Sartorial Love/Hate: The Rugby Shirt

A funny thing occurs when I tell people I used to play rugby for my house: absolutely nobody believes me. Scoffs are heard as far off as Trafalgar Square when I recount stories of scrum-half school heroics; expletives of disbelief are muttered into pints of ale. But as “slight” a frame as I have and as “frilly” as some of my interests appear, it’s hardly a huge stretch of the imagination that I once bounded up and down soggy fields in house colours, being spear-tackled by hefty bully boys and easily sprinting away from players for whom the kindest compliment for their playing prowess was ‘convenient obesity.’

A recent conversation with friends and acquaintances turned to the subject and many a laugh was had at my expense. Of course, the image of professional rugby is that of towering warriors, with necks like tree trunks and a Neanderthal silhouette; “at school” I explained “it was very different.” We were discussing the 2011 World Cup, which is being held in New Zealand, and the misfortune that none of the games occur at hours during which drinking would be seen to be reasonable. This inspired commentary from the group on the pleasures of the pub; the loud roars, the patriotic atmosphere and, of course, the excuse of wearing a rugby shirt.

This last point caused the sort of noise-cocktail of extreme disapproval and hearty support normally experienced in the House of Commons. My ears pricked as I heard the arguments advanced.

The problem with rugby shirts, as far as the detractors could see, is that they are sport shirts which should only be worn on the sports field; got a rugby match? Wear your team shirt. Going to watch a rugby match? Dress as normal. As their argument developed I could hear that hatred of ‘lads’ sport gear culture was a central pillar; branded sport goods were not acceptable wear for grown gentlemen. Rugby shirts were, to them, only considered tolerable by the majority because of their connection to preppy, private school style; they believed they represented the disappointing decline of menswear standards.

The supporters considered virtue in their being a smarter version of sports clothing, particularly the classic hooped designs with white collars. They admitted full replica rugby shirts with numbers and sponsorship was a little too much but they admired the retro sportsman aesthetic of the design that provided gentlemen with a comfortable, casual item that was perfect for weekends; worn over shirts and ties and under cord jackets; a defiant banner of the sportsman when his body has failed him. They also differentiated the shirts from the normal sports replica shirt for sports such as football that become the army colours of an aggressive mob.

Unusually for this love/hate issue, I sit proudly on the fence. I cannot profess to intensely dislike or admire the rugby shirt; I no longer tend to wear them, but I confess to doing so at University – a cliché if ever there was one – and fondly remember their versatility and varsity aesthetic.

Striking the Right Cord

“Where can I buy the best cords?” a friend of mine once asked, keenly stirring their foamy, sickly Starbucks coffee as they read my face for a response. I sat there, gazing out of the window, inwardly smiling; ‘the best’ is often asked for in this manner, as though it were some club secret of an underground society; stern and steely, the searcher asks for such trifles with the gravity of a police officer requesting the location of a missing witness. People take ‘the best’ very seriously indeed. However, I was not particularly inspired by the commonplace conversation until the friend asked his second question; “And also” he began, slurping his muddy glug of caffeine and sugar, “what colour do you think is best?”

I had always been of the opinion that cords were an autumnal trouser; keeping the tanned legs of summer warm in the cooling air of October. Most of the cords I own are therefore of autumnal colours; burgundy, like the leaves of the maple, moss and Army green. Like many, I choose for my colours to reflect the season; the vitality and saturation of spring and summer hues contrasting with the darkened, dying colours of autumn and winter. However, there are those who choose an alternative sartorial philosophy and defy the seasons by adopting rich and life-affirming tones in the darkest times of year. There is something to be said for this resistance.

Cords provide an opportunity to express one’s philosophy. A tie may help, ditto a pocket square but it is the corduroy trouser, the rich velvety pair of cords, that permit such an expanse of colourful expression as the weather begins to cool.

The Reluctant

For those who consider brightly coloured cords to be a considerable embarrassment, ranking alongside surprise renditions of ‘Happy Birthday’ and rhythm-clapping, the muted tones of navy blue, moss green and Bordeaux (at a push) are for you. All types of tweed and flannel jacket will suit – a light-grey flannel jacket with the Bordeaux is a particularly enticing combination – and such trousers are unlikely to attract any unwanted attention.

The Willing

For those eager to join the ranks of the resistance but unwilling to stick their neck out and risk the consternation of passing elderly ladies, a pair of bottle green, cinnamon or mustard corduroy trousers are the perfect choices. All will partner a flannel navy blazer or a tweed jacket exceptionally well and will be ideal for country weekends, sober enough for visits to the in-laws and vibrant enough to attract admiring glances.

