain misses the Dr Martens manufacturing plant that has been moved to China.


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About the Author ()

Nic Sando is a god amongst men, fifteen fathoms high he be, with strange and wyrd powers at his disposal. Only a fool won't harken his ears to the east when he hears The Sando man stumping his way.

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