Pitch black and pissing down.
My first made to measure suit was a fifteenth birthday present from my parents. I can remember proudly telling anyone who would listen that I had to go for yet another fitting bemoaning the fact that it was an inconvenient interference in my busy schedule, as though being fitted for a suit was a commonplace event for me. There were several fittings as it happened, during one of these the chap with the tape measure asked me what size pants hem did I want. He suggested fourteen-inch, I was horrified and told him that twelve-inch was what I wanted. He looked at me oddly, “But Sir Twelve inch bottoms will look! “ that’s as far as he got. “I want twelve inch bottoms,” I said. “Very well Sir, twelve inches it is”.
I was thinking twelve inches from the front crease to the back crease with the pants laid flat, but of course he meant circumference. Oh silly me, I have since learnt to take advice from people who know their job, but at that time I was young, free, stupid and living in the sixties, a time of free love and newly acquired independence.
The suit was promised for the Friday, and it was delivered just before teatime by a spotty lad with alapecia. I snatched it from him without so much as a thank you and flew upstairs to get ready for a party that my friend Pete Hall and I were going to that night.
I tried the jacket on, it looked superb, I remember thinking this could have been made for me, and then I remembered that it had. When I tried the pants on I had a little difficulty getting my feet through the holes in the legs. When I eventually did, what I saw in the mirror filled me with dismay, because the hems were so narrow it meant that there was less material further up the leg, I looked like Max Wall, I felt like Max Wall, I was Max Wall.
Too late now, I had a party to go to and I was in no mood for taking prisoners. I found that if I stood a certain way it didn’t look so bad. But I obviously couldn’t stand in that position all night, so I made the best of it by only moving from one side of the room to another when a group did, then it wasn’t so noticeable. That’s about all I can remember from the party, but then I wouldn’t remember much, I did get rather drunk. We both did, Pete more than I, which is probably why he suggested a visit to a couple of girls we had met on holiday some weeks before.
The girls lived in St Helens, which as far as we knew was on the way to Liverpool. The quickest way to get there in those days was strait up the East Lancs road, it’s a bit of a journey in a car but as neither of us had one we decided to walk. We left the party around midnight and began our trek which took us first through Manchester city centre and then into Salford where we passed the river Medlock at its widest and on to the East Lancs road. It’s a pretty long road by any standards and is for the most part a duel carriageway with not much on either side of it but fields. In those days it was unlit except for roundabouts and the odd set of traffic lights.
Hours passed, tempers frayed and on we walked. Cold, tired but a little more sober than when we started out, it didn’t seem such a good idea to be out in the middle of nowhere miles from home. Then it started to rain, sheets of stinging rain soaked us through and my badly engineered pants became even harder to walk in. Pete suggested phoning the police to tell them we were lost, I suggested that as there wasn’t a phone box anywhere, and if there was we couldn’t tell them where we were because we were lost, he should keep his trap shut. Funnily enough he did, not like Pete at all.
We walked on in silence shivering, until we bumped into something very large on the grass verge. We couldn’t make out what it was in the darkness, but it was some kind of very large vehicle covered in a tarpaulin sheet, and it was warm, actually very warm. To us this was an oasis in the desert; we quickly crawled under the sheet and made ourselves comfortable. We were out of the rain and beginning to warm up, Pete fell asleep sat down, his back against the side of the vehicle, his knees pulled up under his chin. Face down, stretched out to warm as much of myself as I could, I too fell asleep.
We were awakened by the sound of laughter and blinding sunlight, several very amused road workers watched us desperately trying to prise ourselves of their road tarring machine, which was difficult because we had become stuck in the warm tar that covered the whole vehicle. Pete was lucky, he only lost the seat of his pants, which meant his arse was on display to the whole world. I however having lain down full length tore of my jacket lapels, a pocket and the front of my shirt along with my tie. Most of my face and hair was covered in oily black tar, and my designer trousers now looked like ladies tights. The workmen were still laughing as we hobbled off up the road; the only thing missing was feathers. It turned out we were nearer St Helens than Manchester so we continued our journey hoping for salvation from the girls when we reached our journey end.
