Everyone knows that standing on Lego is the worst pain known to man, but standing in Lego Crocs – how bad can they be? And are they really worth £199? I got hold of a prototype pair to test how my feet would survive.
10am
The package arrives. My Lego Crocs are here! Little does my first Zoom of the day know I’m still wearing my pyjama bottoms, let alone these comedy monstrosities under the table. They’re keeping my feet warmer than my usual Homer Simpson slippers, so for sheer thermal efficiency, I’m already a reluctant fan.
1pm
It takes an hour to get anywhere in London, but with my feet jammed inside two portable Jenga towers, today it takes me two. I clamber precariously up the stairs on the bus, and hang on for dear life down the escalator to the tube. At least I’ve been brought up well enough to never put my feet on the seat. Wouldn’t want to brick the upholstery.
2pm
Now for a real test: bowling at Bloomsbury Lanes. Bes behind the counter assures me that rubber-soled shoes are fine, now that bowling shoes are a post-Covid relic. “Just not high heels,” he says. I’m usually rubbish, but – with my Crocs acting like two giant anchors – I fluke a split. Victory! But it wasn’t the Crocs, as I follow up with two gutter balls. “Nice shoes, mate,” compliments a fellow bowler. I clomp away in shame.
3pm
A saunter through the park. No one seems phased by a man in giant red rubber clogs. Anna Gordon, the Guardian photographer, finds it hilarious that I have to stop for a sit down on every bench. “You try walking in them!” I counter, but she’s too busy snapping away at my agony, in hope of becoming the next Lord Lichfield.
4pm
Millie, my spin class instructor at Anytime Fitness Euston, seems as impressed with my Crocs as she is baffled. She’s not sure she’d pay £200 for a pair, though. Can I pedal in them? Sort of. The extra weight feels like bonus kinetic energy on the down-pedals, but the up-pedal is pure suffering. I’d love to see Lance Armstrong attempt the Tour de France in a pair of these.
9pm-10pm
So, the biggie. Can my Lego Crocs blag me into a posh Mayfair nightclub, where one is instantly judged by one’s shoes? Where Hitler in boots would be welcomed in, but Jesus in sandals would get turned away? How will I fare with feet like Krusty the Clown? “Not tonight, mate,” I’m told at my first velvet rope. “No trainers. No sportswear. No exceptions,” I’m told at the second. “Those are a health and safety violation and also hideous,” says the third gatekeeper. It’s like my Crocs come with built-in bouncer repellent. No wonder I was told to brick off.
Back at home in my trusty Adidas, I realise these aren’t shoes; they’re a performance art piece about the triumph of novelty over sense. My feet survived – barely – but my ego needs a rebuild. If fashion really is passion over practicality, then I think I’ll just stay fashionably ignorant, thanks very much.
