As with most things, it’s the internet what done it.
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What does 90’s menswear mean, second time around?
I would have bet against the persistence of the ’90s fashion’ trend. By now I assumed it would have eaten its own multicoloured Benetton tail. But not only won’t it quit, it appears to be intensifying. It’s now the de facto uniform for anyone under 30. My 15 year old niece dresses like Atomic Kitten (all disintegrating denim and cropped tees) while my local eateries are packed with dudes in exuberant Tommy Hilfiger and XXL cagoules.
The best indie menswear shops in Amsterdam
Before traveling anywhere, the first thing I do is Google:
“Independent menswear shops Amsterdam.”
I confess, I do tend to change the location depending on where I’m going. For instance, I have found it unhelpful to use a map of the Oosterparkbuurt to find decent socks in Leeds. But on this occasion I was going to Amsterdam, and I was determined to discover what stylish enclaves lay beyond the tourist trammel.
Anyone remember subtlety?
How’s your menswear journey going?
I look around London right now and I see a lot of gilets. And ‘quirky’ Salomon sneakers. I see artisanal anoraks and loads of guys all expressing their personal style by wearing technical vests. I see bibs, aprons, neckerchiefs, embroidered cargo pants… It seems as though no one wears a cap without a hood over the top of it these days?
It appears that amongst men, sartorial affectation is now at epidemic proportions. Like a kind of nuclear sprezzatura (although of course, true sprezzatura is supposed to look effortless, and not like you’ve spent hours in front of the mirror fiddling with your two-way zip.)
Dressing for inconvenience
I like my travel like I like my social media: authentic. So obviously, when I spend £250 on a pair of train tickets, what I’m looking for is a service that runs over 30 minutes late and is so rammed I have to stand for three hours next to some broken toilets. There’s nothing more authentically British than a piss-poor train journey.
Anterior motive
Young families: an appreciation
The consequences of aging are well documented. Impossible hangovers, hair loss, lower back pain, wheezing, man-nappies… followed by a long slow death, postponed by medication and surveyed by increasingly impatient relatives.
LinkedOut: job hunting adventures on the platform powered by cringe
As the French philosopher, Michel de Montaigne, put it: “We are more unhappy to see people ahead of us, than happy to see people behind us.”
It’s a remarkable insight. Especially as it came over 400 years before the launch of LinkedIn.
What is #mid and should you even care?
Are you panicking about #mid? Freaking out about how your taste is suddenly in jeopardy? Questioning your clothes, furniture, the cafes you visit? Any idea what I’m whanging on about?
Dover Street Market Market: the good, the bad and the greedy
Let’s get this straight: Dover Street Market Market is not cool. It’s fabled, certainly. It’s spoken of with excitement, with breathless FOMO. It’s rare, it only occurs only once every five (or so) years. And it’s the only place you’ll find Comme des Garçons and other DSM brands reduced by up to 80%. But cool? Cool, it is not.
Capitalistic guilt? Ecological dread? Or just too many clothes?
A few notable things happened yesterday.
While at Shoreditch House I yanked and yanked at a sliding metal door until my face went red, only to have a staff member explain that what I’d taken to be access to the swimming pool was in fact welded shut. Looking at my phone on the train home, I found that because I was once distracted by a video of a gurning loon jumping into a gorge attached to an elastic rope, Instagram is now feeding me endless videos of gurning loons jumping into gorges attached to elastic ropes. To cap it off, when I arrived home, there was a fox sitting on my doorstep eating a Swiss roll.
Perhaps for you, none of this is especially noteworthy. However, once I’d shooed the fox away and shovelled its dirty pudding into the bin, I came to a completely unrelated but nevertheless important realisation.
I’ve reached peak clothing.
Just different enough
After my ramble about the Reebok x Needles Beatnik Moc (still on the fence, although my girl thinks they’re, “horrible“) it’s reasonable to assume I might suggest an alternative. And I haven’t had to stray from beneath the Nepenthes umbrella to find one.
Too much of a good thing?
Entry-level pieces present a conundrum for the menswear compulsive. On the one hand they’re an affordable way of adding some freshness to your rotation. On the other, you risk bumping into someone else wearing the same thing, which as we know is medically proven to lead to deep vein thrombosis. Read More
A sense of impending doom, with sarcastic interludes
My girl is away in New York on business — a whirl of fashionable meetings in Soho House and dinners at The Wythe. I am at home in Peckham watching Richard Osman’s House of Games.
I’m not jealous. No actually, I am jealous. I’m scrolling through Linkedin looking for a new job, she’s shopping in Williamsburg. I’m writing metres of cover letters, she’s pinging me lists of celebs she’s spotted.
I mean, yes, she’s got a great job, one I’m uniquely unqualified for. And yes, she works incredibly hard and has a positive can-do attitude, qualities that make me feel queasy. But even so, it just seems fundamentally unfair.
I decided to watch Richard Osman, the massively successful presenter, author and TV personality, to get some inspiration. I thought that studying a dude at the top of his game might provide me some insight into what it takes for me to realise my personal ambitions. Twenty five hours of simplistic word games and ironic prizes later, I have learned nothing. Other than my geography is shocking.
The beans on toast of jackets
Fitted down jackets, contoured to the body, often with a hood. Much like anything featuring Jamie Laing or rabies, they are to avoided at all costs.
We all know the media is rarely critical of clothing — everything has to be wonderful because the advertising department says so. But I don’t have that problem. I can tell it like I see it. And besides, I’m often asked by non-menswear obsessives for a steer that doesn’t require the complexities of a Japanese proxy service, so here goes…
If you are considering buying a Uniqlo Ultra Light Down Parka or any garment that looks even vaguely like one, don’t. If you already own one, give it to someone, anyone, donate it to charity, give it to Coats4Calais, just get it out your house.
643 hours of theatrical sighing
For me 2022 has been diabolical. A full-tilt shit of a year. One that’s made me mourn for the comparative certainty of lockdown.
Mostly I’ve been looking for a new job. Which, it turns out, involves more work than an actual job, but for 100% less money. Worse still, it means spending day after day on Linkedin. Navigating an endless loop of humble-bragging and pound-shop euphoria in the hope that someone’s looking to hire a professional grouch.
A shame of two halves
Regular readers will be familiar with my antipathy towards football. Never been into it. Grubby, shouty, boring. I’ve spent my life telling anyone who’ll listen how rubbish football is. But yes, the carpet bombing of peak time broadcasts and daily articles arguing whether Foden or Bellingham is better at kicking stuff have claimed another victim.
I’m now watching the football.
Prior to the Goal Cup I was surprised so many people were vocal about Qatar’s medieval human rights record, yet no one seemed bothered that we were all about to be subjected to weeks of blokes jogging about on a big field before pretending to fall over.
But the thing is, I needn’t have worried. After a lifetime of dodging anything soccer shaped, I’ve finally discovered what football really is and why so many people love it.
Seven things you can live with without, but maybe it’s better not to
Quite by accident, I recently found myself trying to cross through Oxford Circus just as the Christmas lights were being switched on. The crowds were terrifying. It was like trying to squeeze through a Spartan phalanx made of Adidas Gazelles, H&M bags and iPhones. It’s hardly surprising we haven’t solved the climate crisis, the rise of the far right or the economy, we’re still a race bewitched to a standstill by a string of coloured bulbs.
Yup, it’s mid-November again. An awkward time for the clothing enthusiast. Late-season pieces are still dropping, but you know the sales are around the corner. It’s a weird liminal space, neither one thing or the other: pulling the trigger on a purchase can feel frivolous, but what if the piece you want sells out before discount time? What’s worse being broke or missing out? Plus of course, the festivities are incoming, and with them the joyous inconvenience of having to buy other people stuff.
Being too into clothing is both a delight and a curse.
In an attempt to draw pleasure from the idea of appreciation rather than ownership, here’s a round-up of pieces that have caught my eye but not (yet) my wallet.
Whine of inquiry
Life at the apex of modern menswear is not without its challenges.
New shoes that start to rub ten yards out the door. Realising you’re the only one dressed like a Pyrenees goat herd at the leaving drinks. Stuff on websites that is clearly wrongly priced — £190 for a pair of £40 socks, sort your life out Très Bien. And of course, as recently discussed, the crushing obligation to buy something in an austere boutique.
The Raisin Bran of style always has a couple of flies in it.
A wasting disease
I know I’m grinding my teeth. My eyes are darting about like panicked flies. I can’t stand still. My head is boggling with mental arithmetic. I want to boot up the HSBC app, but I can’t. Not here.
I’m in a small but expensive shop and I’ve been strolling around for a while. A while turns into a dawdle, then a linger and it now feels like a loiter. A loiter with intent? How did I let this happen? I now feel obliged to buy something. I don’t want to buy anything. But I know it’s going to happen.
Boy interrupted
Comme des Garçons SHIRT: such exquisite agony
For me this is the only shirt that matters. I won’t call it the shirt of the season, as the very concept of weather is now cryptic and any day now Putin or Xi Jinping will probably drop a dustbin of nukes on Leicester Square — seasons as we know them may fucked. I’ll simply say that in my opinion this is the best shirt for this minute and leave it at that.
Rosé doomsday
Something about a nine litre bottle of Whispering Angel. Someone says, “calanques.” An endless coach ride. Irregular paving stones. A fountain chatters in the darkness. Waiting for the lift. Why is the carpet covered in Tyrells?
There’s a nobility in drunkenness. Particularly in France. But it’s a lot harder to get absolutely conkered than you might think. It requires serious commitment.
Tackling the big questions
Before we get started, it would be remiss of me to allow the country’s deep sadness to pass without comment. I confess, it hit me quite hard. When the news reached me of Studio Nicholson’s collaboration with Zara well… Perhaps we all just need to take a moment.
Today we’re looking at Japanese brand Softhyphen who produce clothes that look a lot like Sacai. They’re more affordable than Sacai, but virtually unheard of in the UK.
I’m not sure if that makes Softhyphen cooler than Sacai or not? But let it never be said I’m scared to tackle the big questions.
Another nincompoop who did nothing except take pictures of himself
I know I can be prone to a mildly nihilistic outlook. But everywhere I turn these days, the spectre of tragedy is prodding me with his scythe.
One minute the world is going to burn, the next drown. Capitalism, it is broadly agreed, will be the death of us, which is apparently inconvenient as there are loads more NFTs to mint. A bag of crisps costs the same as a car. My corner shop is now offering an instalment plan on a loaf of Warburtons Seeded Batch. There are over 100,000 vacancies at the NHS. We’ve got Liz Truss and Ukraine and Pakistan and on top of it all NASA’s forgotten how to launch a rocket.
