Roll With It

I always prefer dressing in winter. From an aesthetic point of view, greater variation can be achieved in the colder months – layering, scarves, colour contrasts or matching. And from a comfort point of view, I consider it easier to be happier in winter time. Summer can be so sweltering that elegance is nigh on impossible and the experience of moving around a sticky city can be unbearably unpleasant. In winter, though it is certainly cold and the wind doth certainly blow, if you dress properly you will be happy. A sensible weight of suit, sensible overcoat, and accessories like scarves, hats and gloves can be the difference between an unpleasantly shivery state and a sense of warm satisfaction.

I like simple things in winter. I am far more easily pleased in the chilly months; deliriously happy for the warm punch, the wool blanket and the slippers on my feet. I also love simple knitwear at this time of year. On especially cold days, I have the urge to hang all the little strips of silk and my cotton shirts and wander around in a gorgeously warm shawl collar jumper. The only problem with such a choice is that it is assuredly casual. What is needed is something between elegance and cosy comfort. Something that allows you to be deliciously warm whilst conveying a taste for sophistication.

The roll neck, or turtle neck, can be one of the most comfortable, and comforting, items of menswear. When the cold breezes blow, the idea of wandering out exposing a freshly shaven neck makes one chill in anticipation. A favourite suit hangs in the wardrobe, begging to be worn, but the unprotective tie and shirt lying on the bed make the gentleman reconsider; “I need to be warm today” he will say, thinking over his attire. Opening up a drawer, the sight of a friendly turtle neck jumper conjures a broad smile. He dons the jumper, and the suit, and finishes the look off with a pocket square and some monkstraps.

So, cometh the unfriendly day, cometh the friendly turtle neck, and preferably in cashmere. The most important consideration for such a garment is how it will look underneath a suit. The tendency for gentlemen is to purchase larger items of knitwear with fuller arms and a casual, baggy roll to the chest. Unfortunately, that is precisely the wrong kind of fit for a turtle neck that can be worn under a slender and well-fitted suit. The arms need to be as slender as possible, the chest as fitted as possible and the length needs to be great enough for a little trouser-tucking and no more. The jumper can be of any colour of your choosing, charcoal grey suits particularly match a great range, but the jumper must be non-textured and slim-fitting otherwise you’ll look like Joey from ‘Friends.’

Let’s Hear It For Baron Of Piccadilly

If I am ever seen in bookshops, I am often seen flicking through intriguing nostalgia-picturebooks with titles like ‘Old London’ or, less prosaically, ‘Fallen Grandeur.’ I have an extraordinary appetite for discovering the forgotten and long-since demolished; I experience a bizarre thrill, and often a seething rage, when I look over drawings and turn-of-the-century photographs of magnificent stone edifices, some fifteen or twenty years in construction, that were bulldozed for throwaway reasons such as ‘impractical for modern use’ or ‘ of an unremarkable style.’ I am especially angered when these buildings are replaced with monstrosities that have no aesthetic merit, zero public affection and no link or sympathy with the structures surrounding them.

One of my saddest recent reads was of the old artisan, boutique establishments that began life in the proud imperial age; milliners, countless cobblers, tie-makers and sock makers. Anything that a well-heeled gentleman might require; expertly manufactured and sold by dedicated, passionate tradesmen who knew their craft well. I was sad to read of their demise, their shop closures and takeovers – even though I had never known their trade in my own lifetime. Imagine my ire when I read of the upcoming ‘redevelopment’ (read: demolition) of the eastern corner of Piccadilly and Jermyn Street – an entire block of, yes hotchpotch, but nonetheless charming and idiosyncratic establishments. Most significant among these are the lovely Bates hat shop, virtually unchanged since the 1920s – a remarkable milliner that count David Bowie and Eric Clapton among their customers and, on the Piccadilly side, another time-warp establishment - the suit-and-overcoat shop ‘Baron of Piccadilly.’

