Leave my jeans alone!

The three pairs the assistant draped over my arm were all blue and made of denim, but there any resemblance to classic jeans ended.

One pair had to be rejected immediately because they had been pre-smeared all over the front with some kind of mud.

The second pair were evidently from the collection of a circus clown, in that both the pockets and the seams were hilariously askew. The third pair had legs twice as long and four times as broad as my own.

I left the shop in despair. Where did it all go so horribly wrong? The answer, of course, is that the simple, rugged and timelessly stylish pair of denims has been hijacked by the fashion fraternity, and so perverted by the addition of needless frills and furbelows - not to mention an Armani-like price tag - that it has become a laughing stock.

In an announcement that has shocked me to the core, Levi - the San Franciscan company that gave us blue jeans so that we might make them great - announced this week that it no longer wishes to satisfy the needs of its older customers.

Apparently, older wearers of Levi jeans - I think fingers are firmly pointed in the direction of the twin fashion disasters known as Messrs Tony Blair and Jeremy Clarkson - have become an embarrassment, a walking disincentive to the bright young things in developing the denim habit.

The result of this edict will be that aficionados such as myself will be forced into the black market of shady Camden sidestreets and hideous 'nostalgia' boutiques. It is enough to make a grown man weep.

Since the age of 13, I have owned at least one pair of Levi's. Ideally, one should have two pairs: one blue pair for lounging around and air-guitar-playing; the other black for formal occasions.

The Sixties was the age of shrink-to-fit. In their virgin state, the jeans were too big and the denim was coarse and stiff.

As soon as they were fetched home, a bath was run, and I took a long soak, clad only in the new jeans.

I stayed in the water until my skin was wrinkled, and the jeans had adjusted to my unique contours. Within a matter of months, the denim would be pliable, the fit so good they virtually buttoned or zipped themselves up.

The first warning signs that all was not well came in the early Seventies. Classic Levi's were under attack.

Wrangler and Lee Cooper had been worthy adversaries, but now we had Falmers (appealing to girls because of the skintight fit) and Brutus, a brand so low in the general estimation that it was agreed they had been deliberately named after Julius Caesar's betrayer.

Worse, the couture houses invaded the territory that had been the preserve of the common man. Suddenly we had fancy designer labels and fancy price tags.

In the rush to cut a fashionable dash, it was forgotten that all a pair of jeans needed to do was to fit properly, have pockets secured by copper rivets, and sport a little red tag on the right backside.

Levi Strauss has turned against its heritage, and will surely regret it.