I’LL never forget that day. Never before had anyone spoken so hurtfully to me, as happened that afternoon in the heart of Soho. What made it worse still was that it came from a complete stranger. Almost 20 years on, here I am about to share the injurious ignominy of that never to be forgotten day ...
The story actually starts many months earlier, several thousand miles away. We were on holiday in America. In those days the concept of shopping in the US had an extraordinary allure; globalisation had yet to take hold, and there was still a considerable cachet when it came to consuming the American dream.
There was also the stronger pound. Back then, Sterling was worth almost two American Dollars. Your £10 note was worth almost $20. (Today, a tenner approximates to just over $12.)
Wandering through the sprawl of yet another mall, I was frustrated; I had all these dollars to spend and had yet to see anything to spend them on. I had peeled away from the rest, sensing a solo shop might make me less of a pain in everyone’s ass.
Then I saw them. They were amazing: chocolate brown; cut like a classic pair of jeans. But, and here’s the clincher – they were leather.
Brown leather trousers. I had grown up loving rock music; denim and leather had been the uniform for our heavy metal heroes. So it became ours. My brothers and I had shared a leather jacket but never thought we would ever be able to recreate the sensual, sexual and sartorial sensibility of that love god they called David Coverdale. Coverdale – founder of Whitesnake and lead singer of Deep Purple –was rock royalty, with a blues/rock voice like lustful lava and a confidently carnal charisma that delivers desire from every women and quite a lot of men.
All that. And chocolate brown leather breeks. And while I had the voice of a vole and the charisma of a caterpillar, perhaps if I had the leather on my legs then just maybe …
A shop assistant, who introduced herself as Anne, must have seen the look of love in my eyes.
“Would you like to try them?” she asked in that uniquely American way that you really want to believe is sincere but every scintilla of your being tells you isn’t.
“They’re probably really expensive …” I mumbled.
“Well, that’s not an issue unless they fit and you like them on, now is it?”
Man, she was good. And a Virginian, I’m guessing. That accent could charm all the birds out of every tree.
“OK, but aren’t they really difficult and expensive to alter?”
She refused to engage. She smiled that sweet smile, silently walking me to the fitting rooms.
Alone, at last, with the chocolate brown leather jeans. I held them, surveyed them as if they had been a long, lost cousin. I knew that if I tried them on, if they vaguely fitted and if I didn’t look like an Indian David Coverdale lookalike, then I would have to have them. I wasn’t even thinking about the price.
They fitted perfectly. Beautifully. Unbelievably. I almost cried. Hardeep Singh Coverdale would emerge from the fitting room. Then I remembered the price. My smile softened, my delight dissipated.
“How you getting on?”
It was Anne. I had to think quick …
“How much are they, Anne?”
The last thing I was going to do was let her see me break in front of her eyes.
“Well, I know they’ve just been reduced …”
There was hope!
“Let me see …”
Those few seconds felt like a lifetime.
“How does $80 sound?”
There must be some mistake. $80? Forty quid.
“I’ll have them!” I shouted over the curtain.
“In fact, I’ll wear them out the shop …”
A few weeks later I was back in London. The leather jeans didn’t look the same in the harsh light that was reality. Yet still, I really wanted to wear them. Every week I’d take them out of the wardrobe hoping that would be the day I would feel confident enough to pull them on. This went on for months. Until one day I thought, “take a hold of yersel son. What would David Coverdale do?”
That day I strode down Wardour Street feeling like a rock love god. Yeah, people looked; sure people stared. Then a man, out of nowhere, stopped and pointed and laughed.
“Look! A Sikh pirate. Oo-aarh me hearties! Mate. Thanks. Funniest thing all week ...”
So, Theresa May. I heard you'd had an awful fortnight, being ribbed by Nicky Morgan, Boris Johnson et al for the £995 you supposedly spent on a pair of leather trousers. Well, I didn’t think I’d ever write the phrase, “I know exactly how you feel, Prime Minister”.
But I do. I really do ...
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