The Autumn Suit

As I wandered through one of London’s royal parks on a recent weekend, I noticed a trail of crisp brown leaves pirouetting across the pathway; “Surely it can’t be autumn already?” I thought to myself, then feeling a pang as I caught sight of the crimson sunset behind Buckingham Palace, I realised that the ‘great’ British summer, ever fragile and short lived, would soon be over: good things never last, great things often never arrive. I thought of my lazy days by the sea, the gulp of salt water, the heat of the sun on my back, the distant sound of laughter and the warm, music-filled evenings overlooking a marina.

In an attempt to move on from my melancholy, I forced myself to reflect positively on the turn of the weather; no more brutally hot afternoons, forced to stumble around in sweat-soaked linen; no more flip-flops on the streets; no more uncomfortable, non air-conditioned dining rooms. I added to these pleasant ingredients the thought that the autumn of 2011, though still relatively distant, is already beginning to show itself on the racks of our favourite stores. Corduroy jackets, cardigans and raincoats are back; the sight of them, in the ‘heat’ of August is somewhat strange and I can only gaze upon them comfortably knowing that I have book ended this year’s summer with visits to warmer climes: a sojourn in Corsica is yet to come.

An early autumn suit is my current fixation; not one of winter’s greys or blues, no cool chalkstripes or crisp Glen Urquhart checks. I am looking for something the colour of sticky caramel, something to bridge between the pale linens, sky blues and whites of summer and the harder tones of the colder season. Something that will contrast with a French blue shirt but compliment an autumnal check tie; something that will marry well with a folded linen square or a yellow paisley. It will glow in the intensity of an autumn sunset and be worn for pleasure as well as business, perhaps to the last al fresco dinner of the year.

In early autumn, it is the sort of suit that would be ideal on particularly sunny days, worn sockless with a pair of brown suede loafers or for a very casual look with a pair of driving shoes; later on in the season, it can be deployed with pink socks and a pair of chestnut brogues or a pair of oxblood Oxfords. A fetching effect could also be achieved by using the items as separates: a caramel jacket with a pair of white trousers can be used on days that still feel like summer, the caramel trousers can be deployed with a wool blazer when it feels a little chillier.

Old Favourite: Gucci Loafers

“Everyone has their favourite pair of shoes” a fellow club member announced rather suddenly, “what is yours?” “Mine?” I responded with uncertainty for although I thought it a straightforward, commonplace question, I was somewhat put out. As a collector, it is difficult to single out what is effectively the most important piece of a collection as you feel it adds too much lucidity to the theory that the rest of the collection, though desirable, is somewhat superfluous.

To acknowledge that there is one item that is above all others is rather like choosing a favourite child; whenever it is done, the repercussions are considerable. I informed the inquirer that I have no favourite pair, that all calfskins are equal and that I was fortunate to have as many shoes as I have. “I think” he said “it would be my loafers.”

He pointed to a battered pair of suede loafers with a horsebit on the tongue, in the style of the Florentine saddler-turned-designer Gucci. “These are ancient” he muttered “never seems to be anything wrong with them.” They were a greenish grey, although it was clear that they had been black when they were bought, scuffed around the toe and somewhat misshapen by the unusually high instep of the wearer. The suede had worn like a batsman’s crease and the horsebit rattled loosely; these were shoes that had seen better days.

And yet, there didn’t seem to be a better day for them than this. The wearer reclined in a leather armchair, debating and guffawing with ease; paired with a simple linen jacket and cotton trousers, the shoes acquired an attractive wisdom. They might have been a deeper shade when newly acquired, they might have been considered more elegant when they did not show the signs of age and use but there was something dignified about their lived-in state.

I have the same feelings for a pair of velvet slippers that I received for my 19th birthday, some 9 years ago. Worn consistently since then, they have been similarly deformed by my own feet; the original Albert slipper line is long gone, the plush is very worn near the sole and the years of amateur haute cuisine, birthday champagne and countless dripping towels have taken their toll on the upper. Despite all this, I wouldn’t walk around the house in anything else; they are a favourite, a warm reliable pair of faithful feet-warmers that have aged with distinction, much like the beloved Gucci loafers that have seen the gentleman through more than twelve summers.

When I asked him if he planned to replace the pair, he looked at me sternly with notable affront, as if I had just asked him whether he was looking to trade in an ancient Labrador for a pipsqueak pup. Why would he when these are perfectly all right? Certainly a new pair would look smarter, he suggested, but they aren’t formal shoes; “I’m not opening a museum or launching a ship” he said “they’re just something for a tired man to shove on before he meets his friends.”

