Unfortunately, he missed out one final, excruciating circle. A circle so appalling that those who have endured and survived it speak in hushed tones of their ordeal: woollen trousers.
In this article, I provide what should have been the closing chapter of this epic work of literature…
There are key moments in life which are etched into the memory: your wedding day, the birth of a child, getting the keys to your first house, your first car, your first pet.
For me, one day stands out: Tuesday 11th November 1980. I had been playing in an after-school football match with my friends. As per usual for the West of Scotland in those days, the match was played on a red gravel pitch. Playing in defence, it was down to me to stop Shuggie Brown from scoring (known as “Four Chins” to his friends because of the effect of his insatiable appetite for pies and chips on his physique, and “Broonie” to everyone else who didn’t want the inconvenience of being punched for calling him that) he charged towards me like a rampaging hippopotamus.
Faced with this formidable, sweating man-mountain bearing down on me, I made the wise decision to step out of his way. What was less than wise was making that decision a split-second too late. He flattened me. And dragged me ten feet across the gravel en-route to scoring the winning goal. When I regained consciousness, I realised that my trendy drainpipe style trousers were ruined and two and a half ounces of gravel had embedded itself into my backside.
After briefly explaining to my mum why I had walked home with my trousers ripped and one of my scraped buttocks exposed for the entire neighbourhood to see, she suggested a solution.
“I’ve got some material upstairs. I’ll make you a new pair.”
The following morning, I was staring at my new trousers in disbelief. They were black with white flecks and bell-bottoms. Sexy stuff.
“Oh my God, I can’t wear those.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not 1974. My blazer is covered in Madness and Iron Maiden badges but my trousers are pure Bee Gees. I’ll never hear the end of it at school.”
My dad stepped in.
“Don’t talk to your mum like that. She was up all night making those...things.”
“But dad…”
“These are frugal times. You either wear those or your pyjamas. Your choice. I’m off to work.”
The door closed behind him.
“Try them on then”, my mum said encouragingly.
Reluctantly I pulled them on. A wave of horror hit me. The scratching and itching was indescribable. They appeared to have been woven by the Devil himself from leftover tweed, Brillo pads and piranha teeth. But there was worse to come.
“There’s no pockets.”
“You don’t need pockets, you’ll only put your hands in them and…”
“And where’s the zip?”
“What do you need a zip for?”
“I need a zip mum. How am I supposed to pee?”
“It’s OK, the waistband is elasticated so you can pull them down.”
I was horrified.
“WHAT? Pull them down? In front of the other boys in the toilet? I’d rather drink a gallon of petrol. Besides, I can’t play football in these things. I’ll lose the ball in the massively flared bottoms.”
“Well, given the way you treated your other trousers, maybe that’s not such a bad …”
“The wind will catch them like a sail. I’ll be blown down the high street like an empty crisp bag and anyway they itch like hell. It’s like they’ve got ants in them.”
“Go. Now. You’ll be late.”
Realising I had lost the battle, I left for school, panicking about the scale of the bullying I was sure to be subjected to that day.
That first day was one I won’t forget in a hurry. Sure, the bullying was bad but my mind was otherwise engaged in trying to deal with the constant itching. Scratching myself only seemed to make it worse. A quick check during a toilet break confirmed my worst fears. My thighs were red raw.
The band Crowded House once sang a song called “Four Seasons in One Day” and that was a perfect description of the area I grew up in. The day had started off hot and sunny and the sweating made the itching worse. Sitting down was almost impossible as that hauled the material over my already ripe thighs. At the mid-morning break some blessed relief was gained when the clouds came out and the temperature dropped. That relief was short-lived as lunch time brought about heavy rain. The horizontal type. Straight onto my trousers. If I listened closely, I could actually hear the skin of my thighs being scraped off every time I moved. Then came the wind. Fresh from its journey across the North Atlantic. 40pmh. It was a miserable, hateful day. By now I was close to tears. But there was worse to come.
I had forgotten that it was the school disco that night and the lovely Marie was going to be there. My childhood sweetheart. She told me she hadn’t decided whether to kiss me or Martin Docherty but had promised she would decide that night. And I was going to have to go in these damn trousers. That night, at the disco, I attempted to ease my itching by a combination of dancing and occasional energetic lunges. That worked fine for Blondie and Adam and the Ants but my cover was blown when a slow song came over the speakers. The conversation with Marion was brief.
“What’s wrong with you? Why are you jumping around like that?”
“Just digging the beat.”
“It’s Neil Diamond’s ‘Love on the Rocks’.”
“Er…”
“Have you got some kind of disease or something?”
I came clean. Honesty is always the best policy. She would see that and I would win her heart.
“It’s my trousers. They’re all itchy.”
“Are you sure it’s not fleas? Or leprosy?”
She walked off. Martin was declared the victor. And I was left broken hearted.
Years later, I was cleaning out my loft and tucked away in a suitcase I found those same trousers. Worn once and folded neatly under some socks. I took them out and held them up, my mind wandering back to that day in 1980.
It took nearly a full litre of petrol and eight matches to get the damn things to finally burn.
