501s
Back during a time when Levi 501s were a big deal - branded jeans, rather than unbranded jeans, seems quaint now - me and a bunch of my student house mates wandered down to the Fighting Cocks for some pints. It was a busy night but we arrived just as a bunch of people were scraping their chairs to leave, so almost two steps in the door we had a table to ourselves in a packed thronging pub. Result!

Drinks in, the session commences. Theres a bunch of people standing beside us and someone amongst them is holding court - full of the gab, full of the stories, very animated. He takes a step back to emphasise something and clatters into our table, enough to send all the glasses wobbling, but luckily non fall over.

He spins round, mid anecdote, and apologises profusely. Its a long apology and it turns into a bit of a performance, introductions, banter, hilarity. Its a strange act - stories, jokes, facts, questions. But its weird, its almost like he's busking. Can't remember any of it, there was just a lot of it. He's holding our court now.

As the evening wears on his pals get bored and restless, tug his shirt, but he keeps going. One of them grabs the back pocket of his 501s and starts trying to pull him away. Our new friend keeps gabbing, but with the addition now of nose taps and winks. More pulling, and he's holding onto the table and still won't stop talking, when

-RRRRIPPP-

the pocket on his jeans tears, its left flapping by the rivets.

Theres a sudden silence, we're poised to jump in and fight for the valour of OUR friend, they tore his Levi's for gods sake! People only have one pair!


Then he just carries on, more banter and more banter. More attempts by his pals to steal him away. They end up grabbing both back pockets, and with him and us grasping the table, its a tug of war. Somehow he's still talking.


RRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIPPP

He stands before us with the front of his jeans hanging from the waistband like a gay cowboy's chaps, the back of them is lying on the floor attached only by the hems round his ankles.

Theres a long pause, everyone in the pub goes quite. He has a shuffle around with the back of his pants following him around like a badly drawn shadow.

"You cunt!" Someone shouts from behind him "Every time you come and crash at my house you nick a pair of my boxer shorts"

He leans into to us "Wait til he realises these are his jeans tool"
(lankygingerfool, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 19:41, 1 reply)

HAHAHA
Well done sir, I laughed like a loon.
( The Light in Chains don't touch the Pope's boner, Sat 7 Feb 2009, 8:56, closed)