There was a time back in the day when everyone used to bray with laughter at some weirdo called Rodney Mullen doing a ‘gay’ trick called a kickflip on his stupid little freestyle deck (as if that would ever catch on) while they trash-skated instead to Suicidal Tendencies, Black Flag and McRad. This was an era when t-shirts were emblazoned with skeletons bursting from ribcages, cost a shitload and promptly shrank by up to fifty per cent even on a cold wash. Skaters clothed their scabby-kneed legs in crap plaid versions of what looked like weightlifters slacks and Stacey Peralta was still making films with titles like The Search For Animal Chin. It was a time before the skate shoe explosion, where you desperately glued old bits of inner-tube to the soles of your Converse AllStars (or more likely your Rucanors as they were half the price) which had been worn through from the grip tape they were never intended to ride. And all the while you looked on enviously, every time you ventured into the Mecca of your local skate store (the only one for miles around) at the plush comfort and divine style offered by the footwear of the gods and for which you were too young to take out the mortgage needed to afford them. I speak, of course, of the Etnies Ollie King, now re-released…