Climbing the stairs to Steve’s loft in a converted warehouse in Ravey Street, I pass Boy George’s flat. “He’s just moved back to Hampstead,” Steve tells me later. “He lived under me for 2 years. Him and his brother Kevin. Lovely neighbours.”
Steve Edge, designer, jockey, model-maker, honorary Eagle Dancer of a North American Indian tribe, prophet, madman, wanderer and self-styled Lord Shoreditch, meets me at the top of the stairs, looking exceedingly stylish. He’s wearing a traditional British three-piece lovat suit with a heavy navy stripe, handmade by Oliver Benjamin. On his feet, patent kingfisher shoes from Alexander McQueen. A shock of blonde hair, like the mane of a crazed horse, tops a silver pashmina. Behind him, a wall of photography and art books. Steve is Charlotte Street’s skinny dyslexic designer kid and branding guru. Cartier, Fortnum & Masons, Christian Dior, Purdeys, Lock & Co, Austin Reed and Rules restaurant are all on his books. “Everyone in Shoreditch knows me. My studio’s only a three minute walk from here, but it takes me an hour to get there.”
Inside his loft, everything is space. The decking is almost finished on the roof garden. The view across Shoreditch on all sides is spectacular. “I like to look down on my people and see what they’re up to,” Lord Shoreditch tells me. He takes me to the end of the garden. “Here’s where the target’s going so I can practice my archery.”
Steve, his five kids and Sylvie, his half French, half Indian wife (Steve says he’s still trying to work out which half is which) have been living in Shoreditch for sixteen years. “In those early days, alsatians walked around in pairs. It was all warehouses, then Hackney Council made it ‘live/work.” His building was a jigsaw factory; later, a design studio. “You could tell where the PMT machine was,” Steve says. “It rotted a hole in the boards.” Shoreditch was all printing. With printing came photographers, artists and designers. “What’s fantastic is that it was so close to the City, yet undiscovered. The Bricklayers Arms is still there. A good old East End boy’s place. And the Griffin.”
When Steve was after a warehouse, he looked along the Thames, but he was put off. “They were renovated. You’d press a buzzer and a concierge would give you the third degree. They destroyed it. Shoreditch is still very bohemian, still very colourful. Working and living in this little melting pot is like living in a village.”
For someone as high profile as Steve, I’m surprised to learn he likes low profile places. “Alison at the Hoxton Boutique – keep an eye on it. And Exmouth Market.” Steve goes “foraging” in Cheshire Street, off Brick Lane. “For my new gaff, designer furniture at the SCP sale in Curtain Road is just the fit.”
Steve says the Cantaloupe in Charlotte Road is where you get the best steak frites ever. “Loads of noise. Me and the studio giving it the big’un.” Ruby’s down the road is the best place for breakfast. He should know; breakfasting clients in the West End, Wolseleys in Piccadilly hold a seat for him.
And evenings? “I had Philip Green and Stuart Rose fighting to have me sit on their tables at one do the other evening,” Steve says. In the autumn, he was dinner guest with Richard Caring and Madonna. “Mr Madonna didn’t say much.” When Edge gets going, you can’t get a word in edgeways.
“The Tabernacle’s the place for an evening round here. And Eyre Brothers, if you like people-watching. Big long bar. Big long cocktails. Big long nights. I love it.”
For a Kit-Kat, Steve recommends his local newsagents Dip’s in Leonard Street. “Buy the world news – get the local catch-up free! Places like that are dying off. But not here.”
I ask him how he manages to tear himself away from Shoreditch. “It has to be something special.” He points to a picture on the wall of him and two Indian fishing guides holding this mammoth fish. “That’s a record mahseer I caught.” In another, he’s standing next to a tarpon the same size as him that he caught in Cuba. He measures it out on the floor with a knobbly cane he takes everywhere with him, made of holly wood. “A maharaja gave it to me. It was presented to his great grandfather in 1868 by Queen Victoria.”
One of the girls from his studio appears. A client’s arrived. Time to go. But before he does, he presents me with one of his Boy Scout badges, with ‘Learn the Rules so you can break them properly’ embroidered on it.
“Stick that somewhere, mate!” Lord Shoreditch shouts to me as he skips across Great Eastern Street, screaming hello to everyone passing through his manor.
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