An Open Letter To Shoreditch House

here is my open letter to Shoreditch house, serving as immutable proof of my creative status.

I recently applied to Shoreditch house. Unfortunately, it is necessary to be involved in a creative industry of some capacity, and being unemployed is not a creative endeavor, according to Clare from the membership department. This seemed strange, as some of the most creative people I know are unemployed. Jimmy, the homeless man with the three-legged dog, built a rain shelter with only a week worth of Pret-a-Manger waste. But he cannot apply because he does not have an address. It's a cruel world.

 
 

Not one to go down without a fight — here is my open letter to Shoreditch house, serving as immutable proof of my creative status.

Shoreditch house is a private members club where patrons pay a fee to mingle with people that aren’t from Essex. One must procure a reference from two other existing members, and whilst a cocaine addiction is not a prerequisite, it will help your application.

 
 


It is a meeting place for the creative industries: artists, musicians, start-ups, and basically anything else that doesn’t make any money. It is one big networking event and just as awkward — except the drinks aren’t free and people don’t wear a name badge, although this doesn’t stop people from telling you what they do. In fact, they are highly creative when it comes to inventing opportunities to do so. That being said, there are free sweets, and there is table tennis, despite the paddles being what you would expect to find behind the bar at an all-inclusive resort in Lanzarote. But mostly Shoreditch house is guys with screenplays trying to get girls back to their bedroom for a ‘casting’.

Shoreditch house is great for meeting pseudo-celebrities. I once met Gordon Ramsey’s niece, a corporate lawyer who was furious that she didn’t see any of his fortunes

Suits are not allowed presumably because suits are the embodiment of evil; a drab uniform signifying a domesticated spirit, anti-fashion; complete with a stifling little noose around the neck. But also because men in suits are known to buy rounds of Jägerbombs suddenly, without warning, and to start chanting obnoxiously at even the smallest of stimuli — “he’s got a shit hat, on his head, he’s got a shit hat, on his head!”. Suits enjoy Rugby, which needs no further explanation. They are also preoccupied with the goal of generating profit. If you let them in, then the whole thing would be monetised. The free sweets at the front would be subject to a levy. The table tennis would be organised into tournaments until there was one triumphant victor, and everyone else was deemed shit. They would turn one of the rooms into an Aspen Ski-Lodge-themed bar, play ‘Dont stop me now’ by Queen, and people would dance on the tables throwing vodka at each other. At the end, they would do that high-five-cum-hug and they would whisper into each other's ears “Quality night mate, fucking top banter, your mate Ralph is a good egg. Let's have a few jars tomorrow, watch the Grand Prix and finish that convo about inflation”.

 
 

Shoreditch house is great for meeting pseudo-celebrities. I once met Gordon Ramsey’s niece, a corporate lawyer who was furious that she didn’t see any of his fortunes, an understandable peeve because lawyers are notoriously benevolent and always doing things for free. She joined my group of friends, discarded her own, and invited us to a barbecue at her house that weekend. It arose that Gordon would not be cooking, so I made other plans. Gordon has made a career out of knowing exactly what temperature to heat a pan to, knowing exactly how long to leave a bit of dead animal flesh in there, how to season it with plant extracts and flower residues, all whilst telling someone to ‘Fuck off, you useless pigeon’, for not preparing the beans properly. It's really annoying when you make dinner with a friend and they don’t do the beans properly.

In closing, I think we are a perfect fit. The ‘No Photo’ policy you operate is easily obeyed given that my phone memory is full, and no amount of deleting photos seems to appease the overflowing capacity. Shoreditch house will be happy to learn that I do not currently own a suit and that I haven’t been able to drink Jägerbombs since Andrew’s 25th birthday at Bloomsbury Bowling, where I threw a bowling ball at his Mum, as a joke. In my defense, I didn’t mean to let go of it, and although it was the lightest one, I had unwittingly picked up the one with the largest finger holes. I do not think this should tarnish my application and I hope that any of your patrons who frequent the swimming pool will heed this as a light warning to stay in their lane.

Jamie Chang

I used to sell land in Brazil and luckily I never sold any. Poker Player.