Stripe Stereotypes: Show Your Stripes

What do your stripes say about you?  Whether I like it or not, the striped cotton creations I purchase on Jermyn Street do reveal a good deal about my character. For instance, my preference for old, ordered patterns - akin almost to Regency stripe wallpaper from Sanderson - exposes my love of the classical and the old-fashioned. Similarly, my reluctance to wear outrageously thick stripes or stripes of acidic tone, reveals my cautiousness and lack of daring. Anyone analysing my striped collection of shirts would judge me an aesthetically traditional conservative, and this is, without doubt, the most correct observation one can make. Even when my shirts do veer slightly from the classically hued Corinthian columned variety into something perhaps a little more exotic in tone, slightly more experimental in pattern, I tend to tone down the daring with a sober tie.

Stripes, so long a pattern of camouflage, can actually be terribly revealing; to expose your bias and make naked your idiosyncrasies. I admit, there is an awful lot of scope for generalisation on this topic. Of course there will be those who purchase a great range of stripes and who have the mightiest sartorial capacity; no style being off limits, no stripe too thin, too bright or too wide. However, I do find when I am casually eavesdropping in the bustle of a noisy shirt maker on Jermyn Street that people do have their ’types’ when it comes to ‘stripes’: “It’s not really me that one…”; “Nope, sorry - I’ll do pink, but not pink stripes”; “Hah, I’ll look like a butcher in that!” Opinions on the thousands of stripe designs that flood the ever popular high-end shirt market can frequently be heard if standing within earshot and the one thing that strikes me is how judgmental stripe buyers can be. Purchasing stripes, it seems, is rather political. An old gentleman in a covert coat when offered a pink and black natty looking model, straight from the style books of Etro or Paul Smith, might look askance at the shop assistant as if they were an Etonian who had just been offered an Old Harrovian tie.

The peer


As one of the few remaining hereditary members of the House of Lords, the peer is keeping up appearances for all aristocrats across Albion. In the good old days, the unelected House members could dash into their seats for a chat and a quick vote and be off to White’s or Pratt’s before three - all in the tailored, but evidently ancient, clothing they wore the day before. Bengal and Regency stripes are the general rule for the peer and the old made to measure cloths are making way for ’adjusted’ versions timidly suggested by Timothy at Turnbull & Asser. Healthy looking blues with feint touches of white and red are emblematic of his renewed patriotism and the only exception; an uncharacteristic Satsuma-tinted Bengal, which has become his favourite shirt: the result of a rather flattering comment by a particularly ambitious young female on his staff.

The Islington ‘media type’


The Islington ‘media type’ doesn’t really like Jermyn Street. It’s just not the sort of place he’d wish to be seen in. Duchamp, Interno8 and Paul Smith are more likely to receive his carefully bestowed custom and conveniently, they are all located just a liberal hop, skip and jump away from his Soho offices, on the other side of Regent Street. Traditionalists might refer to his multi-striped shirts as ’busy’, but he rather believes that his style of stripe is a future design classic. As one of the several head-honchos in a powerful P.R. firm, he has the influence, and the cash, to adapt his oh-so-Noughties office furniture to his taste for the nouveau stripe; even his Apple Mac is designed by Paul Smith.

The City trader


The City trader is a happy chap - he’s just been promoted in his department at the establishment investment bank where he has worked for 15 years. Patience and hard work seem to have paid off and his ‘matey mates’ are very impressed with his quick ascension, if a little surprised; it must be the first time a happy go lucky charmer from an inner city comprehensive has risen so quickly at such an old-school-tie bank. In celebration of his promotion, a few dozen shirts were purchased on a visit to Jermyn Street. In reverence to the affably arrogant management at the crusty bank, he decides upon a number of generously striped items considering it’ll make him look, as he put it, “more like a toff.”

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DAKS

When the Simpson family opened their polished Art Deco doors on Piccadilly in 1936, it was to welcome gentleman interested merely in ‘quality clothing.’ So honest and simplistic were traders of old; very few enterprises now, opened to any amount of fanfare, find the trumpets muted and the drums silenced. Branding now is a marketing puzzle, honesty is a currency little used. New brands have to be seen to be groundbreaking or highly luxurious. Stalwarts like Burberry have been reclassified as ’aspiration-worthy luxury brands’ whereas to the oldest customers they simply make good rainwear. Similarly Vuitton, though certainly always a brand favoured by the better off, have seen their classification morph from ’luggage manufacturer’ into something ludicrous and impossible such as ’interstellar luxury logo-peddlers.’ It seems incredible that in 2008 a brand could be launched on such ancient and hallowed ground as Piccadilly with anything less than monstrous hyperbole.

