"I think your jeans are a bit tight, mate."
Although clearly empowered by those three schooners of Pure Blonde at The Clock, the jeering comment was slightly faded towards the end, with his mind and it's delayed sensory skills catching up to the potential implications of the insult, and attempting to enforce some sort of muting override. A self-gagging mechanism that seemed completely unnecessary.
This was his "home" turf. He was in a sea of similarly dressed humans, adorning tribal colours distinctly different from the red and black of my jersey. Furthermore, I was traveling with just my wife and another couple, disconnected from the Police-escorted main supporter gang that had been forced to enter the stadium an hour-or-so earlier.
I was happy to shrug off the insult. But my wife is a fiery bastard at the best of times and, nursing one of her infamous twice-a-year hangovers, wasn't in the mood to let the taunt slide.
"At least he's not wearing Target jeans."
[...]
New thing I wrote for fashion/literary start-up New Albion Sports. Read the whole bloody thing here.