My jeans are broken. 2007 has seen me go through my three favourite pairs of jeans as I look set to end the year in tatters. Literally. And what mates it even rougher is that I didn't even get to replace any of them. My number one, favourite pair ripped, so my number two was promoted. Soon after, they were also destroyed, which saw the previous number three find it's way into the dizzying heights of the top spot. Clearly struggling under the pressure, not only do they now look like something from Jon Bon's wardrobe, my flies are broken. The stupid things just won't stay up. Roughly every 5 minutes/20 footsteps (whatever comes first) they will creep down, often leaving me unknowingly flashing some poor old woman in the street, a close family member or anyone else I happen to strut past. I've already lost count of the amount of embarrassed zipping moments I've had to endure, let alone the number of half confused-half aroused looks I've had from strangers. Unfortunately the salary of an independent record company boss doesn't include a jean budget, so for the forseeable future, my former number threes and my drafty knees will just have to cope.
Santa, if you're reading, help a brother out.