Simpson’s, famous for their sturdy and reliable clothing, especially a particular pair of trousers with a patented self-supporting waistband, became DAKS (apparently a portmanteau of ’Dad’s slacks’) and DAKS Simpson came to be appreciated by the set who are largely, sartorially simple; minor royals, OBE’s and aging peers. Indeed, despite their initial marketing humility, I can almost hear the echo of a possible advertising punch; ’Something simple? Come to Simpson’s’

However, the DAKS of recent times, compared to the 1930s era of uniting ’quality’ with ’simplicity’ stands alone - a brand apart from its historic beginnings. Whereas the DAKS of old appealed to those with dicky hearts, wireless radios and soup-stained cardigans, the modern DAKS is challenging other British titans for the crown of “contemporary-retro-luxe“. And is that a re-branding you see?  Has DAKS left it’s humble roots and taken on some of the burden of dragging period English styles up and down the runway? Well, largely, it has. Whereas the Simpson’s brand seemed devoid of swank, the new DAKS, while not exactly bling-bling, is not shy of daring, although it should be noted that DAKS remains true to the patriotically nostalgic Simpson’s alumni; top hats and umbrellas make more than a few appearances at the DAKS shows. But there is certainly no sign of the innovation which caused the Simpson’s of the 30s to be filing patents.

To a polo-playing chum of mine, DAKS always represented good, solid English quality. It was never glitzy or glamorous, but it was appreciated for what it was and preferred, in many cases, to brands of more, shall we say, ‘youthful’ appeal; in much the same way that some people just prefer a steak and kidney pudding to a saffron risotto with scallops and white truffle.

Now, DAKS is a brand on a diet. Gone is the steak and kidney, but it’s certainly not forgotten. The overall look is still very English; some elements late Victorian to Edwardian (indeed some of the more avant-garde ensembles have a ’green carnation’ aura to them) others are more reminiscent of the 20s and 30s. Some of the chaps you half expect to be holding a well-worn teddy bear in true Seb Flyte fashion, some of them look more like erstwhile companions of Max Beerbohm but the brand message is strong: DAKS is now very serious about design.

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The Allure of Tweed

I was flicking through an extremely large volume on vintage fashions when I visited my parents at the old homestead for Easter, and though my flicking was casual and intended for pleasure alone, I began to appraise the pages as though a student; I started to notice patterns and similarities. Between the Edwardian ladies with their bicycles and straw hats and the late Victorian country gentlemen with their shotguns and deerstalkers, there were few similarities. In nearly all respects, they represented the very ’Mars & Venus’ stereotype that defines and separates the sexes; the gruff, brawny hunters and the delicate ladies of fashion. However, fabric seemed to be an area they could agree on. One fabric at least. For there was, in those days, a great preponderance of tweed in clothing.

Tweed now has neither the status nor the broad appeal it once boasted. Like other British institutions; the Lyons Popular Tea Room, the music hall or the pier, it has faded into that sepia world of yesterday. It seems to have been pushed into premature retirement to appear alongside shortbread biscuits, raspberry jam and Earl Grey tea in English Heritage gift shops.

A great shame this is, for tweed is one of the most practical and sensible fabrics ever made. Moisture resistant and extremely warm, for those wishing to spend time outdoors without Gore-tex, tweed is a wonderful material. And, though very much a country fabric, in these days of leisure clothing, tweed is seen as an equally smart alternative to finished wool fabrics in a metropolitan context. A good friend of mine frequently adds his Harris tweed jacket to his casual shirt and trouser ensembles to great effect.

If tweed has any status, it is that of a material favoured by the aristocracy. This is hardly surprising, considering the aristocracy are frequently those in possession of large estates, on which outdoor activities take place. A snobbery has been attached to the wearing of tweed in recent years; an inverted strain. Anyone wearing tweed is likely to be seen as a ’tweedy’ person; an assertion which does the fabric a disservice. Characters of all kinds have worn, and will continue to wear, tweed. Taking the decision to ignore the extraordinary negative stereotyping and add this most majestic material to the wardrobe requires an open mind and a little consideration of purpose.

