Fashion

How appropriate that the late David Hockney favoured that ash blonde hair colour, given that the chain-smoker was said to get through 100 cigarettes a day? And not just any old fags: the long, slender and upmarket Davidoff Magnum Classic, of which he was said to keep a store of 2,000 at home for emergencies. Hockney said they helped him concentrate. But this everyday accessory was also a yellowed two-fingers to anyone who wanted to close down what he saw as his right to live as he chose. More than that – and let’s hope no school kids are reading – they imbued him with an old Hollywood, rebel cool, especially in more anti-tab times. ‘You can’t have a smoke-free Bohemia,’ as he once noted.

Every self-respecting gent these days is sporting a gilet. Don’t laugh. The gilet has come along leaps and bounds; you can’t tar it with the same brush as the Schöffel ‘Chelsea Life Jacket’ which is worn by the Hooray Henrys who guffaw at dinner parties twinned with their strawberry corduroy trousers.  The gilet is the height of sophistication. It is worn by the finance bros, the best-looking dad on the school run, the recently retired silver fox barrister you met at the ‘locals’ drinks party last Christmas and the gruff farmer who is so rich he really shouldn’t be that dour for goodness' sake.

People can seem completely normal, until you look at their shoes. Particularly men. There they are, appearing sane: natty haircut, ironed shirt, non-psychotic trousers. But then: oh, horror! Terrible shoes. Slimy-looking Docksides, or Toms espadrilles, or something shiny and pointy. Or tremendous show-off brogues like Mr Noisy, with those execrable metal tap things, worn only by bounders and con men.  I was once, aged 23, struck silent with horror by the shoes of a boy who accompanied me to a beach: a pair of dusty brown lace-ups it seemed he’d had since Upper Sixth. I now understand this to be tremendously posh but at the time it turned my stomach. I am too suburban for that kind of thing.

When the ghastly Lynda Snell of The Archers ‘did’ fasting last year at Ramadan to suck up to the new Muslim family in town, I thought this kind of thing had got about as silly as it was possible to be. But reading about what happened last week at London Fashion Week took the gluten-free cake.  Non-Muslims either choosing or being compelled to celebrate Muslim holidays has been going on for some time. Understandably if disagreeably, with its Muslim mayor, London splurges on the celebration of Ramadan, decorating Piccadilly – the heart of the city – with 30,000 (sustainable) lights.

I saw a chap walking down the road the other day looking, unusually for my part of town, the very quintessence of sartorial elegance: polished brogues, tailored pin-striped suit, rolled umbrella. He was a modern-day Beau Brummell. But what really topped off his ensemble – literally and figuratively – was a bowler hat. I haven't seen anyone wearing one of those for decades. In fact, the last time was about 35 years ago when a girl arrived at a party in one. Cruelly, I pointed and said: 'Ha! Charlie Chaplin!' The awkward silence that followed shamed me rather than embarrassed her.  Since the bottom dropped out of the officewear market during Covid, making an effort with daytime dress is unusual enough.

The demoralising decline in the office dress code is long established. Nowadays, stockbrokers and estate agents are the only workers reliably in a suit and tie. For everyone else it’s chinos and knitwear – on a good day. But welcome news is afoot: among a growing legion of men, especially young men, there’s a revival of interest in dressing smartly. Inevitably, the driving force is social media. Instagram accounts such as @askokeyig, @ignoreatyourperil, @tfchamberlin and many others are extolling the virtues of a sharp silhouette and the perils of collar gap. Most famously, ‘the menswear guy’ (@dieworkwear) has become something of an international name on X by blasting the (usually dire) sartorial standards of politicians and others. He has plenty of targets.

I first wore a beret for a fancy dress competition at my infant school summer fete in June 1975. My mother had entered me in the ‘topical’ category and tapped into the media furore around the nationwide referendum a week earlier over whether or not the UK should join what would become the EU – an issue that has managed to remain topical. My costume consisted of said beret (borrowed) paired with a stripy top, an extravagant moustache drawn on with charcoal from a burned cork and a string of onions hung around my neck. And I was pushing a bicycle.