This is the best blue t-shirt in the world and I own it.

I put it on, jam my hands in my pockets and look sullen. My girl laughs at me and I don’t care. In my head I’m in a Ray Petri shoot with the Kamen brothers. I’m the star of my own black and white art house film where I communicate only in sighs. It’s always raining and I smoke a lot. My Mensa test was off the charts so it’s physically painful to think. I’m designing a social media platform for use on Mars. If I stare at a packet of fish fingers I’ll cry.

This blue t-shirt is not Comme des Garçons SHIRT, or Homme Deux. It’s sleeves are of even length and the front is not made of bunches of ladies tights, so it’s not Homme Plus. There’s no place for PLAY (the Primark of the Comme des Garçons universe) on this site, so it’s definitely not that. Neither is it CDG, the logo-liking digital off-shoot that seems determined to appear indistinguishable from an Ebay page of Chinese rip-offs. Rather this is Comme des Garçons Homme. The original Comme menswear line.

Over at Dover Street it’s available in beige, olive and grey. I wanted blue and I found it at Mr Porter. It’s a t-shirt. It’s got a pocket.

It is rare to encounter anyone wearing Comme des Garçons Homme. While Filip Pagowski’s red heart continues to contaminate what Comme means for many of us, the Homme line keeps it pure  — simple, wearable, exorbitant. It keeps the riff-raff out. Does that sound awful? Course it does, but let’s be real. Take a walk in any provincial town centre and count how many pairs of PLAY Cons you see. It might please Adrian Joffe’s accountant, but for fans originally exposed to the inscrutable and exclusive mid-80s Comme offering, it’s distressing. You won’t see anyone in Nandos wearing Comme Homme.

Yeah, I’m a snob. I’m a Comme snob  — say something? This is the best blue t-shirt in the world. Previous Homme tees have featured a printed logo, but this one carries a more subtle tag. The print is an advert, the tag is a detail. The first is rubbish, the second is god. The tag is just there, not shouting, barely whispering; often it’ll be covered with a jacket.

But wearing this simple blue t-shirt turns me into what I’ve always wanted to be: totally unapproachable, impervious to criticism, subsumed by my own pretensions. I can screw my face up like a petulant child and just whine, “what?” I can scowl in it. Whenever I want. Not just at anti-vaxxers and racists, at everyone. In this t-shirt I can finally be the wanker I deserve to be. For that I consider £150 a small price to pay.