From South Ken to Shoreditch, from Jermyn Street to Mare Street – these days anyone that’s anyone is wearing red trousers.

If you want your leg-coverings to let the world know that you’ve got a few quid and don’t care who knows it, or that you have some big ideas about what’s on at the ICA right now - or simply that you are completely insane (but in a mainly non-stabby way) - then you’d better get your wife or girlfriend to take those jeans and chinos down to the charity shop post-haste!

Because there’s only one type of trousers you’ll be wanting to wear, and that’s RED TROUSERS. In fact - if you can’t wear red trousers you’d be better off wearing NO TROUSERS AT ALL. That’s what I say.

Tuesday 18 October 2011


[something complimentary about his attractive wife, to hopefully take the edge off the massive invasion of privacy involved in posting this picture]


  1. Nice. Pleased to see the lengths people are willing to go to get a key photo.

  2. His wife is smoking!

  3. The font looks like a monster.

  4. Zoomed right in, no sign of cigarette on mrs wife.

    Not a wrinkle on her though, must have been ironed?

  5. She may look nice but his name is Rupert and hers is Rupertina. Fact.

  6. Behold! The patron saint of Red Trousers. A stained glass window was crafted in 1732 and mounted above the font. The rector is also wearing a fantastic pair, perfectly tailored, yet sadly not captured here. Mrs is stonking.

    1. Who was mounted above the font???

  7. damn fine filly!