iiinova — where your digital self keeps evolving

It’s not her best work, but it’ll scale, it fits the brief. Imagine thinking this was too decadent. It’s like the thing where the Tokyo police had a massive crackdown on Delinquent Yoofs for wearing classic western Ivy styles in ‘64 before the Olympics. Anyway, fashion and food history are great

The Elsa Schiaparelli exhibition at the V&A is well worth a look. Some wonderful pieces. You get a sense of an avant garde experimentalist who knew when to stop at the edges of wearability.

Gays The Word have a section that is basically “bait for a Rogger trap”

A photo of a book (journal?) called Cruising Pavilion: architecture, dissident sex and cruising cultures, about the interplay between design and public fucking.

Roger @rogger.bsky.social · 05/09/2026

Loving this Brighton thrift store shirt. That will be all.

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Oh gods, Mange Tout in Brighton remains so, so good.

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Roger @rogger.bsky.social · 04/09/2026

I picked up a copy of Jack the Modernist for the train and, uhh, sure why not…

A picture of a page from a novel, the passage at issue takes the form of scripted dialogue, reading:

BOB: I dreamt 1I was on a game show that gave away sex prizes—the host from Truth or Consequences spun a whee trimmed with blue neon. Shouts and applause. I was an average American, naked, lying in a sling with my legs raised and my feet in stirrups. The stage was an expanse of horizon-less beige linoleum with blue drapes at the wings. A truffle imported from the South of France was inserted into my asshole—a drum roll, scuffing and snorting in the wings-and then—also imported from the South of France-a pig trained to root for truffles-
JACK: Was the host Ralph Edwards, Jack Bailey or Bob barker?
BOB: You're a deep scholar. Is everything good?

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Roger @rogger.bsky.social · 03/09/2026

Gods help me, I made those Bourdain mortadella sandwiches and they’re as good as everyone says.

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Roger @rogger.bsky.social · 31/08/2026

Hasn’t risen super well, but let’s see how it bakes.

Roger @rogger.bsky.social · 28/08/2026

…and whatever this was. I feel like this is a numinous but firm expression of ~2018. The last coat tails of the British hotel service quality slide, of people carrying cash, and the end of the rise of bottled water. A crystallisation of calculated low expectations. Thwarted as an add-on.

Roger @rogger.bsky.social · 28/08/2026

Rocky Horror theme night vibes.

Roger @rogger.bsky.social · 28/08/2026

“No. I don’t care if we are on the actual shore, near a salt marsh! We’ll have none of that liminality nonsense in this hotel, sunshine!”

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In hindsight, I should have started this whole thread with “just popping out for fish and chips”.

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There are worse things to do than watch the moon knead the oceans.

Looking down over the pier. Total bullshit. Glorious. The carpets are what you would imagine.

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I can’t resist a faded glory victorian seaside hotel. They’re always shit and today’s is no exception, although surprisingly the shower works.

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A nose over 80km total. I’ll be honest, today wasn’t the best. The pebble beach was… undelightful, and the last 3km or so were a slog through tedious bullshit in the rain. But overall it’s been good and the cliff top paths are gothic as fuck.

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Beeston Bump. Sounds like a dance you could get arrested for in fifties America. 58 whole meters high, former WWII listening in station, mythic hangout of Black Shuck, raining.

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The terrible duality of golf

I’m sure it’s fine.

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Little run of houses miles from anywhere on the sea cliff edge, is it? Sacrifices to “She in the Brine” out beyond the sand bar, eh?

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So the issue is less that I can’t read maps and more how often I don’t. Which is to say: yes, this is a three kilometre stretch of pebble beach. Cockends.

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Yesterday was an odd one. Cracking run along the beach and wetlands then the woodlands between Burnham Market and Wells. But the long stretch round the edge of the salt marshes to Blakeney had that real sense of the etiolated infinite. Almost bleak.

Tempura samphire - extremely yes.

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Over on Instagram I decreed this pine tree “extra. Verging on cunty”. I stand by it.

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There’s probably a decent ale pub down in the village (town?) but I am not fucking walking there.

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