Bespoke Shoes At Cleverley: Part 1

“The time has come, the walrus said,
To talk of many things.
Of shoes and ships and sealing wax,
Of cabbages and kings.”

No plans yet to write about cabbages. But it is certainly time to talk about bespoke shoes. I set an appointment last week to go see George Glasgow at GJ Cleverley to be measured for my first pair. Rather as I did previously with suiting, expect a series of posts here on every stage of the process.

There’s something rather charming about being measured for shoes. At Cleverley the first stage is to stand on two facing pages of a book, so that your feet can be traced onto the paper. It feels rather odd standing on a book to begin with, but doing so in your socks in The Royal Arcade, while a man such as Mr Glasgow runs a pencil around your toes, is even more peculiar. Still, here stood stars of stage and screen alike – not to mention royalty.

When the shoemaker is tracing your foot the key is to keep the pencil upright. The smallest change in angle will mean a millimetre difference on the last, which can be the difference between comfort and pain.

He will also sweep around your instep, with the pencil at 45 degrees, in order to indicate the height of your arches. Looking back through the Cleverley measuring book, there is a substantial difference here between men. Some, like myself, have almost an inch in difference between the outline and the inside of the arch. (“Healthy and strong,” Mr Glasgow called it. He’s such a tease.) Others have merely a few millimetres. They will require greater support inside the shoe, and the waist will not be able to cut in quite as far underneath.

The length of your foot is also measured. At Cleverley this is done with a wooden rule dating back to 1928. It still looks in pretty good shape – no doubt due to the substantial brass fittings at the joint. While this length is a good guide for the shape of your last, it will always be made 1½ sizes longer than the measurement, to allow for your big toe rolling forward as you put your weight on the ball of your foot.

(As an aside, this difference is only one size on a slip-on shoe. It has no natural mechanism to tighten onto your foot, unless the model includes elastic at the sides, so the fit has to be tighter.)

Next the circumference of various points is measured. First your joints – between the base of your big and little toe. Then just behind the joints, to give an indication of how quickly the foot narrows. Next around your instep – roughly where the top of the laces would be. And finally from that same point on the top of the foot to the back of your heel.

The thing that struck me as these measurements were being taken was their consistentcy. At each point my right foot was 10-and-something inches, while my left was usually 9-and-something. Height just replaces width as you move towards the back of the foot.

It also put into numbers what I already knew, that my right foot is almost a half size smaller than my left, but significantly wider. While the first is very common, the latter together with a narrow heel makes me a good candidate for bespoke.

Finally, Mr Glasgow ran his hands over my ashamedly hot (not to say sweaty) feet. He was looking for any bumps or peculiarities, such as hammer toes, swollen joints (most common on the big and little toes) and spur bones around the heel.

Many of these are caused by men wearing ill-fitting shoes for much of their lives – or shoes that have not properly been worn in or maintained. Mr Glasgow found no such oddities, most likely because I am too young for my feet to have distorted much.

As a final point, some shoemakers insist on measuring a man’s feet at a particular point in the day. Your feet grow in size notably as you walk on them and keep them encased. Cleverly does not consider this significant, not even noting the time the measurements were taken. For Mr Glasgow the natural give of the leather is sufficient to cope with the daily fluctuation.

Next: styles and designs

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Old School Scoundrel: Terry-Thomas

Terry-Thomas was a gifted comedic writer, comic actor, raconteur, ladies man, television pioneer and film star. A man of infinite cheek and charm; when in Hollywood he compiled a form guide of leading starlets breasts. Dining with Pablo Picasso he enquired of the artist; “does anybody ever say to you, can I have a word in your eye?”

But beyond these accomplishments, the fruity voice and rich vocabulary he was a true sartorialist. Despite all appearances Terry-Thomas, or Thomas Terry Hoar Stevens as he was christened, was born into a lower middle class family in the London suburb of North Finchley.

The phrase “dress for the job you want not the job you’ve got” could have been created for Terry-Thomas, although he dressed not just for a job but for a new life. Desperate to outdistance the humdrum middle-class life of his parents, clothes become an essential part of his escape kit.

His attention to detail and single-minded pursuit of distinction through dress no matter the circumstances are examples any student of style would do well to ape.

For his first job as a junior transport clerk at Smithfield Meat Market he turned up wearing a taupe double breasted suit and green pork pie hat, sporting a clove carnation and cigarette holder, two items that would latter become trademarks of his wardrobe. Known by his colleagues as the man in the carpet slippers, because of his predilection for suede shoes, in an environment of grey and blood stained aprons he cut a peculiarly compelling figure. It was here that he also developed his knack for jokes and comic capering.

In 1942 Terry-Thomas received what he described characteristically as; “a cunningly worded invitation to join the Army”.  Yet even the strictures of service life didn’t stop him, much to the occasional annoyance of superiors. Though not an officer himself, he continued to sport brown suede shoes with his Khakis  – a colour reserved for officers – and even sought out former tailors to make his own type of bespoke battle dress. Entering the forces entertainment corps he readopted his cigarette holder and cut such a dash he was regularly saluted as an officer.

