Time In Tweed: Some Frightening Statistics

I’ve spent over half my life – a quarter of a century - wearing woman’s tweeds: Twenty-five years in a pair of trousers that, even though my weight has fluctuated, have always appeared too big for me. Perhaps that’s the problem: you should never just step into someone else’s trousers; think yourself so manly that you can step-in and fill somebody else’s trousers just like that – especially a complete stranger’s, and particularly if she’s a woman. I was full of meat when I first stepped into them in 1984 (inside a hollow tree without a mirror); I’m a vegan now (see “Dropped Trousers, 19/11/09, before continuing).

Notice my chicken-leg-like left thumb, in this one-arm-pull-up photograph (in another ill-fitting pair of trousers), taken in the Baden Wurttemberg (bratwurst country) in 1987. I was turning; part ape and part chicken. And too many chicken (hormones) seemed to be bringing out 'the woman'.  I had to turn vegan.

1989

Over the intervening years I’ve filled my appropriated tweeds in different places, but never in the right places at the right (same) time.

2009

Time and tweed: Let’s start with the lap: 15 partners (girlfriends not solicitors) have all sat on the lap at one time or another; so have 5 different laptops - all Mac's (but this isn't going to degenerate into a 'dirty mac and holes in the pockets' tale - no, I'm giving you statistics - facts). The pockets have held the keys to 2 cars: a Mini and a Volvo (a steady blue Volvo, bought secondhand from a girlfriend’s ex-husband) and the keys to 4 houses and 3 flats. These pockets (now holed) have mostly held my hands however; but it’s more complicated (unbalanced) than that.

I’ve only ever performed one-arm-one-finger-pull-ups (OFPs) with my right, middle-finger, which means the right pocket must have collected far more detached calluses than the left pocket, which only collects calluses from two-arm-pull-ups (TAPs). Look at this callus, it's about to fall off.

Either way, I always find calluses in the pockets when I come to wash them. Talking of pulling: since taking possession of the trousers I must have done close to 1,000,000 two-arm-pull-ups (an average of 100 TAPs a day is normal, making 25 years worth add up to 912000); I also manage 15 one-arm-pull-ups a day; so that makes 137000 OAPs; and injuries permitting, I usually perform at least 5 one-finger-pull-ups before I go to bed; so that’s 46000 OFPs.

Between all this pulling the trousers have been puffing: My tweeds must have secondary smoked at least 146000 cigars (tweed is very absorbent). This calculation is based on my daily intake of Panther cigars creeping up, from around 10 cigars day in 1984, to 20 per day at present - that’s £73000 spent on cigars! But think what I’ve saved on trousers.

The trouser-seat has seen very little in the way of action; I haven’t bought a sofa (or a chair for that matter) since I’ve worn tweed. This is ironic, since I saved them from a cyclist – their seat would have been the first to go. And despite all the cigars I’ve smoked in and around the trousers (not that I’ve smoked with the trousers on my head, mind) I’ve only burned one hole  – look – in the left knee: 146000 cigars and only one knee burn – not bad. But grass burns, on the other hand… No, there’s not the time or space.

Dropped Trousers

If I were approached by a film producer about making a low budget film about a priceless pair of trousers, I'd have the right material right to hand – no, to leg – cut from life (but it wouldn’t be a biopic). Furthermore, I’d be able to shoot the film in one take – without any cuts or edits - in real time. The star of the movie - a pair of trousers (green tweeds), exact size and age unknown – 25 at least. I know roughly how old they are because I’ve been wearing them on-and-off for a quarter of a century (even though they’ve never fitted and they tend to chafe on ‘Ladder Awareness’ courses).

The trousers in 1984

The same trousers in 2009

James Mcavoy would play my character, his trousers never look like they fit him properly (Dudley Moore would been even better in this respect); but Mcavoy’s lovely Scots accent will be wasted - his part has no lines. The only other roll requires a woman, an actor with a deep yet astonished sounding voice, and one who can cast a 'cutting', icy stare. Bettie Davis would have been perfect, but let’s send the script to Demi Moore. The trousers play themselves.

First one-arm-pull-up in the trousers, 1985

Latest one-arm-pull-up in the same trousers, 2009

London, autumn, 1984, I’m walking though Richmond Park, it’s getting dark. I’m on the main road (no more than a country lane really) and there’s nobody about - no traffic - the park gates are closed to cars at dusk. I slow down to light a cigar and admire the lights coming on across the city when a bike overtakes me – whizzes past with an affected cough (I hate that, joggers adopt the same cough). As the bike disappears into the distance I see something fall off the back. Even though the bike had gone quite a way I could have shouted, and I probably would have if I hadn’t been coughed at in such an affected manner. So I leave my cigar in my mouth and carry on walking until I reach what's been dropped: a pair of trousers. I go through the pockets (two), nothing; turn them inside out - no labels or other identifying features - they appear to be hand made. The fabric’s tweed - a hue of green, but the strangest thing is their weird cut – I’d never seen anything like it – they just balloon out from the waist to an enormous sagging behind, before tapering down into nothing, at the ankles. And it was impossible to sex them – they were odorless. These anonymous tweeds were without a doubt the most bizarre trousers I’d ever come across. I pop them in my bag and continue on my way until I see this ancient gothic-looking tree with a vertical opening in its hollowed-out trunk, a short distance from the road; the type of (“Sleepy hollow”) tree children love to hide in: this hollow-trunked tree provided the perfect changing room.  

Changing-room open

Changing-room closed

I enter a tree in chinos, and come out again, in tweeds. It’s a shame some of our older, time-hollowed- trees are not fitted with full-length mirrors (must get on to English Heritage or the National Trust about the idea).
I thought they looked great – the tweeds were me; so much so that I left my chino’s in the fitting-room – abandoned my trousers in a tree. Back on the road, despite a slight chafing, I was still pretty pleased with myself. By now it's almost pitch-dark (so I couldn’t admire my legs anymore) and I hadn’t gone very far before I see a light coming towards me. Next thing, my tweeds are illuminated by bicycle light. The cyclist had turned back (“The Nightrider Returns” – great title for the film). She stops at a safe distance and remains astride her bike: the up-lit face of a woman (30ish) staring with incredulity, at my groin. “You are in my trousers, my Jeff Banks”, she barked. I didn't have time to reply (and what could I have said?), before she stamps back into her rat-traps and disappears into the night, leaving me standing alone in the dark, with Jeff Banks.

Jeff Banks, who made my trousers, nowadays makes trousers for Sainsbury's.