My Nan and two of my little brothers are in the living room playing Grand Theft Auto San Andreas. My Nan's all like, "Steal the car! Steal the car! Spray the car! Spray the car!" She was telling tales of time gone by earlier. What it was, was, like, 40 years ago or maybe less, if they couldn't afford tights, what they'd do, is they'd spit on their hands, get a bit of dirt from the garden, rub it in their hands, then they'd rub the dirt all into their legs, rub rub rub, then they'd have a friend draw a line down the back of their legs with a biro. Voila. Tights.
This conversation arose from my Nan marveling at my little brother - who went to Prague looking like Badly Drawn Grebo and came back as Sid Vicious - and the big holes in his trousers. "I am glad I don't have to follow fashion," she piped, cheerily.
As are we all. I saw a lady haggling over a fake FCUK puffa on Bethnal Green Road earlier. There were fat tears welling like jellyfish in the corners of the holes where eyes might have been. Her gelatinous frame trembled and creased like a wet paper bag stuffed with woodlice.
"Ho ho," I said. "Merry Christmas."