Walking into Baron is a disarming experience that could certainly be eased by viewing several episodes of ‘Are You Being Served?’ Firstly, the chap at the desk enquires, politely but with clear intent, as to what you are interested in. Once this has been established, he hails to his relevant colleague (not by their Christian names, but as ‘Mister’) to assist. On the occasion of my entry I wanted to look at the suits.

I was escorted upstairs, which on a Saturday afternoon was sadly completely empty, and was amazed to see a vast treasure trove of classic single and double-breasted woollen suits. More significantly, they had a great number of styles in my size. “You’ve come just at the right time, sir” the suit assistant whispered to me “we’re closing down soon!” It was uttered in an amused hush but you could hear in his voice a slight cracking that indicated an internal mourning; he must have repeated this to every customer who ascended those stairs, but it was clear the words weren’t getting any easier to say.

Many shops are claimed to be ‘old school’ or ‘time-warps’ – anything with an Edwardian interior, mosaic entrance or etched glass windows is considered to be ‘stepping back in time’, but Baron, despite being wedged in a relatively modern 1960s renovation, is the real thing. The kindly service, the formality of payment and the arrangement of the clothing is of a style and a function no longer seen. By the end of 2009, this remarkable establishment will be no more. When I spoke to the manager of the suits about the future, whether Baron intended to pick up another lease nearby he shook his head confidently. “No, this is it for us. We’ll never find another location like this again.” Words to that effect, unfortunately, were also spoken by a representative of Bates.

Baron has, as you would expect, an outstanding closing down sale in progress. Suits, overcoats and accessories, made to a standard no longer seen in that price range, that will surely in time become collectors items. These coming weeks pose a great opportunity to purchase a piece of retailing history – at a bargain price.

A Sorry Experience At H&M

As a blogger, I have developed something of a reputation as a high-street champion. It is not an unfortunate or accidental reputation; I make no disguise of the fact that I look for style pieces in a number of places that would make the hardcore tailoring fraternity blink.

While many save and splurge on grand items from vaunted style emporiums, I drop comparatively smaller sums, more steadily, at retailers such as Zara and H&M. As ubiquitous as they are, these retailers have impressed me with their flair, use of better-than-average materials and, most importantly, their prices: for the quality of design, the price is always palatable. I spend as little as some spend on a night out on several items from one of these stores and, though the delight in the bargain is short lived, I am largely satisfied with the longevity of the items I have bought.

My experience of the customer service, or indeed any of the ‘workings’ behind the scenes of one of these gigantic retailers, has been, until recently, rather small. Never had I needed to throw up the great curtain and un-complicate the mighty gears and levers that keep the machines churning. There had been no need.

The thing I already understood about H&M was that stock was uncertain – they get a batch delivery of a mixture of clothing items every single day. What I did not know was that this ‘batch’ changed not due to the demand of clothes in a particular store, or demand across a number of stores, or even if stock in one item was low – replenishing ‘low’ stock was the most obvious and most memorable reason for deliveries that I remember from working in a clothing store.

No, the ‘batch’ was simply an inexplicably haphazard selection of a variety of H&M’s clothing line. It could be a delivery of fifty jackets and hats that hadn’t sold a single unit; if they couldn’t fit on the racks, they’d be in the stock room until sale time when they were generally chucked for less than half price.

I had enquired about a suit; an all wool chalk stripe with a peak lapel and a matching waistcoat and trousers which I had planned to adjust in my own way – new buttons and turn ups. I was given the explanation about ‘batch’ stock and three five digit numbers with which I could contact stores nearby to see if they had the items in question. Having exhausted the list within an hour, with no success, I decided to write to H&M’s UK office – a postal and email address that was irritatingly difficult to find – in the hope that they, in their lofty position on the confusing ‘gears and levers’ tree, would be able to correct. My written letter received no response (no surprise there) but my email, which enquired about the availability of the item was, to my delight, deemed worthy of a reply.

However, any hopes of a response that began ‘Of course we’d be happy to locate the garments you desire…’ were dashed by the first line which read;

“H&M are not able to source any of our garments as we do not work with a computerised system due to a fast stock turnover therefore we are unable to locate stock within stores.”