The tweed suit

If you are planning to go the whole hog and look into the purchase of a complete tweed suit, you are to be saluted. I rarely see tweed, worn in such volume, on one person. It is magnificent, but would require a good deal of research. Harris Tweed is perhaps the most famous tweed available, although there are those that consider the loss of the old methods of hand spinning and natural dying to be detrimental to the quality of the fabric and the brand. If you prefer your whisky with an ‘e’, you might consider that Donegal tweed, Ireland’s answer to Harris, is the fabric of choice. Donegal tweed is hand woven and naturally dyed from the flora surrounding the sheep on the hills of Donegal, Ulster; moss, berries and fuchsia providing some of the colours. I always think it would be sensible to go for a three-piece suit.

The tweed jacket

Tweed jackets are an excellent odd jacket to be worn casually. They are perfect for a weekend away from the city, although having said that, they never look out of place as daywear in the metropolis. Choosing a tweed style depends largely on personality. I myself, being of a somewhat unrestrained and egotistical nature, might choose a rather brightly checked tweed, although friends of mine with a taste for something a little more subtle, might choose a quiet tone-on-tone check or a simple brown herringbone. If you are selecting a check, I think it advisable to keep to Breanish or Harris as the light weight Border tweeds are particularly fuddy-duddy; redolent of school teachers and retirees.

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Elegant Loafing

Laces: who needs them? When I was a young lad at school, purchasing shoes was a regular activity. My feet grew rather quickly in my early teens and I was taken to Russell & Bromley sometimes three or four times a year. From the comparatively small selection available in their woefully decorated stores (Eighties kitsch), I nearly always pointed to slip-on shoes. As a wide eyed and naive child, I had no tolerance for acknowledging timeless style or the hoarder’s instinct to collect ‘essential’ shoes. Slip-on loafers appealed to me because they were ‘cool’; they were untucked shirts and ink-stained trousers, the knowing grin of the worst behaved boy in the year and the loud, battered jalopies screeching from the school gates at a quarter to four. Buying them represented access to the world of the scruffy and popular; not buying them meant relegation to the ranks of the laced-up lab crew – the sort of people who now possess houses, careers and a Mercedes Benz. Oh, the utter stupidity of youth.

Now, loafers mean far less to me. I am certainly taken by a dashing design and interesting colours but I now prefer the structure and the drama of a lace-up. Having said that, loafers have always been important shoes when spring gives way to summer; especially my Tod’s driving shoes. Try as I might to find discomfort with my penny loafers, they have been faithful and extraordinarily practical; a duo of burgundy and black shoes from Bass Weejun they have retained their classic shape well throughout years of service. Indeed, to me it is clear that it is the loafer that is the Bordeaux of shoes. When spanking new, they look a little stiff, if a little dull. Once they get accustomed to the foot inside, they relax; they age beautifully and gracefully and even in old age, when they have ceased to be suitable for metropolitan rendezvous’, they make fabulous garden shoes.

There is still a healthy public demand for loafers. Pennys are rare, and for many less nostalgic than myself, a little dated. Longer shapes, unconventional colours and retro styling are becoming the commonalities in modern slip on shoes. Fashion houses such as Gucci have continued their love affair with laceless shoes; indeed Italian feet-chic in general is epitomised by the naked ankle and classic loafer. Shoe giants like Tod’s and Moreschi, famous for their production of casual and yet noticeably smart slip-ons are popular as ever, despite the fact that their customer base, at least on the streets, seems to be aging. A knowledgeable pal informs me it’s a peculiarity of culture. The English are not nearly so smart when it comes to dressing down – a statement pungent of paradox but vitally true. Chaps see the opportunity of discarding their office lace-ups, generally speaking, as a chance to put their feet into a pair of snug trainers whereas Italians and other continentals prefer driving shoes and supple leathered loafers. And they are remarkably comfortable, even more so than trainers.

With our less than clement summers it is perhaps understandable that we do not turn to Mediterranean chic on the change of the seasons, but when the weather does favour those in colder climes it is a great opportunity to give a pair of elegant slip-ons a runabout; a swinging slim trouser, some exposed ankle and of course, some of that schoolboy nonchalance.

