Mode Rage: Suits at the Races

I recently discussed weekend shenanigans with a friend of mine who had been to the races. He had attended the meet in a brown checked tweed jacket, sky blue shirt, blue polka dot tie, patterned blue pocket square, light brown trousers and brown brogues. In other words; the race meeting dress code.

To my dismay, he informed me that the majority of the racegoers had not aligned themselves with this code. “I could count on two hands” he said “the number of men dressed appropriately. They looked like they were all off to the office.” I was further disappointed, though scarcely surprised, to learn that the black-suited majority were sufficiently indelicate and ill informed to cast aspersion and dubious comment at those correctly attired.

I have experienced such malice before and my friend, like me, was flummoxed as to their sense of victorious ridicule; what could they possibly be saying? “Ooh look, there’s a C*ck in tweed! Like a typical country toff at the races”? Yes, we are at the races. This is what is normally worn to the races. This is what everyone, including you, expects to see at the races. Of course, the real reason for such commentary and mockery is socially motivated envy.

When a man knows how to dress appropriately and elegantly for an occasion, it is difficult for even the most pugnacious member of the style ‘illiterati’ to fail to recognise the fact. They do recognise it and it irritates them that someone else was in better possession of knowledge, in firmer grasp of the occasion. They glance at each other’s black and grey Burton suits and no longer feel like the proverbial balls of the bow-wow and so they lash out.

My own experience at race meetings is similar. It is not just the standard of dress that has declined - the absurd length of trousers, the appalling inability to tie a tie properly - but also the aesthetic appropriateness of materials and colours to the occasion. Even those not in possession of a tweed jacket could look to more appropriate garments and colours than a shiny, Mad Men suit from TopMan. A wool flannel blazer or a corduroy jacket, worn with chinos, flannel trousers or a pair of cords are far more appropriate than a grey, black or blue mid-lightweight suit.

Suits are relied upon far too much; the art of the odd jacket and trousers, particularly in relation to country dress, has largely been lost. So impoverished has our daily dress become that the default code for any occasion has been ‘Suits’; weddings, race meetings and the opera, people dredge out the same, slate-grey suit without any concern. When they arrive, they espy someone in classic attire and regard their own dress, and consequently their own negligence of interest, with an inward scorn.

City suits may be one of the last bastions of formality but they are relied upon too much for their ‘top trump value’; the idea that if you turn up in a suit, you certainly won’t be underdressed. Clothing is too often considered in a vertical hierarchy and almost never considered laterally with regard to the occasion, the location and the environment.

Some blame the loss of social propriety, others point to the lack of useful signage – one of the most useful things about the oft-mentioned Esquire artwork of the early 20th century is the guidance it provided to clueless readers – but the reality is that the appropriate attire for a country weekend at the racetrack has never really been forgotten, as the compliments to my friend from female racegoers proved. And the fact that the suited gentlemen wanted to try his jacket on and approved of the fit and style once it was warming their own shoulders, shows that aesthetic differences are not significant. The problems are knowledge and application; the former is restricted by a lack of interest, the latter by a lack of confidence. Fortunately, neither are insuperable barriers. The campaign continues.

Two Questions of Balance

Two recent questions from blog readers, though touching on entirely different wardrobe items, nevertheless inspired similar thinking.

‘I have a snazzy pair of spectator shoes but I haven’t worn them yet because they don’t go with my suits. What can I wear them with?’

Spectator shoes (or ‘co-respondent’ shoes) are increasingly popular, and the credit for their renaissance should be given to the brave souls who sport them as part of their everyday wear, but opinion is divided as to their suitability for the workplace. Wearing a sober, blue or grey wool suit with dual-toned shoes, outside of the fashion industry, is often perceived to be costumey and brash; the dark silhouette is abruptly ended with a pair of incongruous dazzlers which will draw all the attention.

