There’s nothing better than leather pants for showing the world what a wanker you are. I was wearing my pair with the chains threaded through the belt loops – because who needs a belt when you’re wearing skin tight black leather trousers? No one, that’s who.
I’m a wanker. I revel in it. I wear leather pants to solemn functions, like my mother’s funeral. I stood there among the mourners, crying, in my leather pants, black turtleneck and a beret.
My girlfriend called the other day to ask why I hadn’t answered her voicemails, e-mails or texts. I hung up on her, then grabbed my jacket and headed out the door headed to the pub.
The pub is my living room. I spend as much time as I can there, chain smoking unfiltered cigarettes and blowing it in the direction of as many non-smokers as possible. I talked loudly to no one in particular about the latest outrage shown on the telly above the bar.
I’m a wanker, and I love it.