Even those at the top are hurting. Spare a thought for the gas and electric barons, you could get a nasty paper cut sorting through all those bin bags of cash.
I’m yet to figure out what role an individual motivated entirely by menswear should play in this apocalypse? When I’m being shot at by guerillas and my arm is on fire, does it matter if my Undercover tee is a couple of seasons old? Will Mr Porter‘s swimwear selection be more or less popular when half of London is underwater?
Bognor Egregious
It’s been a minute. Sorry about that, I completely forgot who I am and what I’m meant to be.
The pitiless inferno that’s been roasting us all alive has incinerated my personal style. I no longer know what to wear, when or even how. I leave the shower, pull on a pair of pants (Palace CK1) start sweating again and immediately want to flay my skin off with a cheese slice. There should be a law against this kind of heat. I’ve been to parties in shorts (formally a complete no-no) I’ve left the house without a jacket (unheard of) and (don’t hate me) I wore a pair of sandals without socks. I was on a beach, but even so.
New job, same temptations
In a previous missive I revealed I’d been watching too many films. Although that’s not the half of it. I deliberately didn’t mention all the TV I’ve also been watching, for fear of appearing even more of a social inadequate than I doubtless am. But the truth is, both my girl and I constantly OD on TV.
This came to a head the other night when, after gobbling up a particularly icky docu-series, my girl got up in the middle of the night to go to the loo and was genuinely scared she was going to be attacked by Ghislaine Maxwell.
Transparently affected clownery
It’s a blazer, but with buttons up the back. I like what Engineered Garments have done with the trusty Bedford for winter. Assuming we ever have winter again.
Like much of the population I spent the last few days hiding from the sun — curtains drawn, regular cold showers, a fist of Mint Magnums in the freezer. If this is the beginning of the end of days, if ecological imbalance truly is mankind’s Great Filter moment, it’s helpful to see the right-wing rags making light of it by calling anyone who doesn’t fancy being burned alive a ‘snowflake‘. Stop whinging peons, if Prince Charles can keep his tie on, just carry on working and spending.
The threat of armageddon is dwarfed by our own stupidity.
Bad language, good bediquette
I do enjoy hearing younger generations taking pieces of our language and making them their own. It’s almost as much fun as hearing older people awkwardly try to copy it.
I’m feeling (desperately hoping) ‘smashed it’ is finally losing its momentum. Although the equally hideous ‘you got this’ appears now to be in the ascendancy. ‘Them’s the breaks’, you might say — assuming you take your linguistic direction from our outgoing Anus-in-Chief.
Mostly films, also shoes
Here’s another dispatch from the frontline of joblessness for you — you never know, it might be useful one day. Principally I’ve discovered that when you haven’t got a job, there are quite a few things you can do to fill the time.
You can pick up a big coffee table picture book, flick through it, then replace it on the pile. Then you can use your hands to scoop up any bits of fluff on the coffee table, cup the bits and then carry them to the peddle bin. You can stare out the window. You can start reading a novel, then put it down after four pages satisfied that you’ve ‘done some reading’. Then you can look out the window again to see if anything’s changed.
I find not having a job also provides plenty of time to think about things I could do. Like repairing that loose handle in the kitchen, or watering the near-dead houseplants. I sometimes erect the ironing board, top up the iron with water and then think about all the shirts I could iron at some point in near future.
Then of course, there are films.
Spring/Summer 2022 sale selects
Ever get those Instagram ads that show football tutorials? For some reason I’m getting loads of them. You should check out @taiyojr.18 — he certainly knows the business end of a football shoe.
I know less than nothing about the fabulous game. But if I was the Global Head of Football for Team UK, I’d be signing up these IG dudes in bulk. They appear to know all the tricks and, unlike our national soccer squad, they always score and never fall over. Surely they’d net a million goal balls for the glorious us.
Maybe I could get paid in clothes?
Hello, hello… Linkedin are you receiving me? Recruiters, where are are you? I know you receive yards of cover letters filled with words like ‘inspired’, ‘passionate’ and ‘collaborative’. But I actually am those things. I’m so inspired, I’m always thinking of mad new things; I can’t think of anything specific right this second, but I’m pretty sure I thought of something quite funny just yesterday. I’m so passionate, and not in a sexual way, but also that. And collaborative, I love collaborative; as long as I’m the boss it’s my favourite.
My current work status is: ‘looking for new opportunities’. Rough translation: ‘I’m going to die hungry and alone.’
Sorted for trees and fizz
If you became unemployed what is the first thing you’d do? Sign up to some recruitment agencies? Lint roller the old CV? I decided to go to a rave. Or, as they’re now called after their gen-now re-brand, a festival.
I didn’t see much difference. No sooner was I through the turnstile than some urchin in a vest asked me if, “I had any pills?” Perhaps it was my transparent seniority amongst the seemingly adolescent crowd? Or perhaps I just looked like a dealer — to be fair I have really been enjoying the recent season of Top Boy. Either way, it was the most positive offer of business I’d had in two weeks.
“Nah, sorry mate”, I said feeling ancient, before adding an eye-roll/shrug combination, as if to suggest that it was a damn shame, as I too was gagging for a spoonful of illegal whiz-bangs.
He immediately turned his back.
I still don’t know why I apologised.
Perhaps I should have called him ‘bruv’.
The mile sigh club
Christ this is heavy. I’m pretty sure there are bits of ham in mine.
I am experiencing The Bermondsey Beer Mile. Not out of choice. I mean, it’s a mate’s birthday (and also one of his mates’ birthdays). There are girls and guys I don’t know; they’re all chattering and cheers-ing. I’m only slightly involved.
If I wasn’t here I imagine proceedings would toddle along just fine. I see myself as an inessential part of the merriment. In fact, the group would probably benefit from the removal of a chain-smoking grump constantly moaning that none of the tap rooms offer anything approaching an Amstel and lime.
Ditching the ditch
The only reason I visit Shoreditch these days is Goodhood. If any non-Londoners are in any doubt, the area’s once progressive reputation is long dead. Menswearists Present went a while back, Sunnysiders is shuttered and if you’re looking for Artwords books you’ll now have to head to Broadway Market. Even the Ace Hotel has undergone an anaemic transformation into 100 Shoreditch.
That said, fans of arseholes are well served. The whole area might as well be one bottomless brunch. Watch as excessively refreshed lasses in cheap clumpy shoes and muscle-bros in Palm Angels tees stagger out from ball-pit bars to compete to see who can be the most obnoxiously screamy. Those looking to snap some broken Britain realness should hang around the once trendy Curtain Road on a Saturday. Smashed bottles, volcanoes of sick; if you’re lucky you’ll see a girl down an alley having a poo. This is all during the day I might add. If you’ve got a recent iPhone you’ll really be able to capture the sunshine reflecting off that pipe of manure as it curls past her Weekday drawers onto the tarmac.
Rhodes to nowhere
Like the Colossus of Rhodes he stands there. Legs spread, hands on hips, shoulders like landing strips. His Speedos are so tiny you can see what he’s had for breakfast.
On every beach, there’s always one. The muscle man. The adonis. The alpha asshole. He is motionless but for the steady side-to-side of his head, slowly surveying the physical inadequates who have dared to lie upon his sands.
I know, I’m one of them. I’m double-shaded beneath a parasol and a Kapital bucket hat, fag hanging from my mouth. I reach for a swig of Fanta and notice my knees are the colour of a hen’s comb and that I’ve been dropping ash on my Studio Nicholson shorts.
A blazing Grecian beach is not the place for a man of clothes.
The predictable unpredictability of Comme des Garçons
If I was making a horror film you know what I wouldn’t do? I wouldn’t include a scene where there’s a TV on in the room showing:
A: a vintage horror film.
B: some blunt metaphorical foreshadowing.
I watched Taiwanese shocker The Sadness the other day. While the rest of the country was getting its collective knees out, I was hunched on the bed, blinds down, gawping at people getting their eyes gouged. At one point a character has the TV on; a freaky vintage cartoon plays, a big bad wolf, some apparently hypnotised kids, you know the sort of thing. It just struck me that this idea has been so tiresomely rinsed it’s now less a novel detail and more an established trope. It’s become predictable.
Noted academic Naomi Campbell once said, “one word I don’t like is predictable” and I have to agree. Predictability is a rarely trumpeted curse of modern living. The same IG scroll. The same bus replacement service. The same block of Cathedral City in the fridge. Read More
Wave hello, say good buy
Easter weekend. A time for familial niceties, stuffing your yak-hole with bargain eggs and hiding impulse purchases from your partner. The latter of course is a year-long pursuit. It just so happens that in the course of writing this execrable round-up of want-want-wants, I took a digital detour to This Thing of Ours and swagged a Norbit bag. I’m incorrigible. Irresponsible. Terrible. And doubtless other ‘ibles.’ If my girl actually bothers to read this, I’m in big trub.
Imminent peril aside, here’s a round-up of stuff. Stuff and things. Luxurious inessential piffle that might, at least for a fleeting moment, stifle the feeling of existential dread.
Inconvenience magnet
I’m becoming increasingly rubbish at dealing with inconvenience. It’s probably an age thing. But these days anything that gets in the way of me doing precisely what I want, whenever I want, transforms me into a bewildered toddler, eyebrows knitted, sighing and mewing theatrically from behind my Marlboro Gold.
Good goods and bad language
It’s been a minute since I last hyped some goods. Like many of us, I’ve been a bit distracted by three things:
- The war in Ukraine.
- The chance it might result in us all being nuked to bits.
- The amount of people using the phrase ‘smashed it!’
Admittedly, the first two are more pressing.
It takes a lot of thought to look this obvious
As I write, I’m drinking coffee at The Standard hotel in Kings Cross. I decided this morning to simply stop moping, get out the flat and just go and be somewhere cool. Somewhere I’d been told fellow creative professionals go to lounge about discussing ‘projects’ and admiring each other’s beards.
I’m sitting in a wicker chair, next to a real fire, drinking a tepid latte, soundtracked by a mid-tempo remix of Mr Mister’s Broken Wings, it features a little too much reverb if you ask me.
The words, “film, Disney, guest list” float over from the table next to me.
From behind I can hear how Channel Four has never quite managed to capture the excitement of vintage furniture.
I’m where I’m meant to be.
Time off for sad behaviour
The signs were there. Once your mind is unable to fight off an assault by Right Said Fred’s Deeply Dippy, surely a more aggressive attack of the anxieties can’t be far behind?
So it was that last week I ended up in my local doctor’s surgery.