Boo! What a great disappointment. Although somewhat expected, it was peculiarly exasperating to see what had been until now an embarrassed mumbling from H&M staff in hard and clear lettering. I was pleased to see that I had been correct in one of my expectations – the items I had enquired after were ‘current’ season and should be available in the stores for the next few weeks. The problem was that there were only 24 pairs of trousers and 85 waistcoats (not necessarily in my size) left in the distribution centre. The big setback was that the crucial element to the suit, the jacket, was ‘not being replenished.’ If I could locate one in a store in another location, by ringing around and quoting the five digit code, I might be able to find a pair of trousers and a waistcoat in one of the central London stores, although this was uncertain. What was certain was the great sense of victory I should feel if it all came together in the end for the search had been long and more than a little distressing.

I wrote back to the Wizard of H&M and asked if it was possible to pay for items over the phone, to then have them sent to me by post or perhaps to have them shipped to another store. Although this request seemed hopeful, on reflection it is actually quite reasonable – surely someone in their mythically massive customer service team should be able to organise this paltry request for such a persistent and faithful patron. To my great disappointment, this is the reply I received;

“Unfortunately this is not services that we provide (sic). However customers are able to place garments on hold for 24 hours to collect the garment in store.”

That was it. My special ‘call centre’ for the project, a spreadsheet of numbers and locations, was to be abandoned. Unless I planned to make an (expensive) train journey to Birmingham or Edinburgh there was not a hope in hell. Predictably, I rued my lack of nationwide friends and associates.

The experience, though remarkably unsatisfactory, has provided me with further elucidation on the issue of mass production and mass consumerism. Though I had expected, behind that great curtain, a crunching machine capable of altering a gear or two, instead I found a brick wall, with only a letterbox.

H&M will churn out the clothes by the million, throw them in the stores littered around the world but they’ll be damned if they know what they’ve produced or what they’ve delivered.

Brand New Dune

In relation to footwear, dear reader, I have a particular problem. I, in a truly Marcosian manner, have lost all concept of the ‘basic’ shoe and my concept of ‘need’ is as skewed as that of William Randolph Hearst. The issue is this; my shoes are well kept and they last a considerable amount of time. Many of you will raise eyebrows in approval, considering that this achievement deserves credit. Fortunately, I am conscious enough about my appearance to ensure the intended triumph of the former but the triumph of the latter is largely down to the fact that I have a peculiar dislike for wearing the same pair of shoes two days in a row.

It’s a kindergarten comment, but the fact remains – the less you wear a pair of shoes, the longer they will last. I have never encountered a cobbler or shoe salesman who peddles a paradoxical and controversial theory that, in actual fact, shoes last longer the more they are worn. For that word, ‘worn’, is not used without reason. Those creations, so carefully and skilfully illuminated in the boutiques of St James’ and Mayfair, are virginal; untouched, unblemished, unwrinkled, unworn. All the care and love in the world will not return a pair of shoes to their pre-worn state; the great problem with shoes is that we need to wear them. A very good pair of shoes, worn every day, will last a good number of years, but how much longer would they last if they were only worn one day a week? For that reason I spread the burden across an ever-growing collection.

My collection is not to the taste of all. It’s a mish-mash, a mixture of Jermyn Street and the high street. The shoes are not of equal quality; some I foresee lasting a good deal longer than others, but there are some shoes that I am surprisingly pleased with. My three pairs of Dune shoes are among my favourites. Firstly, they are of a pleasing shape. The toe is slightly squared but the profile is rather classic which makes for a stylish design that is a cross between contemporary and traditional. Secondly, it is clear that the creative team at Dune for Men take risks with their shoes. I have a pair of their head-turning peanut-butter leather and black patent co-respondents that consistently receive compliments and enquiries.

The real value in Dune shoes is precisely that – the value. They are priced at £85. While not exactly a bargain-basement price, finding good leather shoes of decent construction and interesting design for less than £100 is notoriously difficult. I bought each pair of mine in the sale, at a 40% discount. For roughly £150 I have three pairs of shoes that I adore. There are certainly better shoes out there, but for that price?

