There’s nothing better than leather pants for announcing your mid-life crisis. They add that certain je ne sais quoi. The gravity of a middle-aged soul in torment, ably moderated by the humour inherent in cowskin legwear. It just wouldn’t be the same without them.

There’s nothing like the desperate look in the eyes of those poor, sad unfortunates, too late to return the pants to the store and way too late to ask the nice girl with the pierced everything to stop with the tattoo of a sickly looking mermaid. Red-faced and bespectacled they shuffle self-consciously but defiantly through the dodgier parts of town, eyes down, sunlight reflecting off their bald, shiny heads.

To add insult to injury, the next step is usually a motorbike. Something huge and noisy. Sometime not far after that comes the painful learning experience of a fractured collarbone.

Yes, there’s nothing quite like the middle-aged human male when it comes to amusing self destruction. So, gentle reader, I ask you this: Studs or tassles?