I felt like a fraud. A baloney merchant. At one time or another everyone feels like their job is a shit-fondue. Everyone is sick of circumlocution and indecision and wakes to a tummy-full of nerves. Everyone is frustrated and miserable, afraid of something indiscernible. On a Sunday everyone screams at their adoring partner to leave them the fuck alone.
Mindful or mindfull?
I’m finally going mad. At the very least I’m experiencing the creep of early onset dementia. Three days ago Deeply Dippy, the 1992 chart hit by Right Said Fred, entered my head uninvited. It refuses to leave.
Snobbishness is next to godliness
It’s the banality that gets me. The miserable margarine-on-toastness of it all. Has it really been two years since I’ve taken a plane? Two years since I last passed through Gatwick’s large intestine.
Many of us with a passion for design, art and beauty find surroundings absent of these things a drag. Depressing even. But my typical hang-faced despondency reached its nadir on a recent flight from London to Jersey.
(Reader, prepare yourself for some unchecked snobbery.)
Seriously, what’s happened to everyone? Seemingly 24 months of being locked-down in trackpants has infantilised the entire population.
There’s a grown man in a threadbare two-piece sweatsuit. You can clearly see the outline of his ball bag. Wouldn’t he be happier locked in a giant playpen, sucking on a dummy, flinging his shit at a psychiatrist?
There’s another guy whose business suit is throttled out of all recognition by his vast camping rucksack. Then there’s the woman shuffling along in monstrous hairy slippers. You’re supposed to believe they’re Gucci, even as their bushy tails get yanked along collecting dust.
Are these people confusing an airport lounge with their own lounge?
Everyone, and I do mean everyone, is wearing a high-street quilted puffer. In fact if you want to buy some duty free Jo Malone, I’m pretty sure they check you’re wearing Uniqlo before asking for your boarding pass.
Airports were always no cool zones. But I think things have actually got worse. Gatwick’s departure lounge is now basically a style mortuary, where the very concept of ‘looking good’ gets zipped up in a body bag made of FatFace puffers.
Kolor: the perfect statement shoe
Good statement shoes are rare. Other garments can be layered, hidden, or otherwise de-powered within an outfit, but shoes, they’re totally out there. The commitment is all too real.
Many, many years ago I bought a pair of Junior Gaultier desert boots. They were brown suede with a simple rubber sole, however the toe extended to a frightening point. I’m not talking about a regular pointy shoe here, these things went on and on, beyond where a normal shoe would end and then on again, eventually finishing with a pickaxe prong. They boasted around ten centimetres more shoe than strictly necessary.
As a committed reader of Arena magazine, I’d concluded that ultramodern dressing was for me and it was my duty to educate the patrons of my local discotheque accordingly.
When I met my friends they tried to hide their smirking. When I tried to climb the stairs in the club they pissed themselves. The stairs weren’t deep enough to accommodate the length of my shoes. I had to waddle up, toes pointed outwards like an avant-garde John Wayne.
Just imagine my pendulous wang
When the Needles polyester mesh cardigans dropped at the start of last season I was troubled. They made me want to dress like a 70s sex panther. The kind of guy with a banging moustache, a taste for Cinzano Bianco and rotating water beds. I mean, see-through paisley, that’s key-party guest-list right there.
The problem? I’m not a sexy man. I’m a grumpy man. I always take a book to the beach. I’ve never chopped wood with an axe. My dancing is too kicky.
So I didn’t buy a sexy see-though cardigan. I continued buying sensible knitwear and Comme shirts, force quitting any further thoughts of the Boogie Nights lifestyle.
Then I saw this.
Cruising Farah bruising
In a multi-verse a long time ago, far, far away Farah were cool. A very specific definition of cool, deeply aligned with being at school in the early 80s and wanting to avoid a ‘greeny’ in your hair for wearing ‘gypo trousers.’ Such was the unseemly crucible in which my interest in menswear was born.
If you wanted to avoid a dead arm you wore the ‘Farah hopsack’ incarnation; a stay press model, constructed from an unforgiving, abrasive material , featuring the all important bronze ‘F’ tag round the back. Some clipped the seams away at the ankle, so they flared just so over their Diadora Camaros. The rest of us just wondered how they avoided a massive telling off from their mum.
£115 or £278? Why SSENSE makes no sense
Seems like no time at all. You close Slack and force-quit the ‘to-dos’ from your tumbling mind. The tree goes up, the first lager and lime goes down. Then before you know it, it’s over. It’s January 2nd and there’s a back-to-school tension in your tummy. Is it me or was Christmas on fast-forward this year?
At least it’s sale time. If there’s one thing that can raise your mood it’s an inbox full of discount alerts and the growing feeling of guilt as you impulse-purchase your way to poverty. 28 more sleeps to pay day.
Peace on earth, goodwill to all menswear
According to the lateral flow my girl has still got ‘The Rage’. Weird, because it is ten days later. I take another look at the bad line. It is really faint, I suppose she can be unchained from the spare room.
From the other side the cell door, I can hear sporadic, “ohmygods” as she joyscrolls through the My Theresa sale. It’s a shame I’ve got to let her out really. I’ve been getting a lot of things done during my solitude. I sat through three hours of PlayStation 4 updates and I cancelled my bank card because some criminal mastermind had been rinsing my digits at Debenhams of all places.
“Are you 100% certain you didn’t spend £133.99 at Debenhams?” quizzed the bank-bot.
“Baby please, what even is Debenhams?” I almost (but didn’t actually) say.
During my alone time I learned it’s really hard to thumb through Instagram and follow a subtitled Norwegian thriller at the same time. I spent too much time wondering whether there’s a market for fish stuffing — you know, like Paxo for cod. And (not for the first time) I tried and failed to memorise all the lyrics to Eric B and Rakim’s Follow the Leader; sad really, as I’ve always felt Rakim never quite captured the Midlands’ intonation the track obviously demands.
I also dropped a twoer on a Kapital fleece from the Kafka pre-sale. I haven’t got round to telling my girl about this last one yet.
Bal: Does anyone really understand radiators?
I could do with a balaclava right about now. My girl has been self-isolating in the spare room for a week, the flat is freezing and I don’t know how to work the heating. What’s the difference between ‘Auto’ and ‘Once’ on a boiler? Does anyone really understand radiators? I keep pulling my beanie down over my ears, my chin is fucking icicles.
It’s remarkable how quickly you revert to type when you take your partner out the equation. Yesterday all I ate was a bag of Onion Rings. Gifts remain unwrapped — I’ll get to it, I’ll get to it. Recycling mounts in the kitchen. Multiple pairs of shoes litter the floor. On the patio there’s a bucket of frozen fag butts I’ll have to take a chisel to. I can’t even be bothered to switch the Christmas tree lights on — my festive glow comes from a paused game of Call of Duty: Vanguard.
The balaclava may have come to prominence back in the Crimean War, but I reckon its true calling is to stop idiots like me from shivering while watching Girls5eva.
Why the queue for the sample sale is the best part of the sample sale
“Homme Plisse from The Box on Thursday. There’s a mark on the back but with a long top you can’t see.”
If you’re into clothing, there’s no better place to meet your kind of people than in the queue for a sample sale.
Increasingly ubiquitous, but rarely discussed; sample sales thrill the sartorially minded, as much as they confuse random passers-by.
“Excuse me, what’s this queue for?”
“Story MFG.”
“Oh. Right. Yeah. Cool…”
There’s a kind of micro-culture to sample sales. If you get it, you’re part of it. You know why you’re waiting an hour in the cold and so does everyone in the line. The sense of kinship and mutual appreciation is tangible.
To the uninitiated, it’s just a shuffling human centipede, apparently ravenous for cut-price crocheted scarves.
Outside the glowing rectangle
I think digital culture has finally, royally fucked me. You know the old joke about kids trying to swipe the pages on a book? The idea being that they’re so conditioned by touch screens that they can’t comprehend the primitive nature of the printed page. Well, after decades of brain-frazzling computer work and reliance on a trackpad to tell me everything I need to know, I’m now completely inept IRL.
Tres Bien Atelje: I tried being happy, didn’t like it
Fashion sometimes seems curiously out of step with, well… fashion.
TikTok is chock-a-block with gurns, grins and giggles. TV is beaming with gardeners, hipsters renovating old tables and chefs whipping up lobster tortellini. On Saturday night celebs learn to tango between guffaws, an army of energetic YouTubers encourage you to hoot through your lunges, while workplaces (newly terrified of appearing anything other than 100% woke) are steadily imprisoned behind the gritted teeth of toxic positivity.
You might think that anyone who uses the phrase ‘living your best life’ is a bell, and of course you’d be correct. But nevertheless it seems happiness is in fashion. Which begs the question, why does the dude above look so fucking miz?
Dressing for a trip to the past
I live in Peckham and over the last few years it has gained a reputation for being ‘trendy’. There are shops that sell vintage Kappa tracksuits next to ones offering cash for gold. There is a Serbian art pop-up. An actor from Coronation Street moonlights as a vintage furniture shopkeep. While all the bread is artisanal and heavy and tastes like clay. Coincidentally there’s also a kiln.
I recently abandoned Peckham for a night ‘back home’ in the Midlands — old mates, pints and as much battered sausage as my gums could handle.
Now, I don’t want to come off as regional-ist (although I’m certainly about to) but objectively there’s a big cultural difference between the art-house pretensions of Peckham and the more down-to-earth vibes of my destination: the Staffordshire market town of Stone.
If Peckham is veganism, Stone is a carvery. It’s good tattoos vs bad tattoos: yin-yang symbols and manga characters down Peckham way, skulls, wolves, lions, ex-wives and coils of barbed wire in Stone. Personally, I’m not into tattoos of any flavour, but you take my point.
I lived in the Midlands for over 20 years, London almost as long — I speak from experience.
It’s BBC versus ITV. It’s Guardian-reading Remainers, versus angry dudes called Carl dragging around things on chains that don’t so much bark as scream.
I’m not saying one’s better than the other.
I’m just heavily implying it.
Maximal or minimal: two schools of thought, only one wardrobe
You can’t argue with the eco credentials here. This is the Ardmore Jacket. They’re one-of-a-kinds, made from vintage blankets by LA makers Carleen.
Simple shape: check. Clashing tones: check. Then you’ve got that pleasing sense that these disparate, pre-loved pieces of cloth have come together to create something unique and fiercely of-the-moment. It’s all good.
That said, I find garments like these really illuminate my current sartorial duality. On the one hand I’m probably most comfortable in all-navy-everything. On the other I find myself wanting to dress like an attendee of Woodstock 69, via De La Soul and The Wicker Man.
Flowers in the wheelie bin
I remember, back in my early teens, gawping with horror at pictures from the 60s and 70s. I thought people looked utterly ridiculous. More than that, I thought they looked alien or possibly ill.