Shoe purists certainly scoff at the ‘high street’ image of the brand, the fact that Dune is chiefly a manufacturer of women’s shoes and that the men’s section is, embarrassingly, a side show. They might even take issue with the quality of the leather (which, in my opinion, is satisfactory for the price), but there is no doubt that achieving this kind of footwear, in that price bracket, is only possible with Dune.

When I paid a visit to George Cleverley’s little boutique in the Royal Arcade, the interesting and kindly store keeper remarked on my canvas and tan co-respondents; “You’ve got a very nice pair of shoes on yourself sir, where are they from?” When I informed him they were from Dune he was understandably nonplussed; “Never heard of them, and I’ve been making shoes for 56 years!” I calmly informed him that it was unsurprising that he had never heard of Dune as they were scarcely in the league of distinguished bespoke shoemakers. The benevolent twinkle in his eye indicated, with that remark, I had been excessively disparaging.

Sartorial Love/Hate: Fedora

I adore hats. I have quite a few of them but nowhere near the number I should like to own. For my next purchase, I am rather taken with the idea of a Homburg.

I haven’t always liked headgear. It is only due to recent maturation that I have taken to hat-aspiration. It was very hard to get excited about the kind of headwear that dominated the school and varsity scene; if it was a particularly chilly day, you wore a beanie. And despite the physical pleasure in wearing a head-warmer of this style, it is an amateurish design. No matter how luxurious brands like Burberry Prorsum upgrade the beanie to some vicuna-cashmere, hand-knitted deluxe tea-cosy, it will always be a beanie – no milliner worth their salt would acknowledge it as anything else.

The advantage of a beanie is that no one seems to find it particularly distracting or conspicuous. It barely alters the day’s ensemble; the silhouette remains the same. It is favoured by gentlemen of many a generation, chiefly because it is a cheap, effective and unobtrusive method of keeping warm. The problem? Well, it’s not exactly elegant. It doesn’t have the presence that other headgear offers; the rakish brims, the altered silhouettes. It is, by comparison, disappointingly anonymous.

A fedora, by way of contrast, is precisely the opposite. So noticeable are fedoras, hats that were worn by nearly every metropolitan gentleman just over half a century ago, that when I saw a fedora-wearing gentleman walking towards me on St James’ Street, more than six pairs of John Bull eyes turned and scrutinized the wearer. A gentleman no longer needs to wear an unusual hat to attract attention – he simply needs to wear a hat.

The fedora was a popular item of headgear in the early twentieth century, firstly for women and latterly for middle-of-the-road men. It was ubiquitous; on streets, in cinemas, on tradesmen, lawyers, screen stars and sportsmen. By the end of the 1950s, it was rarely seen as the fashion moved towards hats with smaller brims (for example, the trilby) to complement the clothing styles. By the mid-sixties, the writing was on the wall; JFK had been the first president not to wear a hat on distinctly ‘hat’ occasions and living with headgear had become not only unfashionable but undesirable. The only men still wearing fedoras into the late 60s and early 70s were of an older generation.

Those who wear fedoras love them but they can receive very different responses from others. When I wore a black fedora with a double-breasted jacket earlier on this year, one of the more pleasant responses I received was ‘Ahh, nice hat mate but…you don’t really need to wear one though? I mean, you’re still young.’ Other responses rhymed with ‘banker’, ‘glosser’ and ‘grass-mole’ and it made me consider that there are still plenty of people who are unwilling to allow the fedora to make any kind of renaissance.

I tend not to wear mine very much, which I greatly regret, due to it being such a ‘statement’ hat; it has nothing on my silk top hat or straw boater but, bizarrely, in their own context those models are apparently more tolerable – every mucker, irrespective of class or generation, wears a topper and boater to Ascot and Henley. The ‘statement’ about the hat is that it is an everyday item and that, if I chose to, I could wear it everyday as many millions of men before me once did.

As such, my fedora – a present from a dear relative who admired and cheered my interest in old fashions – sits on my shelf; dusty and rather sad; an unfortunate victim of sartorial love/hate.