When fame and money finally came his way the lessons were well learned, and he was able to give them full expression. A founding member of London’s Waistcoat Club he amassed a collection of 80 bespoke suits, 22 dinner jackets and tail suits and 150 waistcoats. Of this last garment he had every conceivable material and wore them religiously. Top pockets on suits were cut 7 inches long to accommodate his cigarette holders and he even had his boxer shorts made bespoke. He never left the house without a clove carnation, even if he were “slipping out to the pub”.

The only time TT was unable to pursue this life long cause was towards the end of his innings when Parkinson’s disease tragically and slowly robbed him of his wit, his money and eventually his beloved wardrobe.

If you’re tempted to read more on loves, life and wardrobe of Terry-Thomas then I can heartily recommend Graham McCann’s entertaining biography entitled ‘Bounder!’.

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Segun Adelaja: A Tailor In An Emporium

Segun Adelaja knows the industry. The day we met we ended up talking for a long time about the expansion of small brands like Berluti, their raw materials and supply chains. About what happens when a small company is bought out and how you manage quality in the midst of rapid expansion. His shoes are made by an ex-Berluti maker, so perhaps there is some bias there, but he freely admits to owning pairs himself – indeed to owning almost every brand of shoes.

It’s hard to stop talking to Segun (She-gun), actually.

And I suppose that theme runs though his shop and his products. He’s tucked away at the back of the Quadrant Arcade (off Regent Street), his shop is unpretentious – not to say sparse – and his website hasn’t been updated in quite a while. There’s nothing wrong with it, but the press articles are from 2002 and still reflect the time when he was more of a visiting tailor and shirtmaker. The Collections section has been “coming soon” for a long time.

Segun is more about word of mouth. Not that he’s understated in person, but such is the community of Nigerian (his native land), English and other customers from across Europe that he has never really explored marketing or the internet.

Although his origins are as a visiting tailor, today Segun is more of a host to an severely edited emporium. He is the only outlet for Lorenzo Villoresi (of Florence) fragrances in the UK. He is one of very few places that stock Gallo socks (Edward Green sometimes carries a couple of pairs). And he commissions his own designs in large holdalls from Swaine Adeney & Brigg.

Shirts, trousers and jackets, on the other hand, are made to his own designs in Italy. And I have to say it was the made-to-order nature of the trousers that grabbed my attention. They are beautifully made, with hand-sewn trouser curtain and notched waistband, as well as nice design touches like side straps in a variety of colours, widths and materials.

But most importantly, they are all adjusted free of charge. You can have the seat smaller or bigger, change the rise, alter the waist or the hips, as well as adjusting either the length or width of the legs. The legs are made deliberately wide so they can be taken in – I had mine adjusted from 28cm to 22cm across the bottom.

Segun has the eye of the tailor still, explaining to me how he thinks it necessary to lower the rise if a man has a large belly, or raise it if he has a large bum. And with the mind of a tailor it just seems unacceptable that someone would walk out with trousers that don’t fit him. The price, around £180, doesn’t change no matter what you want. Even ordering an entirely custom pair isn’t much more.

I was never sure where to get trousers before. It seems extravagant to have my tailor make them – the figuration is not difficult. But ready-to-wear trousers are too far the other way, never really fitting. This seems like a nice compromise.

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Historical Prescriptivism: The Awkward Bedfellows of Tradition and Evolution in Menswear

But,
 erm,
 what
 exactly 
is 
Historical 
Prescriptivism? 
The
 term
 relates 
to 
the 
linguistic 
notion
 that, 
whilst 
language 
is 
constantly 
evolving 
and 
changing 
form, 
certain 
styles
 (often 
those 
that 
were 
popular
 in 
the 
past) 
are 
considered 
‘better’ 
language 
by 
a
 majority 
of 
speakers, 
at 
any 
given 
time. 
For 
example:
 the 
subjunctive 
in
 English 
often
 goes
 unmarked,
 these
 days, 
meaning 
that
 many
 people 
would
 say
 or 
write
 ‘If 
I
 was rich’ 
instead 
of
 ‘If I 
were rich’
 – 
just
 the 
sort
 of
 thing
 your
 secondary
 school
 English
 teacher
 would
 have
 pulled
 you
 up
on. 
Leaving 
aside
 the 
subjective
 argument
 as
 to
 which
 version
 is
 more
 pleasing 
to
 the
 eye 
or
 ear,
 it
s 
not a
 wild 
suggestion 
to
 say
 that, 
in
 the 
future, 
the 
‘If
 I
 were’
 construction 
may
 be 
completely 
obsolete, having
 been
 superseded
 by
 ‘If
 I
 was’
 which 
will
 then
 be 
considered 
standard,
 ‘correct’ 
English
 of
 the
 sort
 spoken 
by 
BBC
 presenters.

The 
point
 is 
this:
 change 
is
 natural 
and
 unstoppable 
but
 the 
majority 
will
 always
 resist
 change
 and
 look 
longingly
 to 
the 
way 
things
 were 
in 
the
 past
 as 
a 
sort 
of
 golden 
ideal.
 This 
linguistic
 example 
is
 allegorical
 for
 menswear,
 too,
 where
 innovation
 and
 evolution
 are 
often
 criticized 
for
 departing 
too
 far
 from
 the
 map
 drawn
 up 
by
 their
 historical
 forebears.