Faces were ashen and cheekboney. Skin seemed pockmarked, spotty, or bubbly with moles. Hair came in one look: oily. For the best part of two decades the human sebaceous gland apparently went into overdrive and pumped pint after pint of ghee into everyone’s scalp. The result was a prevalence of shiny basins, greasy feathers and matted waterfalls — all seemingly cut by the same arthritic psychopath.
And, my God, the clothes. All-in-one jumpsuits with bellbottom trousers. Satin shirts with collars the size of stealth aircraft. Rollnecks so tight they’d circumcise your larynx.
I remember looking at pictures of the band Mungo Jerry and concluding they were 90% facial hair.
I was I admit a sensitive lad, but the whole thing genuinely made me feel queasy.
Phingerin: Yeah, you read that right
Just when I start to think I’m a proper grown up I see a brand called Phingerin and realise I’m not.
RANDT: One big detail
If there’s one clear failing with modern shirting it is that it does the job of covering the torso too well. No ambiguity, just comprehensive and complete concealment.
Was it once decided by a global cabal of shirt makers that shirts must run uninterrupted from chin to belt? And if so, where does that leave the shirt enthusiast who also enjoys showing off their stomach?
NCNR: Noiseless, straightforward and inarguable
Followers of culture are often cursed with a nagging mind. I’ve spent the last few days absorbing stuff, then trying to figure out what I think, what I think I should think, and what I think I think while not entirely sure if I think it.
I didn’t like the new Bond, but I think everyone else does, should I change what I think?
Why, when I think human intelligence is our most valuable gift, do I want to wear a cap featuring the words ‘Brain Dead’?
When someone uses the phrase ‘living your best life’, why do I think they should be hosed with old man piss?
Last week I voluntarily attended the Brixton O2 to have my head sledgehammered by a back-to-back DJ set from Four Tet, Jex Opolis and Floating Points. Many attendees pleaded with the bar staff for ear buds. I didn’t. I just shuffled from foot to foot, in some pain, trying to look cool. 2am curfew on a Wednesday night with an 8.30am Zoom in the calendar — what was I thinking?
I want my gawpcore!
Look at my shoes. Look at my shoes. Oi, you in the Aries top, what’s your problemo son? Look at my fucking shoes.
I’m walking around East London and no one is looking at my shoes.
Unaffected: No shortcut to building a strong wardrobe
In menswear, one man’s mayonnaise is another man’s salad cream. And so it is with the incoming Uniqlo x White Mountaineering collaboration.
It’s not a fashionable thing to say, but think high street versions of ‘designer’ gear are rubbish. All of them. Without exception.
I remember back in 2008 when my beloved Comme des Garçons got into bed with H&M. Dutifully I bought deep into it and convinced myself my bulging plastic bags were straining with grails. Legit Comme, but at a tenth of the price. This feeling lasted until I got home.
I tried it all on. The nylon was thin, the buttons were cheap, the stitching shoddy. Things were wonky that (even keeping in mind this was Comme) shouldn’t have been. The realisation that luxury clothing starts with luxury fabrication was inescapable. Even my adoration for Comme couldn’t save this junk. Back to the store it all went.
Dusen Dusen: The greatest showman
This is my new oven glove. It’s a ‘show’ oven glove. Meaning it’s not actually to be used as an oven glove, but rather it’s to remain on display, on a peg in the kitchen, to ‘show’ visitors we own a fancy oven glove.
It’s possible you’ve never imagined such nauseating levels of pretension. But, if you’re a regular reader here, you’ll know exactly what I’m talking about. Read More
Ship a-fucking-hoy
I’m trying not to dress like a fisherman. Which is an odd thing to say. Particularly beneath a picture of me dressed like a fisherman.
I have no interest in fishing. The closest I come to piscatorial appreciation is a fish finger sandwich. But then neither do I have any interest in the US railroad workers of the 1940s. Or soldiering. Or exploring. Or manual labour, in any of its spine-bothering manifestations. So why is 75% of my wardrobe made-up of pockets?
NOMA t.d: The more you spend the worse you feel
It’s the 18th of the month and I haven’t yet dropped half my salary on clothes. This is progress. Normally by now there’d be something with ‘still with tags’ hanging over the back of a chair in the spare room.
But it’s the age-old problem: I’m at war with myself. One minute I’m guilt-ridden about owning more clothes than I can conceivably wear. The next I’m starring down the barrel of a new Margaret Howell tank-top, convinced that continuing without it would be next to impossible.
I know I’ve made light of this kind of thing on here many times before. It’s just that right now, as I sit typing, I’m genuinely feeling exhausted by it all.
Flashback
Mountain Research: Not another tie-dye number with a PhotoMoshed pentangle
Dating back to the 1920s, the ‘sweatshirt’ was originally proposed as an item of sportswear — an alternative to the itchy and shrinkable woollen jerseys worn by American football and baseball players. If we quickly fast forward (skipping over Brando and McQueen, Ivy, tie-dying, debates over the ‘V-Stitch’, political and social sloganeering, Acid house, vintage, Ametora, giant logos, cut ‘n’ paste rebuilds…) we reach the sweatshirt of today. Still casual, still predominately cotton, but a garment that broadly falls into one of two camps.
1. The purist: This garment will be grey (but it’ll be called Grey Melange) or cream (but it’ll be called Archive White). It will be sold via some extreme close-ups of the neckline, while the product description will use the terms Loopback or Loopwheel at least six times. It will be called ‘timeless’. It will look crushingly boring. This is the sort of product men think will make them look like Daniel Craig.
2. The Scenester: These sweatshirts come in black, or pastel peach and feature a mix of brands, graphics and phases. The type used to spell out the brand name must be bent, twisted, back-to-front or otherwise just look like it’s been physically assaulted. The graphics should include Mickey Mouse giving the finger in a wheelchair, but also some pagan symbols and mushrooms. Any phases used on these products must be half inspirational quote and half meaningless nonsense. The price of these sweatshirts is £290.
Rebuild by Needles: Obviously it’s insane. Obviously it’s brilliant.
All killer, plus filler. What’s practicality got to do with anything anyway? If it rains at least some of you won’t get soaked. Read More
Don’t dismiss the sweater vest just because they’re fashionable
If you’re anything like me, I imagine your friends, family, peer group and colleagues often refer to you as someone who is into ‘fashion.’
It’s not a great word these days: awkwardly synonymous with the trivialities of the high-street and ecological ruin. But it can be tricky, even uncomfortable, to try and explain exactly why ‘fashion’ isn’t quite right and harder still to express what it is you’re actually into.
Is it simply menswear? Or the vagueness of clothing? Slow-fashion, or the brilliantly pompous, personal style?
I’ve tried to explain it to people using words and phases like, ‘Americana through a Japanese lens’ or simply ‘workwear‘. I’ve tried saying ‘modernism‘ (which I know to be wrong) ‘nuevo-prep‘ (which I’m not sure is even a thing) and even ‘ametora‘ (as if that makes anything clearer): but still the queries come.
“How’s the world of fashion?”, they say.
Perks & Mini AW21 at Goodhood
I can’t even. I literally cannot even. Perks & Mini are on fire right now.
The brand’s latest drop over at Goodhood has rendered my entire wardrobe a joke and placed me in a deep suck about the fact that I do not have a grand put aside for brightly coloured streetwear. I cannot understand how I’ve managed to live this long, yet still not reached the point where I can buy a pair of garish £350 knits without fretting about money.
What the actual fuck have I been doing with my life?
Sacai: I don’t understand it, I could never buy it, but I’d like to own it, although I’d never wear it
On my last visit to Dover Street Market I saw a Sacai shirt. It was white, with off-white bits and it made my heart stop.
It’s a complex experience looking at clothes you definitely can’t afford. On the one hand you have to act like you can afford them. A bit of swagger and a modicum of relaxed insouciance is essential — just keep flicking through the rail, utterly blasé, positively world-weary.
On the other hand your inner voice is screaming at you to get the hell out of there. That your paltry bank balance is clearly visible in the gathering film of sweat at your brow.
Then the crushing blow.
“Let me know if I can help you with anything?”
Hatton Labs: The boy with the pearl bracelet
Can’t say I’ve ever thought about pearls much. I don’t mean in the sense of the rising menswear trend (or even just the idea of wearing them) I’ve just never really thought about pearls full stop.
The extent of my pearl knowledge is as follows:
- I vaguely remember an old film in which a frogman uses his knife to prise open a shell, pulls out a big pearl and gives a thumbs up.
- I know that Rhea Perlman used to play Carla in Cheers and is married to Danny DeVito
- I know that comic character Hellboy was played in a handful of films by the actor Ron Perlman.
- I know that Ron and Rhea are not related.
Without resorting to Wikipedia, that is genuinely it.
Nevertheless, (and believe me I’m mildly ashamed to even admit this) I am drawn to the idea of purchasing a pearl bracelet. Who do I think I am, Harry fucking Styles? I know, I know… Pearls on guys, it’s such a (bile rising in throat) ‘trend’. The very idea is ghastly, and yet, I can’t shake it. I’ve even convinced myself there’s a real logic to it.
Hender Scheme: I took a chance on a vegan cheese and kimchi toasty
Not sure what’s happened to me. I actually what to do things again. Maybe it’s the confidence that comes with a double-needling (or maybe I’ve just got bored of Covid) but either way, I’ve been out enjoying parks, exhibitions, shops, restaurants and bars; living a decent approximation of a pre-Covid life; just with a mask always close to hand.
I’ve spanked silly money on Simone Rocha socks for my girl in Dover Street, zip-wired across Regents park and laid on impromptu posh-nibs for garden visitors. I’ve chatted to randoms in pub gardens and performed some rudimentary body-popping in front of a DJ playing to about six people. I even took a chance on a vegan cheese and kimchi toasty.
Admittedly these are hardly adventures worthy of the new Indiana Jones movie, but after 18 months of Sauron-like gawping at Netflix, I’m feeling like a socialising super-hero — I’ve rediscovered my power too, it’s drinking so much lager and lime I insist on sleeping fully-clothed on the bedroom floor.
Toga: The void is never filled
I can’t keep up. At this point in the season new drops are falling like spilt cutlery; with every clang Google alerts me to some new piece, range, collaboration or brand.
I don’t know about you, but a couple of weeks back (during the bargain-bin period of the Summer sales) my ‘wants list’ had sunk to zero. It was a rare and refreshing feeling to be pining for nothing. I started to think about what I’ve already got. Dreaming up new ways to wear older favourites.
It didn’t last long.