The most ideal outfits with which to sport spectator shoes are ‘combination’ outfits; a jacket of one colour, trousers of another. A blue blazer, grey trousers and brown and white spectators draws attention to the whole ensemble because of the colour/material contrasting. The shoes will certainly draw more attention than a pair of plain black Oxfords, but they won’t stick out like a sore thumb. Similarly, instead of wearing a pair of black and white spectators – the trickiest combination shoes to pull off, in my opinion – with a grey or blue suit and suffering the endless gangster innuendos and the uncomfortable feelings of being too theatrical, some dark blue trousers and a light grey jacket, perhaps a houndstooth, will offset the drama of your footwear neatly.

‘I have started to wear bowties to work recently but I think it’s a bit much to add a pocket square. Do you have any tips on whether to wear both or one or the other?’

It’s fantastic that men are now sufficiently confident to don a bow tie for a day at the office; it wasn’t so long ago, in the darkness of the dress-down nineties, that getting them to adorn themselves with any necktie on was a challenge of Herculean proportions. The bow is very different to the tie. It has a more conspicuous, floral aesthetic and, because of this, a particularly puffy, patterned pocket square can sometimes look a little over the top.

One option is to go without a square. Clothing is about balance and if something feels a little excessive, it probably is. However, some gentlemen do not feel comfortable without a square in their breast pocket; the nakedness of it is disturbing and inconsistent with their habit and character. Not to include a square is almost more contrived than selecting one that complements sufficiently. I myself advocate the bow-and-square look, but for work I balance it with a plain white, folded square instead of a patterned, colourful silk puff; one extravagance, for the office, is quite enough.

Rare Moment: The Tweed Tie

My first silk tie was an old navy and burgundy printed polka dot tie that my father used to wear. He had revolutionised his tie wardrobe as his neckwear aesthetic had altered and I was the lucky recipient of his cast offs. I was very young at the time, only accustomed to the indescribably nasty polyester things that I wore as part of my uniform and consequently rather sceptical about the attractions of neckwear. Needless to say, that viewpoint has changed. I am now, like my father, an avid collector of silk neckties and possess an indulgent selection of printed and woven ties in a rainbow of colours and patterns.

Slightly smaller, though growing in number, is my collection of non-silk ties. Texture has always fascinated me and I have always liked to break from the norm a little. Wool and cotton ties add an unexpected restraint to shirt and tie ensembles and I like to pair them with extravagant silk pocket squares for texture balance. I have bought a decent cross-seasonal selection in these fabrics but there was always one tie that evaded discovery; a tie that completed the collection as it completed a hunting outfit or an ensemble for the races: the tweed tie.

The tweed tie is a thick, woollen adornment that appears to offend the regulation purpose of ties; as a harsh wool, it is the very opposite to a silk. Slipping a silk through the fingers is a pleasure. Once the knot is secured, it shines in the light and contrasts wonderfully with a matte, woollen suit and linen pocket square. The brown or green tweed tie also needs a contrast and if you should be so fortunate as to possess a good number of silk paisley squares, you will find this, in addition to a sky blue shirt, to be the most appropriate foil.

The brown tweed tie is not really a metropolitan tie; its sack-like harshness and natural colouring jars with the steely tones and glittering towers of the city. Though it matches a tweed ensemble amiably, it looks best when contrasted with a navy flannel blazer - beckoning a weekend trip to a bucolic brasserie – and though very smart with a blue shirt, is notably enhanced by a light pink. For the town, a grey tweed tie is perfect when worn with a crisp white or blue shirt and a mid-blue or navy suit. A country outfit, in tones of green and brown, can often be a challenge for smart, town-based gentleman, not least because they cannot fathom how a townie tie is appropriate for a shooting weekend.

The man not looking to make too much of a plus-four powered splash will probably prefer to steer clear of a standout purple paisley or burgundy country-theme silk; the tweed tie offers a stand-in-the-shadow-of-the-tree subtlety, with a reassuringly thick and cosy construction that does not attract attention.