This 
issue 
came
 to
 a
head 
for 
me,
 recently,
 because
 I
 was
 asked
 by
 a 
friend 
who
 has
 her
 own
 clothing 
line
 to
 design
 some
 menswear 
for
 a
 bridal
 line 
she 
is
 working 
on
 at
 the
 moment. 

In 
the
 process
 of
 collecting 
images
 for
 the
 moodboard, 
I
 did
 some
 research
 online,
 reading
 some
 of the
 men’s
 style
 blogs
 and 
fora
 in
 order
 to
 get
 a
 sense
 of
 the 
mood
 vis‐à‐vis
 morning
 dress 
and 
what

one
 ought
 to 
wear 
to
 a wedding. 

I
 was 
struck 
by 
how
 rigid 
and 
dogmatic 
the 
majority
 of posters
 were
 with 
respect 
to 
what
 precisely 
constituted
 acceptable
 wedding 
attire!
 When 
I
 came 
to
 sketching 
the 
pieces, 
I
 found 
myself
 wanting 
to 
make
 subtle 
changes 
to 
the
 clothes 
but
 feeling
 almost
 guilty
 for
 doing
 so.

Some 
degree
 of 
change 
is 
to
 be
 expected:
 as
 we 
live 
and
 work 
in
 centrally 
heated

or
 air‐conditioned 
houses 
and 
offices 
and
 are 
thus
 less
 exposed 
to 
the 
elements 
it
 is
 only
 natural
 that 
we 
should 
change
 our
 clothes.
 As
 body
 shapes 
change 
and
 new
 textiles 
are 
developed,
 we
 should
 expect 
this,
 too, 
to
 have
 an 
impact.
 The
 real
 difficulty 
for 
us 
lies 
in 
assessing 
how
 much
 modification
 of
 existing 
styles 
is
 possible 
without
 the 
clothes
 losing 
the
 essence
 of
 what
 they
 originally
 were 
or
 appearing
 ersatz.
 For
 what 
it’s
 worth, 
I
 believe 
that 
change 
for
 the 
sake 
of
 change
 is
 pointless;
 but
 I 
am 
all
 for
 tweaking,
 personalizing,
 and
 making 
more 
relevant
 the 
classic 
items
 and
 designs
 that
 have
 served 
us
 so well
 in
 the 
past.

I’m
 curious
 to 
hear
 your
 thoughts.

This article is guest post by Matt Clarke, a freelance journalist and entrepreneur, based in London.

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Dover Street Market

If last week’s recommendation, Albam, is the best of modern Britain then the Dover Street Market is the worst. Everything most awful is here; a belief that ‘new’ is a substitute for ‘better’; that manners and common courtesy are old fashioned and the concerns of others; the delusion that celebrity and fame make up for quality, and a willingness to pay vast sums to foreigners for what amounts to our own damn heritage. Add in a liberal application of ‘Hoxton Twat’ (follow the link for a definition) and that pretty much sums up Dover Street Market.

The shop is what might be referred to as a ‘concept store’. Applying the word ‘concept‘ to anything should be viewed with suspicion in my view. After all, global thermo nuclear war is a concept, it’s just a really, really bad one.

In this case, the ‘concept’ is to create a shop with the variety and unstructured, rough nature of a street market. To that end concrete floors, metal banisters and steel frames for hanging clothing seem to be the main accoutrements for achieving this.

I’d read so much painted prose about this place that I was keen to check it out. In addition, it’s the only stockist in London carrying a Mark McNairy shoe, the subject of a recent post, and I wanted to have a look before buying online.

To begin with, spread over several floors you have no idea where you’re going. Nothing is labelled.  There are no signs and no staff members willing to halt their conversions with one another long enough to offer assistance. I made for a stair case in the hope that it might lead somewhere. There I encountered a couple who were watching my movements as closely as I watched theirs; each of us hoping that the other might make some knowing move which would signify where to go. Spying some clothes I dashed through a doorway and found two assistants, who were merrily ignoring members of the public. Asking where I might find Inventory clothing I was treated to an up and down glance before the female assistant contemptuously spat out the word “basement”.

As I trudged back down through the shop, confident that at any moment I might find myself in the ladies toilet, I saw shop assistant after shop assistant ignoring customers to lounge around pretentiously while talking to their colleagues. Not once did anybody say hello, good afternoon or even acknowledge my presence, nor anybody else’s for that matter. I thought Hilditch and Key was the least hospitable shop in London, I was evidently wrong.

As to the stock, we’re talking the latest in street wear, new ivy and American work wear. This genre is something I take an interest in, and it was good to finally see items from Inventory, Junya Watanabe and S.N.S Herning. But for the most part it was over priced tat of indifferent quality masquerading as classics with a twist.

Having had enough I quickly left with a desire never to return. If it were a dining experience it would be a public bin with a French maître d and Gordon Ramsey hurling abuse at you from a darkened doorway.

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