New Needles suddenly appeared boasting giant paisley-patterned tracksuit tops. Studio Nicholson‘s power-pants presented again, this time in relaxing natural tones. Essential EG beanies over at Kafka, Online Ceramics at Dover Street… I want a new pair of Paraboots, but South2 West8 hasn’t even landed yet…
I’m back to chasing the dream. Looking to fill a void with something made of cloth and stitches.
Even as I write these words, I know it won’t work. The void is never filled. There’s always something else. It just so happens that, right this second, the something else is this insanely cool Shaggy Jersey Jacket by TOGA Virilis.
Trickers x The Bureau: You’re not from around these parts
I’ve just returned from a week in Tiverton in South Devon. For the geographically challenged it is what’s commonly known as the countryside. A place of thickets, mud and weasels. Enormous hounds rub their nostrils on your trousers and you have to travel everywhere on wonky stepping stones. Everything’s wobbly. You’re always slipping down, or hauling yourself up. Things are always snapping, or crunching or falling over. Not least your phone signal.
And everyone stares at you. In London you get used to a comforting duvet of anonymity. In the country your business is everyone’s business. You can feel the eyeballs on you, people by the roadside, people outside a pub, people standing in fields like scarecrows, all unashamedly gawping: a couple of times I had to check I hadn’t left the house accidentally dressed as a one-man-band.
Evidently there’s nothing like a Sasquatchfabrix jacket to suggest you’re not from around these parts.
All of which leads me to believe that while these fantastic shoes (from The Bureau’s latest collaboration with Trickers) look like they’d be at home in the countryside, I not sure they actually would. They’re too pristine, too fancy boy. And as I’ve observed, everyone in the countryside wears stuff made out of nettles and otters.
The new rule of menswear
Menswear is fond of rules — typically born of a different age and a slavish adherence to what a bunch of dead people used to do. You know the sort of thing: ‘Never wear brown in town’, ‘your tie should touch your waistband’, ‘always leave the bottom button of your suit jacket undone.’
Of course, there are corners of the menswear-verse that continue to espouse such tiresome restrictions — usually the most toffee-nosed and unimaginative. But not here. I prefer a more explorative approach: try it out, if it feels right, it probably is.
That said, a recent circumstance has prompted me to uncover one piece of wisdom I’d like to share with you. Not a rule as such, more a strong suggestion.
‘When you’re wearing a shit-load of very expensive casual wear don’t fall off a canoe into a large muddy pond.’
Toga: I don’t care. I’m broken
How’s your working life? Mine feels like a shit-smeared pendulum of thorns, swinging back and forth, constantly twatting me in the face. Twelve hour days, thirteen, fourteen. I did a fifteen hour day last Thursday: laptop open a 6am, closed at 9pm.
Yeah I know, boo-fucking-hoo. Big baby’s got a job in creative and he’s blarting because there are too many Google Slides to make. Well I don’t care. I’m broken.
If I sound dramatic, then good. I can’t stop clenching my teeth, my hands shake, I get headaches every day, I can’t sleep. It’s been months of this and I’ve finally made it to a week off. I can finally see my mum and dad (it’s been 18 months). I can lie back and do nothing. I can work to rid my mind of its twisted Fantasia — cursors dancing with ‘unsupported image type’ notifications, to an endless soundtrack of Slack‘s click-clack.
Yes I’m lucky to have a job. No I’m not doing any worthy like a nurse. But it’s still okay to admit when you feel bad right?
Beta Post: Now where have we seen this before?
“Inspired by the thoughts of street sleepers.” That’s the claim by obscuro Japanese brand Beta Post.
Destitute as muse. Now where have we seen that before?
Mugatu’s Derelicte collection in Zoolander! Ouch.
I’m always surprised when I see artists of any kind revisit themes that have been ruthlessly parodied. But particularly in this instance, as the weirdness comes full circle — Derelicte itself was a piss-take of John Galliano’s homeless inspired 2000 haute couture collection.
No new ideas in fashion? Challenging social statement? Simply bad taste? Or just a beige shirt with two carrier bags stuck on the front?
Kolor: No way out of the Covid disastastrophe
So, ‘Freedom Day’ is upon us. A shame then that Boris Johnson’s William Wallace-aping rhetoric has been repeatedly fucked to a whisper by his own dribbling dick of incompetence.
Freedom day was supposed to be about no masks. What happened? Did someone finally force the gurgling blonde to eyeball the daily case rate? The suggestion is that it’ll now be up to us? Meaning the intelligent will wear a mask, while the country’s idiots (see 60K fans screaming into each other’s mouths at Wembley) won’t. Sounds like plan.
The government recently announced they were to tweak the NHS Covid app to make it less sensitive, then quickly de-announced it, after presumably realising just how dumb they were to even think it. Nightclubs owners are baffled. They’re allowed to re-open, but use of the NHS contact app is encouraged, but not mandated — it doesn’t take a scientist to predict clubs are a going to become a hotbed for transmission.
Masks on trains, but not in clubs? Who’s dreaming up these rules? I expect our newly infectious Secretary of State for Health, Sajid Javid has had a hand in it. Egghead in appearance alone then.
Anyway… I am aware this is supposed to be a menswear blog. But as regular readers will doubtless recall, I do have a habit of going off on the wrong thing at the wrong time. So in that spirit, let’s hype a piece of winter clothing while the sun’s at its fiercest.
Sage Nation: If you’ve heard of it I’m outta there
As someone who never entirely graduated from their petulant, needy, self-obsessed teen years, I remain drawn to the highfalutin world of the avant-garde.
Is it too much to ask for everything in my world to be progressive to the point of unacceptability? Clothing, art, literature, music; the more obscure the better; if you’ve heard of it I’m outta there.
Of course IRL this ethos is at best inconvenient and at worst ridiculous. I refuse to sign up to Spotify (far too mainstream) so I end up crate-digging over at Bandcamp and pay quadruple the price for the privilege. ‘It’s for the artists’ I lie, while single-mindedly hunting for tracks that have so far evaded the algorithms. I will not watch reality TV. So I spend my time watching languorous Cassavetes’s indulgences, and even as I nod off I remain convinced I’m somehow cooler than thou.
I am, it must be said, completely insufferable.
Yuketen: A little less fabulous
I’ve always found the idea of ‘Bit Loafers’ a little too fabulous. Typically there’s a daintiness to them, a sort of Fancy-Dan-ness: it doesn’t quite chime with my personal brand.
I’m probably not sexy enough to pull them off. Or wealthy enough. Let’s face it, they do tend to crop up on the overly preened, the aggressively tanned and the unnecessarily slim-trousered. From Brompton to Burnley a gold snaffle on your slip-ons screams wonga-alert: check out the indiscriminate spending on him!
Or (depending on your cultural read and/or geographical location) they simply signal a hopeless wannabe. A guy with Gucci tastes but a Boohoo income. I’m fairly sure Frank Butcher used to wear them.
Tightbooth Production: He looks a bit ashamed
Being shocking for the sake of being shocking? I’m pretty sure that fell out of fashion a long time ago? Are things different in Japan?
I look at this dude and can’t help wondering if, behind the proud white beard, suede cap and architect’s specs, he looks a tiny bit ashamed. I wonder if this assignment came as a bit of a shock?
A mixture of male melancholy and hardcore lesbian sex isn’t something you see every day.
Retreat to perfection
Byborre: Perfecting your bodywave
According to legendary London clothing retailer Browns, this is an ‘ergonomic sweater’. Meaning that (with a nod to the Oxford Dictionary) ‘it’s designed for efficiency and comfort in the working environment’.
Now. I appreciate the need for a ‘sales narrative’ as much as the next marketeer. But in this instance it doesn’t take much to unravel the whole ‘ergonomic sweater’ concept. After all, can you recall a situation where you’ve felt a sweater impeded your efficiency? Or provided anything other that comfort?
Apparently though I’ve got it wrong: this knit is really, really ergonomic. Like stupidly ergonomic. It must be, Browns are confident enough to say:
“Anyone who likes the way you move hasn’t seen anything yet.”
No one’s ever told me they like the way I move. I mean, after a few sleeves I can be a bit too eager to demonstrate my bodywave. But even then I’m lucky to get a polite giggle. (Which I’d like to point out is not the correct response to a bodywave crafted in front of the mirror over many, many years.)
Point is, getting someone to congratulate me on how I move has never been a major concern of mine. Maybe the simple act of buying and wearing this sweater will immediately cross it off my didn’t-know-I-needed-to-do-list.
Post-Imperial: Another man’s piss on your Yuketens
It’s last Sunday.
I find a Comme des Garçons Homme Deux shirt in my size, for half price. Obviously, I must act. Doof. Then my girl spots a Molly Goddard handbag. 50% off again. Doof.
I’m worried about my bank balance. Nevertheless, I pull out my app and shuffle some funds about over a salmon omelette at Rose Bakery. Then we’re up and out. Leaving Dover Street, with ‘a thing’ each.
Doof, doof, doof, doof, doof…
There are three topless men pissing against a wall. An addled fool drops a full bottle of vodka on the pavement, it smashes; he grins, seemingly void of shame. There’s a sound system on a passing lorry (doof, doof, doof) and a voice over the PA shouting, “lovely jubbly”.
It’s a protest. Our clubs aren’t allowed to open, and a million pairs of JD Sports trainers jump up and down demanding to know why?
Haymarket is rammed, there’s no escape. So we turn back up Orange Street, past the three topless men still hosing the wall with their dongs.
Ahead, on the left, there’s another chap squirting his fungus up a drainpipe, then another two; we have to step over multiplying rivulets of slash. Everywhere we turn there’s another phalanx of phalli. A man is laughing while forcefully kneading the last few drops from his urethral meatus.
From Comme des Garçons to piss party in seconds.
I look at my transparent Dover Street bag. I look at the guys pissing in the wind. Did I really need to buy another shirt?
Did someone order a metaphor?
A suspicious prescription
Sacai: You’ve got to believe in something
Rationally, I know life isn’t a lookbook. I understand when I buy into Comme‘s enigmatic philosophy, or the caramel minimalism at Studio Nicholson, it’s not going to radically alter my day-to-day. But I can’t help being disappointed when it doesn’t.
I’m a romantic (read sucker) when it comes to such things. Why, I wonder, when I’m wearing magnificently generous Nicholson trousers, can my odious neighbour still disturb my peace with his boil-in-the-bag house music? How come the pressures of my day job are causing my mind to boil over and my teeth to constantly clench even though I’m taking my Zoom calls in a superfly mix of EG, Sasquatchfabrix and White Mountaineering?
