This is the true story of what I discovered a few years ago when I bought my first ever pair of posh jeans. For the purposes of keeping this story kinda-anonymous, my fake name will be Violet Protoplasm, which will be highly necessary when this blog goes viral and causes everyone to die rolling around in agony from Violet-Protoplasm-Blog-Virus.
My New Jeans
By Violet Protoplasm
I was in TKMaxx (a moderately addictive outlet store) on Saturday and there was this section, the ‘VIP’ section, where VIP stood for “Very Important Purchase” True! Chavtastic! I saw these cool looking jeans and saw that they were £35, so I thought “that’s a bit pricy, I wonder if they are stretch denim and perfect fitting?” Then my brain fully cottoned on to what the VIP section actually was, I looked closer at the price tag to see what the RRP price was, £195!!! Posh Italian Designer!!! I tried them on, they fit perfectly, so I bought them feeling very pleased with myself. Little did I know that I would be even more pleased with myself later, because when I got them home and removed the cardboard tags, I learned the difference between ordinary jeans that scrubbers like us buy for under £30 and fancy designer label jeans that people buy for upwards of £194.95. I had always believed that there was very little difference, just a name, perhaps stretch denim, perhaps the option of different leg lengths so that you don’t have to shorten them yourself. But no! On the cardboard tag, I was informed that every pair was unique and that the fabric was cut out and pattern-faded by frickin’ lasers!!!! That, my friends, is the difference between posh jeans and normal jeans. Posh jeans are made with frickin’ lasers!!! While normal jeans are made by hungry nine-year-old children in South-East Asia, posh jeans are made by fancy gay Italian designers brandishing frickin’ lasers!!! Of course, as a result of this, I desperately want to get my hands on some of those super-fancy designer jeans you only hear about, the ones that retail for £2000 at Harrods and have a heavily made-over sales assistant standing over them protectively, Gucci bum-smacker on standby. I’m convinced that they must be made by gay Roman soldiers who have time-warped forwards to now-time, and done all the denim pattern-fading in the Large Hadron Collider at CERN, before hand-sewing them together in zero gravity at the MIR space station while their Russian cosmonaut slaves and buttock-wipers float by waiting to be called upon, waiting at their beck and call, not allowed to fart in the space station, allowed only one pair of space-knickers for the entire mission, and unable to find the release mechanism on the ejector seats.