I myself purchased an English wool tweed tie from H&M recently which I will seek to deploy on the rare occasions I actually leave London. As a point of experience, those in favour of a narrower four-in-hand knot should avoid cutaway collars as the thickness of the tie precludes pushing it up into the collar.

Sartorial Stereotypes: Cufflinks

Sapphire & Silver

The Sapphire & Silver man frowns at the menu in front of him, hiding his pained expression from the waiter hovering at his table. His lunch appointment, an ingénue with the voice of a husky veteran, is late. After repeatedly flicking his sapphire jewelled cuff to check the time on his vintage Cartier, he huffs impatiently and orders a bottle of Perrier Jouet. Two glasses later and the starlet arrives, red cheeked and flustered, offending the quiet elegance of her patient companion. After some apologies, and a few naïve, wide-eyed compliments regarding his window-check flannel suit, discussion of opportunities begins, with the nattily attired impresario describing the role of a smoky nightclub hostess. The ingénue listens attentively as the Sapphire & Silver man flicks his cuffs in Coward-like expression, gently touches his Novello waved hair and orders a consommé. He winces at his companion’s inelegant devouring of the remaining warm bread roll, struggling to imagine her as his restrained 1920s beauty with a Louise Brooks fringe when she suddenly grabs his Turnbull & Asser cuff and two buttery fingers fiddle the antique sapphire and silver cufflink that once belonged to the great Henry Irving; “Oh they’re beautiful! Are they real?”

Onyx & Gold

The chain-smoking Onyx & Gold man sits on the chilly balcony of the first-class lounge, watching the planes taxi to and from the terminal, dragging on a Marlboro Red. His heavy, tanned, masculine hands are decorated with signet rings and, though the sun only offers but a cameo appearance, his black Cutler & Gross sunglasses remain firmly on his head. Dressed in a black suit, white shirt and black Chelsea boots, he is elegantly but anonymously attired – hoping to be mistaken for a spy – and contrives a Fellini-esque pose as his cigarette-hand sleeve drops back to reveal an onyx and gold link. A frequent flyer, he avoids the usual activities of fellow travellers; his laptop, his papers, his Blackberry, are never seen. His work in claims adjustment is an embarrassment to his ideal, urban Tarantino aesthetic and so he never delves into discussion with fellow loungers; instead he casts aloof, smile-less looks toward attractive females in an attempt to disarm. He hears a distant shout from some inconsequential acquaintance as he paces towards the gate and, attempting to ignore it, he strides into the mensroom to evade his follower and prolong his pleasant fiction.

Silver Hermes

A bright blue Bentley sits on Sloane Street; impossibly clean, arrogantly situated outside Hermes. Passers by, admiring its sleek lines, jump in shock as it suddenly growls with life; the Silver Hermes man, in a pair of dark Armani jeans, a light blue Turnbull & Asser shirt and Tods, dashes out of the boutique clutching several tangerine bags and climbs in slowly whilst smoothing his slicked hair, flashing a harsh-white smile to the inquisitive promenaders. The door slams, the car speeds off with a hound-like howl. Sloane Street, the modern Rotten Row, is the daily haunt of the Silver Hermes man. He spends most of his time driving up and down with a friend in one of his expensive cars, parking at Harrods, lunching at the Mandarin Oriental and answering phone calls in a variety of languages. No one knows exactly what he does, although the Middle Eastern plated cars lead most to draw their own conclusions. He is also seen in the VIP areas of Mayfair clubs, deep in conversation with a number of associates, flanked by statuesque women and vast bottles of Grey Goose vodka. He appears to dislike jackets and favours car-to-door valet services when the chill comes. He loves to accessorise his relatively minimalist, I-don’t-have-to-try look with a few obviously expensive items including a chunky Audemars Piguet, a Hermes belt and matching ‘H’ Hermes cufflinks, which he loses and replaces with startling frequency.