Lookbook models never look disgruntled by Ocado substitutions, or irked that they can’t get a seat outside a cafe, or so ruinously hungover that they lie frozen with anxiety by the realisation they’re just another untalented pseud.
Which begs the question, why do I keep falling for it?
Kolor: Something about sausages and sizzle
Simultaneously welcome and maddening, the sales are in full flow and thirsty for your bankroll. I went in quick and heavy over at Dover Street, leaving me now, mid-month, fiscally fragile. Still the continuing reductions taunt me.
More shirts I don’t need, more jackets… It’s like I’ve been hexed. Somewhere a fetish doll in my likeness is being repeatedly punctured with a tagging gun. 30% off. 40% off. Exclusive pre-sale invitation. Someone rid me of this accursed voodoo.
Hender Scheme: It’s a hat and a bag, because…
No question, Hender Scheme make some achingly cool things. This is one of them. A neat looking nylon tulip shaped hat. The drawstring ‘accent’ (as such things are frequently titled) speaks to both the aesthetic and the practical, offering pleasing contrast and adjustable fit. All well and good.
Other than it’s also a bag. A small, sort of useless, free-with-a-gallon-of-petrol type bag. I have no idea why this bothers me so much.
Inch-Master: The shame and the glory
My name is Stephen Pierce and I use the Inch-Master.
God, it feels good to say that out loud.
For the uninitiated, the Inch-Master is not (as you might reasonably assume) some form of penile vacuum (if anything I need a reduction, etc… etc…) but rather a waistband stretcher. An appliance for coaxing trousers that are too tight into something you can tolerate sitting down in.
The thing is, by any reasonable measure, I’m not a fat man. Hardly what you’d call lithe, but miles from obese. When the breeze catches my t-shirt you can see I’m no stranger to a Battenberg, but equally I’m in no danger of having to buy two seats in Economy. I reckon I’m sort of typical(ish).
So why am I soaking the waist of my new Studio Nicholson jeans and throttling them with a contraption a Witchfinder might use to extract confessions?
Nonnative: The Cross of St. George sponsored by Heineken
The footballers of football are footballing a football. No pub lunch today. The topless and loud will impregnate our drinkeries. Monstrous sandalled feet and shiny heads, swilling plastic pints full of England.
Listen as you pass. The roars, the ‘oooohs’, the ‘fucking hells’; the death cries of Brexit Britain from beneath a Cross of St. George sponsored by Heineken.
Document: The elements are determined by what I wear
Blah, blah hot, blah, blah cloudy. Is it summer yet? Was that a spot of rain?
I’ve always found it annoying that the most exciting subject in the world, menswear, is so fundamentally bound to the most eye-rollingly boring British preoccupation, the weather.
Do you really need a hat? Won’t you be hot in that? I don’t think I’ll need a jacket. Is there room in your bag for a jacket?
Stupid weather. Sometimes I think it only exists to throw a frosty (or scalding) spanner into the workings of my planned look. If your garden’s in need of rain just put on your new suede shoes. Guaranteed, the sky will swiftly fill with heavy leaden clouds. Want some sun? Go for a day out in a cashmere coat. You’ll be struggling around with that thing under your arm in no time.
I think meteorology is made up. Weathermen are just there to fill time before The One Show. I think it’s all a conspiracy to mess with self-absorbed menswear fans.
Studio Nicholson: Reading Chomsky for fun
As an independent clothing brand it must be an awkward moment when your products are on sale elsewhere, but your sale hasn’t begun.
Thus we find these fantastic Studio Nicholson Henta Shorts still at full price on the brand site, but subject to a 40% carve-up over at Mr Porter. Imagine picking them up at SN and then clocking them on Porter… Brace for massive forehead slap.
Empty rhetoric
Jacket: Kapital
Sweatshirt: Kolor
Hat: Mr Fatman
Vest: Engineered Garments
Trousers: Comme des Garçons Homme
Socks: Anonymous-Ism
Shoes: Yuketen
E. Tautz: Enjoy the sun losers
I’m quite used to holding alternative opinions. Pushing against the crowd, drinking the tea, but leaving the biscuit.
I think it started when I was about nine, when I decided that English/Australian instrumental rock outfit Sky were cooler than The Clash. I can now see my position was at best wrong, and at worst deranged, but at the time I was immovable. Even subject to the 1970’s equivalent of a ducking stool (permanent deadarm) I refused to recant.
Call me a dick, but I still don’t understand why everyone else doesn’t agree with me on everything?
My girl loves the grindingly slow Mare of Easttown, but has zero interest in joining me in a grindingly slow Blake’s 7 marathon? Party guests chat politely during my chillwave set, only to jump about like maniacs at the first hint of anything by Whitney.
On a lovely hot Saturday like today, everyone is out and about: in parks, having barbecues, pitched up outside pubs; laughing, joking, enjoying. But I’m not. I’m inside, thinking about the kind of shirt I’d need to wear if I was to go outside. See. Alternative.
After Pray: Back to basics
I’ve just butchered our newly laid lawn. The rubbish old mower I used chewed up a large area before I’d even noticed. I then bought an extendable washing line, but it doesn’t extend far enough. Our new hose arrived yesterday. I doesn’t reach the bottom of the garden.
I’m starting to think I’m useless at everything except looking at clothes, buying clothes and wearing clothes. And recently, during an internal crisis around the appropriateness of Needles HD pants, I’m even starting to question that.
Hence today’s choice. Back to basics. A beautiful, straightforward, everyday piece. No one can go wrong with a collar like this.
Camiel Fortgens: Maximum girth in your upper hemisphere
Super-wide trousers. Sillage: check. Studio Nicholson: Check. Sage Nation: Check. Needles: Obvs.
But what’s the story on top?
If you look like a windsock down below, can you, should you, be giving it maximum girth in your upper hemisphere? I say yes. Although I’m pretty sure my girl disagrees.
When I step out in giant pants and a voluminous coat I’m starting to think she’s a bit uncomfortable being seen with me. She hasn’t said anything out loud, but I can read her expression like a book. A book about things she thinks are shit, including films featuring guns, aliens or zombies, pretentious menus, the outdated slang middle-aged people use, and me in big trousers and a big coat.
Sage Nation x Garbstore: It’s a humiliating question to ask…
It seems the man-ternet is totally preoccupied with debating the validity (or otherwise) of the five inch short. Yawn. I’m in the ‘otherwise’ camp. End of discussion. So let’s go the other way.
Giant, puffy summer trousers.
Textbook Sonny Crocket style.
With the fashion world still fighting over the carcass of the 90s, it’s nice to see up-and-comer Sage Nation quietly remixing 80s stalwarts. Their signature style boasts box-pleats from waist to hem — I believe the technical term is ‘mad poofy’. Last year I called them the ‘most important trousers in the world.’ It’s a position I maintain.
Awake: Deep in the clone wars
Needles much?
Copy? Homage? Or just a high end casual wear brand offering a mohair cardigan that’s marginally cheaper, but remarkably similar to one by another high end casual wear brand?
Does anyone even care at this point?
This article by Rachel Connolly over at the Guardian caught my attention. The gist? All high street shops are churning out the same gear. Part of me wonders if it was always thus. Besides, Connolly’s focus is the high street, and (due to a troubling phycological dependence on feeling socially superior) this site doesn’t do high street.
But it did make me think. Are the kind of indie brands we love also deep in their own clone wars?
Beheavyer: Nomad swank with a splash of Zardoz
Why does no one stock Beheavyer over here? It’s got the oversized thing going on, the hidden zips, tone-on-tone palettes and bundles of loops to dangle carabiners from (even though no one ever does). It’s all perfect nomad swank with a splash of Zardoz. Seems to me they’d be a great fit for a store like This Thing of Ours.
And yet, Beheavyer has zero presence in the UK of Isles. I guess it’s got a stupid name. Beheavyer. Be heavyer. No one wants to be heavier? Plus, with brand’s like Goldwin, Eastlogue, Norbit, Snow Peak (and 50 others) chasing the backpack-bother’s dime, the competition is real.
Still, in spite of (or probably because of?) Beheavyer’s absence from local outlets, I’m a fan.
Lisa Le Strange: The most tolerable aerial arthropod
Once, as a child on a French campsite, I was chased from an outside toilet with my shorts round my ankles by the biggest moth I’ve ever seen. I swear it turned its powdery head and looked me square in the eyes. My relationship with big-bodied winged insects has never been the same.
I see moths as the Yohji Yamamoto of the fluttering pest world — droopy, grey and sinister. This is no slight on Mr Yamamoto, but moths are fucking evil. It’s not even that they eat your clothes, it’s more their appearance: they’re hairy like a miniature wolf and fat and full of puss. I genuinely fear big moths.
Dragonflies on the other hand (while equally revolting if you ask me) are at least debonaire, more of a Studio 54 insect — keeping things topical, let’s think of them as a Halston. And then you’ve got your butterflies. Now, I’m significantly less scared of butterflies. Which is weird, because they’re basically a moth with a Versace make-over. But nevertheless, if I had to wear a beanie featuring either a moth, a dragonfly or a butterfly, I’d go with butterfly every time.
Meanswhile: A cure for what ails you
I’ve got a lot of questions.
Are super-wide trousers going mainers? Hip Store are now knocking out a pair by FrizmWORKS for £100.
Could GQ get any duller? Dylan Jones is off. Cue global cabal of pinstriped droids at the helm: Tom Brady on the cover (again, again, again) anyone?
Is tucking your top into your trousers the new not tucking your top into your trousers? Who decided looking like you work at B&Q is cool?
Why has Brain Dead made a £320 jacket that looks like something from the shit end of Camden Market in 1993?
Just because you use words like like jawnz, jorts and gorp doesn’t mean you’re a twat — but does it make it more likely?
Comme des Garçons Homme: How to get from deceitful hilarity to cha-ching?
I don’t know why I’m surprised. It’s not like this hasn’t happened before.
A couple of weeks back I bought an entirely unnecessary nylon shoulder holster, quickly followed by a Kolor sweatshirt. My girl was displeased. Why wasn’t I saving? Why do I keep buying things that are not that different from things I already own? Why am I never satisfied with what I’ve already got?
I explained that the nylon shoulder holster and the Kolor sweatshirt were the last things I needed. The very last. Once I had them, that would be it for a long time and I would focus entirely on buying new plants for the garden and expensive wallpaper and other sensible things we need to buy that, right this second, I can’t quite remember. All would be well. Let’s be grown-ups.
And then yesterday I received two emails. “40% off”, announced Dover Street. “Sample sale this weekend”, chimed Studio Nicholson.
I could hear my girl sighing from the next room.
Loutre: The truth lies in the grey area
It’s good to get out of your comfort zone they say. Try something different, push the boundaries.
