There is a moment before something becomes a trend, a pause. A murmur in a bar, a pair of hands following an old fabric in a second-hand shop, a pouch of snus under a lip in a foggy alley behind a concert venue. Sometimes what starts in the cobbled shadows of Gothenburg finds its way to the second-hand shop-lined streets of Sheffield – without fuss.
White snus: A discreet revolution
It does not advertise itself. It does not smell. It doesn’t stain your fingers or fill the air with smoke. Snus, or nicotine pouches, have slipped across borders in the same way indie zines once did – stuffed into pockets, hand to hand. It’s a product that originated in Sweden, but has become commonplace in the UK. It’s used as a way to keep calm in chaos, to be present without being distracted.
Nicotine pouches fit in naturally, in clubs as well as in tattoo parlours. They are not performative, but practical when simply tucked under the lip. They fit users who decide not only what they consume, but also how and when. For people who do not smoke or do not want to smoke. For those who have left cigarettes behind, but miss the feeling. For night owls who prefer not to go out.
The emotional pull of Scandinavian design
It didn’t arrive with a bang. Scandinavian design crept in like early winter light. One moment you were standing in your hallway and the next moment everything unnecessary was gone. The clutter, the frills, the noise. What remained were clean lines, light woods and soft grey tones.
More than an aesthetic experience, it was something that gave a very special feeling. A refusal to accept chaos. An attempt to create control when the outside world refused to co-operate. People began to paint the walls white, fold woollen blankets and place their few items with great care.
There’s nothing cold about it, really. It’s about the joy of simplicity and order. A bookshelf that breathes. A lamp that doesn’t mess with you. The design speaks in small, clear sentences. And in a city that is often about noise – bands, protests, buses grunting uphill – the calmness can feel strangely radical.
Indie sleaze 2.0: Irony, eyeliner and anti-trend
Some things refuse to stay buried. Indie sleaze is one of them. Dead for a decade, dismissed as narrow-minded and trashy, only to be resurrected – with glitter and sweat. Not in polished music videos or brand campaigns, but in basement clubs and low-light photos.
The return can be likened to a haunting. The aesthetic of the too-tight jeans, the eyeliner that doesn’t care about precision – it’s all back, but recontextualised. There’s more grit than glamour this time.
It all makes perfect sense, especially in Sheffield. This is a city that understands contradictions well. The allure of clutter. To be seen but not looked at too closely. Indie sleaze 2.0 isn’t as much about looking good as it is about looking like you’ve been somewhere. And having people believe in you.
Gothenburg x Sheffield: Cities that shape rather than follow
Gothenburg and Sheffield are cities built of metal and rain. Ports, steel and gravel. They are heavy on their foundations – industrial, unglamorous, resistant to renewal but rich in something else: credibility.
Neither city is chasing capital city coolness. They create their own. The bands that matter come from rehearsal rooms behind supermarkets. The trends that stick come in backpacks passed between friends.
There’s a kinship in geography too. Trams that scream. Grey skies pressing. The history of the working class is not seen as a burden, but as a root. Style acts as an armour. Substance is style. And taste is shaped more by access than by wealth.