The Brave

For those who wish to blast the dark, depressing death of autumn with defiant colours that reflect the more brilliant seasons of the year, bright pink, yellow and papal purple are the ideal choices. None but the brave will attempt these luxurious colours. You will receive looks, and comments, so beware.

The Youth of Today

“Youth” said Lord Henry Wotton, the chilling cynic of the gothic novel ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’ “is the one thing worth having.” For a long time, I agreed. However, considering the current state of the economy, the cost of a university education and the dearth of job opportunities, I am rather relieved that I, in my late twenties, am no longer part of this nation’s unfortunate youth. For those that are; struggling to make their way in an overcrowded, expensive and often uninspiring world; working in menial jobs for which they are absurdly overqualified, I have a great deal of compassion. I myself didn’t have an easy route into anything. I know how it feels to be ignored, rejected, underpaid and overworked; many others do too. As the youth struggle to keep up with the shadow of their ideal, it is difficult for the fortunate and the happily settled to understand the pressures that are faced and the strict budgets on which many exist.

I was contacted by a young reader of my blog who was gratified to see that someone was championing the use of sartorial components from the high street rather than tailors or designers “which, let’s be honest, cater to a financially privileged few.” After all, though it may be that Savile Row aficionados are correct; that you can find no better cut of suit in the world, that it is worth saving a considerable sum to purchase such a suit, no matter how hard the ambitious young might work, no matter how diligently they save, necessary expenses block the Yellow Brick Road to Henry Poole et al, and even rule out many of the less expensive City tailors. I wrote to the young reader and asked him his budget. His response provoked considerable shock; he had expected to spend no more than £100 which, bearing in mind his expectations and aesthetic discernment, was a hopeless sum of money.

However, I viewed his case sympathetically. I saw a little of myself in this ambitious and optimistic 19 year old, with dreams of management and responsibility. The suit was to be worn to several interviews for unpaid internships, it needed to fit and he was adamant that the trousers should be the correct length. “The suit” he considered “would give me confidence and make them confident about me.” His attitude was exactly the right one; his suit needed to look like it cost more than it did and he was sure, since he was of the opinion that I had managed to do so with ensembles of my own, adding a few accessories would ‘upgrade’ the look. The most important thing, at least as far as his father was concerned, was that he was not to buy any “funny polyester” suit; it needed to be made of wool.

With such parameters, I would normally have responded that unless a vintage suit was purchased – undesirable to this young gentleman – the ask was impossible for such a low sum of money. However, I decided to pay a visit to three retailers that I knew had previously offered well-cut, wool or wool-rich suits for excellent value; Zara, H&M and Uniqlo. First off the list, as I expected, was Zara; the suit jackets alone cost £119 which, though good value, was well over budget. Next, with low expectations, I visited H&M; the Swedish store had been rather thin on suits recently and I did not expect to find anything made of wool. I actually found a wonderful light grey flannel two-piece for £115; the jacket was £80 and the trousers £35. The material was beautifully soft though, unfortunately, it was not ‘all wool’ as had been requested; 20% of the fabric was polyamide. Marking that as an outside option, I rested all my hopes on the last stop; Uniqlo.

Having bought a few flannel jackets there recently, I was well aware that the store offered great value but was still considerably impressed that a 98% Tasmanian Wool suit could be had for £110. Available in houndstooth, navy blue, light and dark grey, the soft flannel material would be the perfect foil for a soft white or blue shirt and a rich, silk pocket square. Though slightly over budget, I couldn’t resist making the recommendation and, feeling the soft wool between my fingers, couldn’t resist giving it a go myself. Slim fit, with a softer shoulder, the ‘suit’ is actually sold as matching jacket and trousers.

For something that costs so little, it is remarkably elegant and is very flattering, though the trousers – all are 34” length – will need adjusting. The material itself is substantial, subtle and timeless, unlike the sheeny-shiny, shoot-peas-through-them suits that so many seem to be fond of. It might not be the Huntsman suit worn by a middle-aged, grinning CEO but for an earnest young man on a budget, this purchase, with a little trouser-tailoring that will cost him another £15, is bound to impress.

Sartorial Love/Hate: The Plain Silk Satin Tie

I used to be very fond of silk satin ties. I remember purchasing a navy slub silk in a sale at Debenhams when I was 16, gravely disappointed that the ‘shiny’ silks had sold out. After my friends had abandoned me to what was essentially an enemy activity (clothes shopping) I rifled through the huge tubs of ties, clutching for that deliciously smooth fabric. I was purchasing for a wedding and wished to wear a plain tie – all the rage as far as I was concerned – with a plain sky blue shirt but there was no satin to be found. I had to content myself with the £7 slub. At the wedding itself, I ogled with envy at those in mirror-finish silk satin ties; like a scale-side fillet of sea bass, glinting in the summer sun.