The Novelty Golf Club

The Novelty Golf Club man is an active and amiable chap. He has very little interest in his day job, working as a financial director for a large company, and spends as much time as possible chatting result speculation and betting odds with the young, sport-following graduates who congregate in the kitchen at strategic points in the day to watch the ticker-tape screen of the sports news channel. Although he looks somewhat like a bouncy castle, he is a keen sportsman and a six handicapper and organises team-building tennis tournaments with relish. He even encouraged a managing director to have an away day at the company box in Twickenham, although ‘back-to-back’ meetings prevented clinching such a coup. His desk, an appalling mess if ever there was one, is where he keeps an eye on the various scores with open tabs dedicated to refreshed scores and video highlights of cricket catches, tie-breaks, goals, tries and long putts. It was without surprise that he bounded into the office in January showing off his Christmas stocking fillers with pride; a punny cricket mug for his tea, a box of chocolate tennis balls and a pair of novelty golf club cuff links, bought by his forbearing wife.

Why the Fuss: Skull & Crossbones

There are little trends which have small, sometimes even humble beginnings. They grow gradually through inventive marketing, product placement and, catalysed by transient cultural association and celebrity endorsement, balloon into blimps that define an era of fashion. Though the process is begun by one, others follow suit very quickly and you have the development of what you might call a ‘we might as well’ trend; Brand X sees Brand Y following the trend, shrugs its shoulders and says; ‘We might as well.’ One of the most notable ‘we might as well’ trends in gentlemen’s attire in the last 5 years has undoubtedly been the inexplicable use of the skull and the skull and crossbone motifs.

“It was McQueen who started it” says one. “No, it was actually Vivienne Westwood” says the other. “You’re both wrong” another chimes in “I think it was Paul Smith.” Whoever gave birth to the idea is not particularly relevant: crackpot creatives have all sorts of odd ideas and parade them gleefully before the world’s press; very few of them end up in the windows of New & Lingwood or in the hushed elegance of Fortnum & Mason. And yet the skull and the skull and crossbones, great symbols of, well, almost anything you choose them to be – rebellion, piracy, mortality – are everywhere. They are on velvet slippers, cufflinks, ties, bow ties, jacket pockets and dressing gowns. They are on silk scarves, braces, tie clips and buttons and, for the life of me, I cannot understand their appeal.

Someone somewhere got the supposedly bright, but not particularly original, idea that gentlemen’s clothing is boring. A fusty, stifling world of antlers, Old School ties, chamber music and, most importantly of all, conformity. It reeked of the establishment and they needed a heavy metal disinfectant. A few clever designers, a Pirate film or two and suddenly, the answer: to bring that harder, grittier edge to the soft, squidgy, fireside world; to turn a man from Hamish Bowles into Jason Statham; that element of graffiti, a tattoo reminder of a ‘hardened’ life of £190 slippers and onyx cufflinks; the skull and crossbones.

The men who wear it wear it with supposed irony. They, like me, grew up being told stories by grandfathers of The Jolly Roger and the desperate evil of pirates. Famously worn on the uniforms of the Schutzstaffel, the Totenkopf is a symbol of death, as mocked on the British comedy show “That Mitchell And Webb Look” when an SS officer on the eastern front suddenly realises what his cap badge is and asks a fellow soldier: “Hans…are we the baddies?”

There will be those who disagree. Some may view the skull and crossbones motif as a design classic and its incorporation into items of gentlemen’s clothing increasingly viewed as feminine and frilly as a masterstroke to entice a generation hardened by hip hop and Guy Ritchie films.

People are often ridiculed for wearing symbols of their network or establishment. School ties, college cufflinks and Masonic tie clips all badge the wearer as a member of that establishment. The fact that they need to flag membership through ownership and display of such trifles is the thing that provokes the ridicule. However, is it not more ridiculous to adorn oneself in symbols that have little aesthetic attraction, no relevance of membership, except perhaps connections to the most notorious and sinister organisations the world has ever known?