Sartorial Stereotypes: Swimwear

Vilebrequin

The Vilebrequin man reclines in relief after his dip in the saltwater pool. His younger girlfriend, earphoned and sunglassed, reacts with the harshest Muscovite disapproval at his playful embrace that covered her perfectly dry and tanned body in cold, chlorined water. Taking a sip of his chilled beer, he turns to his iPad with dissatisfaction, soon tires of its novelty and, frustrated, sits up to observe the moneyed bodies that traipse around the £1,000 a night hotel pool. He eyes the Vilebrequin trunks, ubiquitous in this class of establishment, and sighs with relief that he was not to be outdone by a bunch of has-been American tourists; his own designer shorts, though expensive, were embarrassingly cheap in comparison to the Indigo Blue Chameleon Classics that he had spotted the day before near the Piazzetta. When one of the has-beens wanders near, he whistles to a waiter and, making himself ridiculous, shouts his order “Hey…we want champagne. The best.”

Polo Ralph Lauren

The Polo Ralph Lauren man is not on holiday, and he wants everyone to know. He sits on the beach, loudly initiating sell orders into his hands-free Blackberry whilst tucking in to a club sandwich, which he uses as a gesticulative prop to point at unidentifiable places on the blue horizon. White-uniformed beach staff, carrying chilled sour fruit, are waved away; as soon as he has finished one call, he makes another as he strides down the beach with one arm folded across his midriff. His pale pink Polo Ralph Lauren swimshorts, as dry as their day of purchase, seem to promise a life of tropical cocktails, line fishing with local yachtsmen and jet skiing in the rarefied waters of the Indian Ocean. So far, the closest they have got to a dip is bearing the brunt of an awkward lunchtime spillage that was met with laughter by fellow guests, sweet apology by the perpetrator but only Persol-veiled disapprobation by the Polo Ralph Lauren man.

D&G

The D&G man lies tanned and oiled in a conspicuous position. His girlfriend and her friends have gone down to the hotel’s private beach but due to his aversion to sand, his wandering eyes and his thirst for attention, he has decided to remain alone by the pool where he is watched with a mixture of suspicion and lust by the middle-aged hausfrauen who have long since ceased to love their tubby, snoring husbands. Nodding and tapping his foot to the Europop iPod playlist, he stretches an arm out to the waitress, orders a MaiTai and persuades her to take a sip and a seat next to him. After a bout of teenage flirtation, she takes a picture of the two of them pouting into the camera. His smile fades as he catches sight of a more delectable prospect dipping her toe into the pool; he stands up, waves his thanks to the waitress, flicks the waistband of his oil-slick D&G mini-shorts and dives athletically into the cool water.

Speedo

The Speedo man stands proudly in the water, surveying the frolicking crowds. A man of nearly seventy, he regards his body with satisfaction as a young female smiles politely as she swims past. He looks back guiltily at his wife, comatose under a vast umbrella, and rejoices in his position; the sun, the sea, the smile of a young lady. It will not be long before his wife wails to him that it is time to eat, when he will turn from the sea to his much-neglected sunlounger to dry his legs, don a linen shirt and skulk up to the deck for lunch, invariably a white fish and salad served on a white tablecloth, opposite his wrinkling, grouchy wife who scolds him for rejecting her suggestion of wearing shorts to the luncheon table. He gazes down at his navy Speedos, stung by her notion that ‘no one wants to look at what you’ve got down there’ and dreams again of being in the water, breathing in the air and taking in the view.

Sartorial Love/Hate: Floral Shirt

I imagine no one would be likely to accuse me of being a zany dresser. I like colours and patterns but most of what I like is not too far removed from the conservative. It should come as no surprise then that I am not at all partial to floral shirts. I do not mean the palm-tree calico prints, the crudely coloured Hawaiians; I am referring to the William Morris, Arts & Craft, Liberty-inspired, Boden-catalogue James May. The sort of print you expect on curtains and wallpaper, at the very most a modest house dress. Not the sort of thing you would expect for a gentleman’s shirt.

It has become the quintessential garment of the middle-class gastropub; a smattering of excessive ornament against the suede lampshades and the leather armchairs. The wearer, parked on a barstool with a basset hound at his feet, flips through the pages of a weekend supplement as a pint of Guinness rests on the bar. It is not an offensive image; the shirt itself is not ugly and it is not worn in a fashion that attempts contrivance. It is something about the concept of a shirt with so incongruous a pattern. Time and again I have attempted to envisage myself in one of these shirts - with a jacket, chinos and loafers - and each attempt results in failure.