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The English Suit

Many moons ago in the late autumn glow of October, I wrote, at length, of suits. Readers that recall my musings might have noticed that, though I paid small reference to the English suit, my focus was on the alternatives; the Continental, the Gangster and the Italian. Any at-length discussion of the English style was intentionally avoided as I believed, and still do, that the English rather overdo it when it comes to blowing their own sartorial trumpets.

Therefore, I conspicuously avoided ‘the English style’; it was the moment for xenophilia, for diplomatic acknowledgment and cultural appreciation. However, I had always intended to celebrate both the English style and the very Englishness of wearing a suit in the first place. And this celebration had to occur separate from the appreciation of other suiting styles to avoid implicative competition and what might have been seen as sartorial jingoism. For though I believe that too few Englishmen dress to the standard of our boasts, the daring and the individuality of an Englishman in an English suit can intimidating.

In contemporary London, the English suit is rarely seen. This may sound bizarre and paradoxical but it is purely a reflection of how the suit itself has evolved and how the English tastes have changed.

For when I refer to the English suit, I do not mean merely a suit purchased at a gent’s outfitter; nor do I necessarily refer to grand threads from Savile Row. A suit’s ‘Englishness’ to me has a great, great deal to do with choice of material, colour and pattern and character.

The typical lawyer will march down Chancery Lane in an Italo-English bastardization; for many of the suits I see are the product of an ill considered pairing of these two great ‘schools’ of suit; Italian weights of cloth dazzle uncomfortably in pinstripes. However, for the most part, this is as English as you will see in central London. Aside from the habitats of St James’ and Mayfair where you are very likely to see, if you wait long enough, the true English suit in all its glory, London is sartorially breathtakingly cosmopolitan. However, to celebrate is not to wallow in demise and dilution. And as an Englishman, I am too awfully fond of purity; the ‘pure breed’ English suit, though rare, is as heart-warming as a gill of gin.

A chequered past  

Perhaps it is the timeless and charming Georgian sash window, or the tartan traditions of our Scottish cousins that has inspired, but checking a suit has long appealed to the English.

Author Nick Foulkes, pictured above (bottom, left) sports an unusual but very English check suit. The strength and the size of the check are particularly distinctive and this is sometimes referred to as ‘a window check.’ Edward VIII, or the Duke of Windsor as he came to be called after his abdication, is also wearing this check (top, left) although he was more famous for wearing the Prince of Wales check of which the current incumbent of that title, Charles, is so fond.

Checked suits, though often worn in the country, are rarely seen in town. The colour matched socks, shirt and pocket square, demonstrated by Foulkes, are the only accessorising required. Choosing as subtle a shirt and tie as possible is recommended; the suit itself will always be the talking point.

The little bit of England

The story of England is proof in itself that something small need not necessarily be insignificant or ineffective. Though I greatly admire Charles’ suit (bottom, right); again, a very English affectation of wearing double breasted suits, it is the small things about his ensemble that make me think of green hills, dreaming spires, Cornish cream and the sound of leather ‘gainst wood.

The Bengal stripe shirt, with the spread collar, the sober tie with the small knot and the casually inserted and, (please note) patterned pocket square are rarely seen on the continent. Italians generally prefer ironed linen for pocket squares and, unless they are conspicuously Anglophilic, usually wear plain white. Similarly, large knots are popular with gentleman who dress in the Italian mode – completely at odds with the Lilliputian creations of Charles and other men who pace along Pall Mall.

The buttonhole is particularly English. When I have worn them on the continent I receive either knowing nods of sympathy or furtive untrusting stares; sadly they are seen infrequently although a well made one, as Oscar Wilde said, ‘is the only link between Art and nature.’ Overall the additions are not excessive or cluttered. Though buttonholes and pocket squares are considered to be the clothing equivalent of Victoriana, they actually create a gentle balance – something breaking the monotony of the suit fabric.

With Charles there is a subtly muted starchiness; the hard collar and ruthlessly secured tie are the modern equivalent of Beerbohm’s high winged collar and pinned tie. Though it might be unfairly referred to as a ‘stiffness’ by contemporary society, in my opinion it retains the correct level of formality and finish. This particular ‘Englishness’ is as old as the hills. Never frightened of, or strangers to progress, the English, generally speaking, still like to maintain a level of dignity that, ironically, actually makes them feel more comfortable.

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