Unfortunately this was not to be, we tried for several hours to find the address we had been given but had no luck. We had no choice but to start the long trek back to Manchester, again down the East Lancs road, which I can tell you we were thoroughly sick of by now. Pete had taken off his jacket and tied it round his waist to cover his arse, so he didn’t look out of the ordinary at all, apart from having black hands, which he kept in his pockets. I on the other hand resembled a partially burnt Worzel Gummidge.
People stared at me and pointed as we walked passed them, some even shouted derogatory remarks, which being the stalwart that I am, I ignored, until the relatively unscathed Pete started to join in with, which made me mad, but I got my own back. As a group of cool looking girls passed us I quickly whipped up Pete's coat exposing his arse, the girls thought this hugely funny and believe it or not began talking to us, and asking why we looked like we did. We told them the story; they must have been impressed because we were invited back to their house to try to tidy ourselves up.
They were sisters, our age, very attractive and very kind and if I could remember their names I would publicly thank them. But I can only remember Karen, the tallest of the girls with blonde hair and a great smile, whom I eventually took out a couple of times. Sadly she left me for a bloke with better dress sense, but I think it was our strange meeting which taught me that you don’t have to look like Mel Gibson to get girls. You just have to have to have the balls to approach them, but more importantly make them laugh.
In any event it was obvious that apart from cleaning my hands and face nothing much could be done for my suit, which like the Titanic had gone down on its maiden voyage. The girls lived with their Father who when he came home from work took one look at me and pissed his sides laughing, but after hearing our story generously offered to spare us anymore public ridicule by giving us a lift home.
Pete was dropped off first then it was my turn to face my Parents, they had spent most of the night worried about me and they were just short of phoning the police when I walked through the door. I stood in front of them in half a suit, my chest with its one hair shirtless, my hair matted with tar and annoyingly stuck out in all directions and my ludicrously tailored pants now and forever a part of my legs. They gawped at me with open mouths, they struggled to say something, but the words stuck in their throats, so with the best smile I could muster I said, “I’ve been to a party”
I was thinking twelve inches from the front crease to the back crease with the pants laid flat, but of course he meant circumference. Oh silly me, I have since learnt to take advice from people who know their job, but at that time I was young, free, stupid and living in the sixties, a time of free love and newly acquired independence.
The suit was promised for the Friday, and it was delivered just before teatime by a spotty lad with alapecia. I snatched it from him without so much as a thank you and flew upstairs to get ready for a party that my friend Pete Hall and I were going to that night.
I tried the jacket on, it looked superb, I remember thinking this could have been made for me, and then I remembered that it had. When I tried the pants on I had a little difficulty getting my feet through the holes in the legs. When I eventually did, what I saw in the mirror filled me with dismay, because the hems were so narrow it meant that there was less material further up the leg, I looked like Max Wall, I felt like Max Wall, I was Max Wall.
Too late now, I had a party to go to and I was in no mood for taking prisoners. I found that if I stood a certain way it didn’t look so bad. But I obviously couldn’t stand in that position all night, so I made the best of it by only moving from one side of the room to another when a group did, then it wasn’t so noticeable. That’s about all I can remember from the party, but then I wouldn’t remember much, I did get rather drunk. We both did, Pete more than I, which is probably why he suggested a visit to a couple of girls we had met on holiday some weeks before.
The girls lived in St Helens, which as far as we knew was on the way to Liverpool. The quickest way to get there in those days was strait up the East Lancs road, it’s a bit of a journey in a car but as neither of us had one we decided to walk. We left the party around midnight and began our trek which took us first through Manchester city centre and then into Salford where we passed the river Medlock at its widest and on to the East Lancs road. It’s a pretty long road by any standards and is for the most part a duel carriageway with not much on either side of it but fields. In those days it was unlit except for roundabouts and the odd set of traffic lights.
