Chief of corduroy wearing, spectacle bearing trend amenders and heirs of eccentricity.

It's been 14 years since my hug request outside of Kaffibarinn after a Pulp performance (to which he replied with his humdrum speech and opaque Sheffield dialect "go on then") but I still get the shivers in the presence of anything Jarvis-related, as while browsing through garments in his preferred second hand store on the fringe of Paris' naughty Pigalle quartier, or while watching the recent film "The Good Night" where Jarvis appears as himself and speaks of the glory days of britpop and Camden-based bar The Good Mixer, the hub of the era.
Jarvis Cocker inspired me to renounce the accepted small town culture I was surrounded with and withdraw from the common clothing stores, disowning the homogeneous scenery of style which would cause me to hitchhike across country, towards the capital where I would seek out vintage shops and flea markets and spend my allowance on velvet skirts and motley dresses, heavy coats made of wool and draped in mustiness, punctured pants and spotty shirts with broken buttons, argyle patterned vests as seen on the images of my poster-covered walls, plaided blazers of lost decades which elapsed by as I flipped through the clothing articles they represented. I would return, an amalgam of various trends and time periods, post-modernism in the flesh, and cease to attend the school dances, instead listening to "Mis-Shapes" in my room and fantasize about escaping the place.
I still keep a picture of Jarvis on my wall. It's an older Jarvis, a father with his wife on his side and Paris lifestyle in his eyes, but he's still wearing his trademark corduroy jacket, the color of a brown bear, and black horn-rimmed glasses which his hair has overgrown, and he still look as oddly attractive as ever. Jarvis Cocker will never lose his distinctive element, and I will never lose my veneration for what he stands for: The defeat of the ordinary.