On the other hand apparently it’s all about personal style, finding what makes you comfortable and sticking with it.
I’ve never quite reconciled these two perspectives. Our culture appears determined to reduce itself down to snackable truisms, but in doing so, it leaves a lot of nuance on the table.
Personal style sounds cool. But can it also be read as apathy? Just a posh way of saying you’ve given up and have committed to wearing broadly the same things till the end of time. And what about breaking out of your comfort zone? There are some things I draw the line at: leather trousers, vests in public, short-shorts, capes. Does my blanket ban on such things mean I’m not fully expressing myself?
As I say, I don’t know, but I imagine the truth lies somewhere in the grey area. And I suspect my grey area looks a lot like this getup from London brand Loutre.
N. Hoolywood: A night out at Platinum Lace
What do you get if you cross a frat bro’s party shirt with an episode of Ross Kemp’s Extreme World? I dunno, but you’re looking at it. At first glance it’s terrifying. The sort of thing car dealers wear for a night out at Platinum Lace. But then you see those olive inserts, roughly chopped in, and it become apparent that actually the avant is firmly in the garde.
It may look kind of ugly, but it’s a good ugly. A credible ugly. The kind of ugly that costs £192, excluding postage and import duty.
Kapital: Look at a watch and see a Betamax
As an object that does just one thing, you’ve got to wonder how long watches will be around. With access to smart phones, laptops, tablets and talking speakers, why does anyone need to wear a lump on their wrist that only tells the time? Born with an iPhone 12 in their hand, the children of Millennials (Gen Alpha) will look at a watch and see a Betamax.
Still, much like vinyl, printed magazines and objective fact, watches are hanging in there. From the ironic Timex (from Elizabeth Duke because, you know…) to Audemars Piguet (the brand horologists worship, but only rappers can afford) wearable timepieces remain a thing. Just.
So where does that leave a modestly priced watch with a smiley face on it from a hip Japanese clothing brand?
Sillage: Doing summer with dignity
I’m broadly ambivalent about the arrival of summer. As far as I’m concerned it just offers up another flavour of extreme weather. Agreed, constant drizzle sucks. But so does being roasted alive like a pagan sacrifice. I’ve never understood the UK’s passion for perching outside pubs in the blazing sun, fluorescent foreheads and sodden underwear all round. I’ve got a banging headache and it feels like I’ve pissed myself, CHEERS!
I know I’m in the minority. My fellow man seems perfectly happy absorbing countless sheathes of lager, while done up in vaguely athletic oddments. Polyester short-shorts, a pair of something inexcusable by Sketchers and vests. Blokes in vests. If there’s ever a garment that has no place in public society it’s a vest. There’s a difference between looking like you haven’t tried too hard and looking like you can’t be arsed.
Tightbooth Production: Loneliness is a companion of sorts
Day 142 in the Big Brother house. My girl is still away and I have regressed. I’m basically now Neolithic man with better trousers. There are overflowing bins, Amazon boxes to be recycled and stacks of washing up. On the coffee table sit half eaten French Fancies, on the B&O the ceaseless twanging of left-field techno.
I keep looking at the mess. Which is a start. I like to check-in on the mess from time to time. I don’t want to actually do anything about it, but just reminding myself that at some point I will, is oddly cathartic. Besides another sojourn into the less traveled corners of Bandcamp always seems infinitely more important.
Then of course there’s unnecessary and obscure menswear to locate, catalogue and comment on. Who’s going to get that done? My girl may moan at me for not emptying the bin, but really, she’s not seeing the bigger picture.
Kolor: Dispatches from the front line of lonely
My wife is away all week and there’s a party going on. Invite list: me. I’ve got The Pursuaders on series link and I’m currently watching Murder She Wrote while drinking Strawberry Nesquik. The other night I Deliveroo-ed a Shake Shack. Last night Wagamama. I’m seriously thinking about getting into Walker, Texas Ranger.
Jesus Christ help me. I’m so bored. I’m so very very lonely.
Turns out when you can do anything you want, anything you want is quite dull.
I picked up Modern Warfare again. Then I realised some genius at Activision has enabled mouse-flicking PC maniacs to cross-play with joypad users like me. It’s a massacre.
I’m so bored I spent 20 minutes trying to figure out if bathroom tap water tastes better than kitchen tap water. My findings? Inconclusive.
I know, I know, I’m lucky to have a partner to miss. But, sorry single bros, at least being lonely is your normative state. For me ‘alone’ is new. It cuts like a sword through Viennetta. And sure, I really like Viennetta. I just don’t want to be one.
Engineered Garments: Nylon shoulder holster? Why not?
We’ve all done it. Partner’s away for a week. You get bored. You buy a nylon shoulder holster. I know right. Textbook.
Soundman: Looking back for the future
In the constant search for something new, sometimes you have to look to the past. Seeing the camo trousers above you might assume I mean a world war, or Platoon, or Public Enemy. But I’m actually thinking of my more personal past. Specifically a chap I saw at London Fashion Week in the late-90s. It was Iain R Webb a journalist at the time (now Professor of Fashion and Design at Kingston School of Art) and so impressed was I with his get-up it’s been tattooed on my memory ever since. The breakdown of his fit was as follows:
- Camel v-neck sweater (with a white tee underneath.)
- Black and white loafers (probably Patrick Cox based on the timeline.)
- British Army camouflage trousers.
These days that probably doesn’t sound especially noteworthy. But in that late-90s context — a fashion show, where all the attendees were done up in identikit shades of coal by Margiela and Lang — the dude really popped.
At the time I was deep into my degree at The London College of Fashion and I remember whittling away my grant trying to emulate the look. I never got it quite right. Perhaps, all these years later, it’s time for another try.
Eastlogue: I don’t know how I’d wear it
I’ve been very close to pushing the button on this Eastlogue t-shirt a couple of times. But on each occasion good sense has prevailed. It’s a great piece. Extremely well priced at £60 (20% off over at new kids on the block The 5th during the bank holiday). And the fishtail back is a killer detail.
It’s just that, having given it considerable thought, I don’t know how I’d wear it.
Kapital: Somewhere between a Billy Smart stooge and a grave-robber
Where do shorts end and trousers begin? I wouldn’t say it’s a question that keeps me up at night. And were it not for these classification botherers from Kapital I dare say I wouldn’t even be considering it.
A glance at the style press would have you believe short-shorts are the thing right now. Dinky and hyper-sexual. Very Armie Hammer in Call Me By Your Name. They’re the sort of thing I imagine your average Nandos-bro would find appealing — perfectly complimenting a lifestyle of McQueen-style sneakers, gelled side partings and girlfriends in twelve quid Missguided dresses.
But I, and I dare say you, don’t roll that way.
For the less templated male these freak-show trouser-shorts might be of interest.
Otakara N.Y.C: Somewhere between Hanna-Barbera and a sex cult ‘Daddy’
Eastern temples, native American motifs and psychedelic cats. Hungry Pac-men, Ziggy Stardust and boggle-eyed burgers.
There are still some amazing pieces available in the Otakara N.Y.C. collection over at Nepenthes New York. If somehow it’s evaded your notice, now’s the time to get involved. You sleep, you lose.
Mountain Research: Not much use on the Khumbu Icefall
I caught the 2015 documentary Sherpa the other night. Did you know Mt. Everest is now a tourist destination? I had no idea.
I watched as a bunch of western business-alphas lounged about drinking tea and yawning on about their personal goals, as teams of poor Tibetan locals hauled equipment up and down the terrifying mountain. While the inevitable disaster comes as little surprise, the vocal disappointment from the ‘clients’ is truly stomach-churning.
As they come to realise their dreams of being the big man who climbed Everest have been smothered by an avalanche, they’re inconsolable. Not for the 16 dead sherpas. But for themselves.
One especially odious character was properly sour faced. You could actually see his ultimate goal of balling Carol from accounts over the photocopier while screaming, “I’m the king of the mountain!” evaporate.
F/CE: Make an offer for all of the money…
The bar to achieve selection for Dragons’ Den sometimes appears fairly low. There was someone on the other day who’d apparently ‘invented’ some cooking sauces. Another couple who’d ‘invented’ sunglasses cords. Dunno about you, but I wouldn’t feel especially confident facing Peter (Business Titan) Jones et al. armed with a thing already commonly available, no matter how good my packaging.
For example. I don’t think I’d have the confidence to pitch these trousers in the Den. There I’d be waffling away about the recycled nylon and the cool looking pockets, but at the back of my mind I’d be awaiting the obvious question:
“Haven’t you just put a multi-coloured belt on a normal pair of trousers?”
Merely Made: “It’s all Jesusy”
I like to consider myself fairly resolute when it comes to buying decisions. If I like something, I might stew on it for a while, but ultimately I’ll push the button (fiscal health notwithstanding). I’ve certainly never considered that my girl might have some sway in the matter.
“Pffhhhh…”, she noised.
“It’s just another Jesus top.”
Fucking ouch.
There I am innocently browsing the Merely Made website, cross referencing the pieces I could more conveniently buy from This Thing of Ours and I mistakenly point out how much I’m digging on this jacket.
“You know what I mean”, she continued, “it’s all Jesusy.”
Sillage: The perfect wardrobe for un-locking-down
It’s possible many of you are panicking. Lockdown is over and you’ve forgotten to buy a humungous oversized fit covered in a Muay Thai fighters. I know right. You had one thing to do throughout the last twelve months and you’ve left it to the last minute.
It’s virtually impossible to think about successfully integrating yourself back into society without the head-to-toe protection of a bunch of men in underpants kicking each other. Fortunately, it’s a situation the Japanese brand Sillage have clearly anticipated.
Engineered Garments x Sebago: The deck shoes the Buzzcocks would have made
I’m sure your Instagram feed is already full of the new Engineered Garments x Sebago collaboration, but I can hardly not mention it.
Besides, I reckon it’s a proper wow.
Pattern Portraits: Let’s get shirty
I’ve received an email from Mr Porter with a subject line that reads: ‘Let’s get shirty’.
Let’s get shirty.
LET’S GET SHIRTY.
What does that even mean?
The word ‘shirty’ used to be used to describe those who were bad-tempered or annoyed. Are Mr Porter inviting us to get more pissed off?
In the context of the email, ‘let’s get shirty’ is of course (what’s popularly called) a play on words. But it’s so lame a ‘play’ as to be nonsensical.
Here’s Mr Porter, all tasteful pencil drawings of dudes with side-partings and videos showing you how to properly pack your Incotex chinos before jetting off to somewhere you read about in Monocle, and the best they can come up with is ‘let’s get shirty.’
