Moods change. They swing with the vigor of fairground rides and 70s suburban couples. One minute everyone’s peg legging about in skinny trews then (a scant 10 years later) bells like me start proclaiming a renaissance in wider slacks.
Those aware of Oliver Spencer’s upcoming A/W 2014 judo pants, will be all sorts of in that mind set already. But before those bad boys land and I find myself losing a staring contest with a 200 quid price tag, I went and bought some wide trousers. They cost 17 quid. And yes, they’re vintage. Which of course means, second hand.
I’m not sure how I feel about the idea of another bro’s butchery dangling around in my trousers. I mean, on a hot day, you’ve got to think there was perspiration. Seepage, hair engagements, dead skin, lice possibly, other microscopic organisms that mated, birthed and ate their wriggling young. Still, I bought them. I took them home. And I immediately prodded them into the washer, to eradicate any trace of
dead man’s peen.
Anyway, peen gone, I’m wearing them today. And as you can see, they’re staunchly wide. Not only have they a good 19 inch hem, but they’re fat all the way up. And they’ve got pleats. Which I kind of think, are they way forward too. I’m surmising they’re from the 50s, by the cut, rough cotton weave and their high-waistedness. I’ve given them a few turns at the hem for that highly desirable, Turbo from Breakdance The Movie vibe.
I’m also rocking some standard-ass Superga’s, some Irish Cottage socks, a Black Fleece woven belt, a J Crew cotton shirt and Folk cotton jacket with a pretty interesting collar. Pie-crust collars, I think they’re called. But as that all sounds a bit Elizabethan, or just, a bit, you know, ‘pastry’, just ignore that.
I’m also busting a Cos sweat. I picked it up just a couple of days ago for 45 quid and yeah I know, it’s Cos. But seriously, it’s well made, it’s got a strong grey/white mix going on and if I’d said it was from Our Legacy would you really have known any different?
Shit. Flip that script brah. Forget I just said that. If I start bleating on about how high-street stuff passes for high-steez this site is over. Finished. It’ll topple. Like a Jenga tower, made of dead dude’s cocks.