Hours passed, tempers frayed and on we walked. Cold, tired but a little more sober than when we started out, it didn’t seem such a good idea to be out in the middle of nowhere miles from home. Then it started to rain, sheets of stinging rain soaked us through and my badly engineered pants became even harder to walk in. Pete suggested phoning the police to tell them we were lost, I suggested that as there wasn’t a phone box anywhere, and if there was we couldn’t tell them where we were because we were lost, he should keep his trap shut. Funnily enough he did, not like Pete at all.
We walked on in silence shivering, until we bumped into something very large on the grass verge. We couldn’t make out what it was in the darkness, but it was some kind of very large vehicle covered in a tarpaulin sheet, and it was warm, actually very warm. To us this was an oasis in the desert; we quickly crawled under the sheet and made ourselves comfortable. We were out of the rain and beginning to warm up, Pete fell asleep sat down, his back against the side of the vehicle, his knees pulled up under his chin. Face down, stretched out to warm as much of myself as I could, I too fell asleep.
We were awakened by the sound of laughter and blinding sunlight, several very amused road workers watched us desperately trying to prise ourselves of their road tarring machine, which was difficult because we had become stuck in the warm tar that covered the whole vehicle. Pete was lucky, he only lost the seat of his pants, which meant his arse was on display to the whole world. I however having lain down full length tore of my jacket lapels, a pocket and the front of my shirt along with my tie. Most of my face and hair was covered in oily black tar, and my designer trousers now looked like ladies tights. The workmen were still laughing as we hobbled off up the road; the only thing missing was feathers. It turned out we were nearer St Helens than Manchester so we continued our journey hoping for salvation from the girls when we reached our journey end.
Unfortunately this was not to be, we tried for several hours to find the address we had been given but had no luck. We had no choice but to start the long trek back to Manchester, again down the East Lancs road, which I can tell you we were thoroughly sick of by now. Pete had taken off his jacket and tied it round his waist to cover his arse, so he didn’t look out of the ordinary at all, apart from having black hands, which he kept in his pockets. I on the other hand resembled a partially burnt Worzel Gummidge.
People stared at me and pointed as we walked passed them, some even shouted derogatory remarks, which being the stalwart that I am, I ignored, until the relatively unscathed Pete started to join in with, which made me mad, but I got my own back. As a group of cool looking girls passed us I quickly whipped up Pete's coat exposing his arse, the girls thought this hugely funny and believe it or not began talking to us, and asking why we looked like we did. We told them the story; they must have been impressed because we were invited back to their house to try to tidy ourselves up.
They were sisters, our age, very attractive and very kind and if I could remember their names I would publicly thank them. But I can only remember Karen, the tallest of the girls with blonde hair and a great smile, whom I eventually took out a couple of times. Sadly she left me for a bloke with better dress sense, but I think it was our strange meeting which taught me that you don’t have to look like Mel Gibson to get girls. You just have to have to have the balls to approach them, but more importantly make them laugh.
In any event it was obvious that apart from cleaning my hands and face nothing much could be done for my suit, which like the Titanic had gone down on its maiden voyage. The girls lived with their Father who when he came home from work took one look at me and pissed his sides laughing, but after hearing our story generously offered to spare us anymore public ridicule by giving us a lift home.
Pete was dropped off first then it was my turn to face my Parents, they had spent most of the night worried about me and they were just short of phoning the police when I walked through the door. I stood in front of them in half a suit, my chest with its one hair shirtless, my hair matted with tar and annoyingly stuck out in all directions and my ludicrously tailored pants now and forever a part of my legs. They gawped at me with open mouths, they struggled to say something, but the words stuck in their throats, so with the best smile I could muster I said, “I’ve been to a party”
2 Comments:
That is priceless! What a fantastic story!
Glad you liked it Canuk, I put a link to your blog on my site, hope it gets you some hits.
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