this little piggy went to market

son of sam says...

Man. Those leathers don't fit me any more. Not even the act of cutting Jim Morrison darts in the waistband is gonna help. No sir. I had hoped the diet might have gotten me closer, but given the liver no longer functions as it ought to, there was fat chance. Mid life crisis ? Not a bit of it. I just never wanted to fill the trotters of the common garden porcine groom.

So. There are options.

I thought briefly about a long kilt. No dice. I saw a gaggle of wedding guests last Friday in the West End rigged out in full kilt hire regalia with Ray-Bans on the side and it looked, I felt, just f@cking ridiculous. I got a jacket. I bought a collarless shirt - no fucking ties, alright ? - and that was okay. Vaguely the same muumuu pattern Homer Simpson might opt for at a pinch.

There. It is only the lower half which concerns me abjectly; the conventional option of dress trousers or otherwise. Yes, a suit can be fine, but only if the wedge in your pocket stretches to Giorgio Armani. The A-List celebrity shit, in short. Clearly, this is not an option. No dough to go Italian or French ? If you are no longer quite the skinny f@ck of yesteryear, my advice is think again.

Let's go Dutch. I have no notion of dressing up like Christopher Lambert for the ubiquitous budget Highlander sequel or Gibson in his Braveheart slice of ham. F@ck Sean Connery while we're at it; his kilt no doubt cost him the price of one of our smaller islands.

In the end it was jeans, of course. Are you listening Mr. Lydon ? What may be the lower bowels of hell, sartorially, for you, is by no means the same piece of shit for the rest of us. It still cuts the mustard quite adequately, I feel. Maybe I am misguidedly conservative. Inverted. Granted, I may not possess the credit to opt for imported US brands which sell here for a ludicrous premium, but I am f@cked if I am going to clad myself in a bin liner out of a shop on the Kings Road just to grab some backhand coin. You know where I am coming from. It was all a simple matter of under the counter spoils.

Jeans, I tell you. Nothing more and nothing less will do.

And. If I do happen to ever shed these surplus pounds of shrieking blubber, you can be guaranteed it will be back in the leathers in the blink of an optometrist's eye. No f@cking PVC for me.

▼ TAD: BEHEMOTH from "God's Balls" LP (Sub Pop) 1989 (US)