Ben Machell unpacks the secrets of his man bag

Our columnist's bit on the side...
Ben Machell28 April 2017

Occasionally in magazines they get someone with a sexy-yet-intellectual job — usually a photographer or globetrotting entrepreneur — to unpack their bag and talk readers through the contents. It’s always stuff like vintage cameras, Moleskine notebooks, designer sunglasses and fat rolls of different currencies — and the idea is that we’re treated to a window into their sexy-yet-intellectual lives.

Nobody has ever asked me to do this. But I honestly don’t see why that should stop me. First, though, a few words on my bag: it’s a dirty brown own-brand backpack, sourced from a high street clothes shop. I always expected to lose it but over the years it has endured, becoming a constant companion on my adventures within the M25. Simple but reliable. The Samwise Gamgee to my Frodo Baggins.

So let’s have a rummage. First up, a single dirty football sock. It smells of stale sweat and Deep Heat. This is because there’s an open tube of Deep Heat in the bottom of the bag. There’s also a tattered birthday cheque from my gran, which is shameful because I walk past my bank twice a day but, for some reason, there’s a force field stopping me going in and actually depositing it. There are three dummies, covered in fluff and filth, and if any of them came within six feet of a child then social services would be sending a SWAT team round to eliminate me. I’ve got a paperback novel stuffed in there, too — some Raymond Chandler detective stuff — but only so that if I ever get hit by a bus, the coroner will at least report that I had a book on me.

Delving deeper, there’s a set of badly cut keys that don’t actually work in my door but which are comforting to have jangling about nonetheless, a pac-a-mac, a digital Dictaphone, some highlighter pens nicked from my office and a load of old, stale Fisherman’s Friends, which I occasionally employ to disguise the fact I’ve had an after-work drink. Nothing like stumbling home late, bursting for a wee and reeking of Fisherman’s Friends to throw your girlfriend off the scent. Finally, there’s an Oyster card with ‘minus money’ on it. For some reason, it makes me feel good — it’s a reminder that small victories are possible on our endless slogs around this city — so I keep it as a token. Because I’m cool like that.

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