Our madness for baggy trousers
A few seasons ago, heading home following a day’s shooting, I stopped off for a coffee at South Mimms services on the M1. Before I had even got to the front of the queue at Costa, I’d been approached twice by complete strangers.
The first, a beefy chap in an Everton shirt, enquired if my time machine had conked out in the wrong century. His mate asked me to send his regards to Queen Victoria. A few moments later a lass asked me, quite earnestly, if I would do some Morris dancing for her and her equally inebriated pals. That was the last time I went into a service station in my breeks.
The truth is, we do look a bit of a sight in our