Now, that fishy shine provokes a completely different reaction. I consider silk satin ties; that generic, bog-standard, look-as-ordinary-as-I-can favourite of politicians as the enemy of what I consider to be taste in neckwear. Many will disagree and sneer at the woven silks, wools and the matte prints as the sort of frilly, fussy accessory of best-forgotten decades. I once ventured to point one out to a friend of mine whilst we were drinking and gawping at fellow drinkers outside a pub; “Look, a shiny silk pale pink tie” I observed “Like a side of salmon or something. I just can’t stand them” when he informed me that something like that ‘side of salmon’ would be his choice for his upcoming wedding. “I think it looks the business; plain, shiny. Smart, I think.”

I reasoned that it must be the ubiquity of plain silk satin that so irks me; the fact that it has become the default choice for men about town. However, after rooting around in my mind, I decided it was still the fabric that prompted the dislike; after all, why do I prefer a ribbed silk finish to a dinner jacket lapel? Why do I prefer a moiré cummerbund? Not because the alternatives are commonplace. No, it is rather the rather startling texture reflecting the light; it is attention seeking and rather gauche. Satin silk is a wonderfully luxurious fabric to pass through your fingers but this sense of luxury is somehow lost when it is combined with other textures.

I picked a yellow one up whilst browsing on Jermyn Street, in an attempt to correct my prejudice and wandered around the shop laying it next to a variety of plain and patterned shirts; my eyes continually squinted – a strange habit I inherited from a mother who believes it gives you a ‘distance view’ of anything you apply it to – due to the fact that the colour was pleasant, the combinations were interesting but the sheen was just too much. It cheapened the combinations, despite being made of a high quality and not inexpensive silk satin. And the fact that it was plain too meant it only managed to look interesting and appealing against heavily striped or checked shirts; against a plain blue luxury weave, a force to be reckoned with in the sheen department, it looked positively oily. Yuck.

Reorganising the Wardrobe

One of the most frequent questions I am asked about my clothing; “Where on earth do I fit it all?” Work colleagues, friends, visitors to my blog and even my family wonder that I can be properly storing what appears to them to be a vast amount of clothing. Do I use vaccum bags for out of season clothing? Is it all mothballed in a warehouse? Where on earth do I put my ties? One person, asking me how many I possessed, stated their own level of ownership and problems with storage; “You must have fifty or sixty ties or something?” they asked. Where did it all go? Did I possess vast, Victorian wardrobes? Was my bedroom simply a giant clothing cupboard with a bed in it?

Collectors always have problems with storage, unless the objects of their collection are small enough not to cause concerns over general space, as is the case with postage stamps. However, collecting is not a question of filling a finite amount of space; a collector of gemstones does not seek to fill one velvet-lined box. Collecting is often a never ending hobby that when it gets to excessive levels looks rather like hoarding and can often be considered by outsiders to be an addiction. The problem with clothing is that it is not something that is kept in a box to be kept for posterity; it needs to be kept well in order for it to be fit for wear. This is why I believe it is not healthy to have an entirely elastic wardrobe. Unless you own vast warehouses in which to store the stuff, there is always a limit to a gentleman’s own sartorial holdings.

However, I believe that whatever space a gentleman has available, he should use efficiently. From the pictures you can see the setup of my wardrobe; suits, jackets, waistcoats and trousers are hung and the ties are hung on organisers which are hooked onto the inside of the doors. They had originally been carefully folded into drawers but this was not a sensible storage method for a number of reasons; firstly, accessing a tie was far more difficult as drawers have to be rifled through and secondly, some ties became damaged from the overflowing drawers by snagging against the wood. It would have been more practical to rid myself of the ties, but many of them have been handed down and I was reluctant to let them go, however infrequently I wear them.

The drawers they were stored in now contain my collection of pocket squares. They are organised into pattern types; plain, checked and ‘florals.’ Again this makes accessing the squares easier than if they were jumbled up in a box together which is ideal for both the man in a hurry who knows exactly what he is looking for or the man who has a special event to attend and wishes to experiment with something untried. Reorganising my accessories in this way has improved my dressing experience enormously and has also meant the objects are all in a wearable condition.

Admittedly, I am currently fortunate in my living circumstances that I do not have to share bedroom storage with another; there will be many who have to split their space with a spouse or, as in the case of some I know, with their children. There is no doubt that my ‘empire of wardrobes’ will one day succumb to the fate of all empires but when that does happen, I should hope I am prepared for it.