It is not, I think, a traditionally male aversion to the floral; a man fond of buttonholes could scarcely be against the use of flowers. It is that alien, tablecloth-quality that isolates the garment which makes me feel uneasy, but it is probably that very quality which appeals to others; that sense that you are not wearing a midweek shirt of plain weave, stripes or check but a shirt that is a signature of a Sunday afternoon. There are, after all, gentlemen who loathe the working week and yearn for all that it is not; whatever the business you are in, a floral shirt is most certainly not the most appropriate choice.

Unsurprisingly, I have little idea on how it should be worn, although long straggly hair, a pair of moleskin jeans and some beaten-up deck shoes appear to be the most popular partners. The idea of tying a tie with such a shirt is incompatible with its purely ‘fun-time’ connotations; no one mans even the smartest of neighbourhood barbecues (‘It’s unsafe…and uncool’) wearing a necktie. It is an open-neck option only. Likewise, it should never be partnered with anything less alpha than a pint of bitter or, if the evening’s getting late, a neat scotch. Add twizzly umbrellas and fruit mixtures and you’re finished.

Mode Rage: Flip Flops

“Sorry, do you have a problem with my typing?” someone once asked me, as my wincing face squinted and sneered at the hands of the person delivering the question. I did have a problem and it was to my chagrin that I could do nothing to abate it. My headphones, that joyously cocooned me from the audible horrors of a university library, were on my desk in my room. The incessant tip-tapping, the constant, irritating rhythm of it all distracted me from all academic thought. So much so that I began to question the sense of keyboard manufacturers – why could keyboards not be silent like a Yamaha keyboard action, for example? – and the insensitivity of loud typists to the concern that everyone in the library can hear their thunderous industry.

“I just have a problem with loud typing” I responded “it really winds me up.” In good spirit, the typist leaned over, conspiratorially, and informed me she also hates irritating, rhythmic noises. “Oh yes?” I proffered. “Flip flops” she nodded “can’t stand them; slap, slap, slap, slap.” I beamed in empathy.

I don’t think there is an item of footwear I loathe more than the flip-flop. And not only as an item of menswear; I think they are equally repugnant on women. I might reserve a good deal of dislike for horrible Prada training shoes and take a dim view of wearing New Balance running shoes with chinos but, despite the horrible aesthetics, I can still see a point to them. They serve a purpose, are comfortable and, though inelegant, are not designed or generally worn for situations requiring smart socialising. Flip flops however, which should be renamed ‘slap-slaps’ for phonetic accuracy, are worn in such situations.

Even in the northern European capitals such as London, people have been known to wander into chi-chi bars wearing them, demanding tables and kissing each other with nauseating self-awareness, sliding across the marble floors and crossing naked legs and a filthy, flip-flopped foot into linen tablecloths. For a man to flip flop in summer means he is one awkward slip away from the ultimate hippydom; walking the grimy streets barefoot.

Comfort is sometimes mentioned as a factor in wearing them, although how having a piece of rubber wedged between your toes, gradually digging backward like a miniature pick-axe as you push forward, is defended as an example of comfort I will never know. They are certainly easy to put on, and remove, which is why they are often used on the beach, to protect sun-worshippers soles from the scorching sand. However, rarely are wearers of flip-flops inclined to carry smarter footwear to don once they have departed the beach. Instead, they wander into town, griming it up and filthifying their feet in the dirt, the piss, the dropped ice-creams and week-old gum splat. It is because of this that they have become moderately acceptable and even desirable for some.

“I can just pop to the shops without having to think” an old friend told me “I don’t need smart shoes to go to the shop. Who’s going to look at me there?” Erm, the entire store. Who will hear you coming a mile away. Though they may be easy to scuff into, your feet will not thank you for being tempted by a pair of banana-coloured Havaianas.

Though most people think that the human foot is appalling and should be entirely covered, I simply think it requires better forms of presentation. In my opinion, a naked foot is actually far more acceptable than one wedged into a pair of flip flops, but for when footwear is required, sandals and espadrilles are far more appealing.

‘Oh but sandals’ I hear you cry ‘offer as little protection for the foot (and the eyes of onlookers) as a flip-flop!’ This is not entirely true. Although they expose similar amounts of foot, flip flops – due to the nature of being ‘loose’ on a foot – reveal soles and heels; an absolute horror when they are dirty. Sandals are secured to the foot and do not reveal the soles and the decent pairs usually cover the bottom of the heel too. Espadrilles are perfect for those who wish to cover the foot without smartening the footwear too much.