Apologies for the rant, but such cut-and-paste editorial really irritates me.
By the way, if you Google ‘let’s get shirty’, the top result is letsgetshirty.com — the company responsible for those t-shirts that feature slogans like ‘Farewell to soggy bottoms’.
Let’s get fucking shirty, I ask you!
Native Sons: My inherent shallowness will come as no surprise to regular readers
One of the hinges on my Max Pitton spectacles has broken. My Politicians are disgraced.
Have you ever tried to get the hinge on a non-standard pair of glasses fixed? I’ve been everywhere, in person, online; no one wants to know. I can’t even find a replacement pair of Pitton‘s; I’m wondering if the brand is done.
I’m currently getting by with my emergency back-ups (older, cheaper) but it’s a scenario that cannot be sustained. Every Zoom meeting I take in an inferior pair of spectacles is a step along the path to genericism. I can actually feel my stylistic potency withering.
My inherent shallowness will come as no surprise to regular readers.
F/CE: Stylistic limitations aside…
I’ve always thought the art of styling deeply underrated. Just take a look at the image above. When I see a belt I always think of it as a device for holding up a pair of trousers, but now I feel like an idiot. It would never have dawned on me that a belt could also be hung over the head. All these years I’ve been threading my belt around my waist when I could have been wearing it as a face garnish.
Martine Rose: As real as real gets
Yesterday I caught an episode of First Dates Hotel. It struck me that beyond the regional-disco wardrobes and reliable howls of laugher anytime someone orders a Sex on the Beach, many of the contestants appeared to be preoccupied with the idea of ‘realness’.
“I won’t date anyone who isn’t real”, they all say. “Being real is the most important thing”. “A relationship’s got to be based in realness”. And on and on and on…
Consequently I imagine I’d do quite well on the show. Because to the best of my knowledge I am real. I’m really sitting here typing and I’m really drinking some lukewarm Nescafe. Ontological debate aside, I’m as real as anyone else. But so is everyone else.
It is therefore my view that in the context of First Dates Hotel, realness doesn’t mean realness at all. It means honesty and trust. I wonder why Fred has never bothered to point this out?
Birthdaysuit: A bit of writing here, a shark fin there…
Are chore jackets still a thing? I sometimes wonder if everyone who’s ever going to buy a chore jacket has already bought a chore jacket, meaning making new chore jackets is now a pointless exercise?
You do still see people wearing them though. Around Peckham, where I’m sat, it’s mostly those played-out Vetra styles in French blue: frequently flecked with paint for penniless art student cred. Although now and again you’ll spot a tourist from across the river, out cool-hunting (with his pushchair) in some diabolical, body-hugging moleskin number. Roll up, roll up for a game of ‘guess the dad brand’ — is it Banana Republic or Jack Wolfskin?
WYTHE: If the ‘tuck-in’ is back you’ll need a dandy belt
I recently bought a Needles ‘Quick Release Belt‘ — the one with the tassel bit detail. It’s fiddly to get on. I’m still working on my technique for achieving the required tightness, while simultaneously locking the ‘quick release’ latch in place. It doesn’t come with an instruction manual.
That said, once in position, it strikes a good balance between Midnight Cowboy street hustler and pirate king. Just the right side of glam — exhibitionistic without coming off all Kardashian. Although, after years of Andersons and Fidlocked nylon (in every conceivable shade of blue) I have to say it does feel freaky wearing a belt covered in gold bits.
MFPEN: Bruno Tonioli with an AK
The ‘Exact Shirt‘ from MFPEN — somewhere between a narcos enforcer and the drummer in Jools Holland’s boogie woogie band. This shirt is a warning all, whether your weapon of choice is a 9mm or jazz improv.
Maillot: Accessorise with a Hitachi 3D Super Woofer and a King Cone
Back once again with the round-neck cardie. It’s that twin-set top-half style that’s going nowhere fast. Still rocking a V? You need to take a long hard look at yourself my man.
Opportune sacrifice
Adam Jones: Like a Sweeney-themed edition of Drag Race
Disciples of Marie Kondo look away — anyone who’s ever decluttered a handful of beer towels is going to feel pretty dumb. Put simply, we’re looking at a leopard pattern towel covered in retro booze-sponges. It’s weirdly punky and precisely the kind of thing you want to be throwing down for a socially-distanced hang-out in the park.
Tres Bien Ateljé: Striptease meets Excel spreadsheet
Do you ever buy from retailers’ in-house lines? I’ve copped The Bureau x Nicholas Daley (back in the day) and I recently bought a pair of Adieu x Tres Bien shoes. But what about the pure retailer offerings? The Garbstore line? Haven‘s massive range? Goodhood Goods?
Historically, I’ve steered clear. Not because I don’t love the retailers, more because, to my eyes, the products themselves often come off like slightly anaemic versions of lines they already carry. If I wanted an olive utility vest would I choose Haven or Engineered Garments? Why would I go for a Garbstore stripy Coolmax shirt over a Nanamica one?
By Walid: The right balance between Little Lord Fauntleroy and Bethnal Green rent boy
Sustainable razzle-dazzle. Eco-poshness. By Walid is like a West London version of Story MFG. Very Matches. Seemingly designed for cashmere-haired rugby shirts called Barnaby who bellow their mates’ nicknames across a busy pub.
To my eyes, most of the brand’s pieces come on a little too ‘gap year’. There’s a lot of embroidered silk and heavy appliqué: it seems destined to end up in a car-crash outfit of bright orange Cordings cords and suede driving shoes.
Apart from this hat that is. Somehow, in amongst all the embroidered dragons and trousers made of curtains, this hat manages to strike precisely the right balance between Little Lord Fauntleroy and Bethnal Green rent boy.
Someday, you’ll wish it was today
Comme des Garçons Homme: I’ve bought the best blue t-shirt in the world
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.
Junya Watanabe: Fully-weaponised price tickets
Every now and again there’s a Junya piece that makes you wish you had enough money to buy Junya. Why it is always even more expensive than Comme mainline remains a riddle?
Like a slightly more elaborate Needles Rebuild, this jacket twists familiar military tropes into something at once crude and sophisticated. From one angle it’s hacked together with a buzzsaw, but look again and appreciate the rare design sensibility. And while it’s an odd statement to make about a garment, this results in something that’s perfectly wearable. Not so flouncy as to make you feel uncomfortable, nor so bland you might as well have gone to Lands’ End (as if).
It’s the exact balance between cool and dull. Sadly, that balance comes at a cost.
Viron: There’s really no reason not to
While looking at this conscious sneaker brand Viron, I couldn’t help but think back to my schooling in the early 80s.
My house of learning made the borstal in Scum look like Centre Parcs. I remember a lad with unusually long finger nails who was bullied mercilessly, called a ‘girl’ one minute, a ‘bummer’ the next. The solitary black lad was taunted in all the horrific ways you can imagine. While another impoverished soul was regularly terrorised for wearing plastic shoes. There were regular beatings and tears.
1980’s comprehensive school education: the only time in my life when the dumbest and the beefiest could dominate the smartest and most sensitive.
How times have (mostly) changed. Even all these years later, I still wish an illegally unpleasant fate on the nasty bullying bastards I was forced to school alongside. But it is oddly pleasing to me to see how non-leather shoes are finally becoming a serious option. Credible, stylish and politically virtuous. These days there’s really no reason not to.
Meanswhile: Being showered off by the PE teacher is not a good look
It’s not often I’m drawn to clothing that looks like a cell wall after a dirty protest. I don’t know about you, but I mostly prefer to dress in a way that avoids any association with excrement. There was that time in the playground at primary school, but that was less conscious choice and more involuntary humiliation. Being showered off by the PE teacher is not a good look.
Nevertheless, there’s something appealing about this murky looking pullover. Maybe it’s the techy Thinsulate fabric. Or the simple, baggy shape. Or maybe it’s just because it’s by rare-in-these-parts, Japanese imprint Meanswhile. If any brand can pull off the ‘scat enthusiast’ look it’s these guys.
NOMA T.D: Doggedly anti-dog
Look at the dog. Look at the dog. Look at my dog.
Dogs. Fucking dogs.
I’d like to make this absolutely clear. I would rather write a dissertation about the surface of a dry concrete slab than look at your dog. I have no interest in hearing anything about what your dog does, has done, or may do. I don’t care what it eats, whether it’s friendly or not, or whether it’s caught a cold and its little nose is all red.
Yesterday a massive Doberman sprinted up to me in a park, ribbons of slobber swinging from its gums. It stopped just short of my shoes and screamed at me.
“That’s a scary dog”, I stammered at the owner.
“No it’s not”, she said, apparently hurt.
On balance, I suspect I’m a more accurate judge of what I find scary than I women I’ve never met. So I’m pleased to reiterate, I found it scary. Not only do dogs smell, but they make noise and drop hairs on stuff and have bumholes covered in dried shit and yes, as far as I’m concerned, sometimes they’re scary. If you’re the owner of a hound and want to cuddle up with it in the privacy of your own home and let its foul tongue lap jellied turkey off your belly, that’s none of my business. But if your beast runs at me, or jumps at me, or howls in my general direction then we’ve got a problem.
One time I was in the park having a picnic with my girl. A dog (think Zoltan: Hound of Dracula) ran over, invaded my camp and started licking my M&S salad. When the owner arrived she appeared astonished that I wasn’t enjoying the scenario.
“Most people don’t seem to mind”, she said.
If I wanted a dog to rub its gums on expensive convenience food, I’d buy a fucking dog and bath it in pasta spirals. But I’m never going to buy a dog. I’d rather eat an entire dog, with chips and peas than have to own the same dog, alive, for half an hour.
Why is it ‘dog people’ seem to think everyone else is a closeted dog person? Why do they assume that the right encounter, with the right little furry friend will convert anyone into becoming a committed dog-liker? I’m just going to come out and say it… I’m an evolved human being. I don’t need to drag a member of the animal kingdom around on a piece to string to feel superior.
I. Don’t. Like. Dogs.
A long way down
MAN-TLE: It might as well be raining cancer
Obviously in the UK we are slaves to the weather; a fact that has been thrown into sharp relief during lockdown. How many well-intentioned walks have been abruptly canceled due to a bruised looking sky? A couple of droplets fall and all hell breaks loose. It might as well be raining cancer. Yesterday my girl made it literally three feet out the door before having to duck back in to grab a gilet and a balaclava.
To be fair, the wintery winds and arbitrary downpours do seem especially stubborn this year. One shard of sunlight cuts through and suddenly people with deckchairs are sprinting for an illuminated corner of pavement. Then the clouds fidget back into place, gloom descends again and everyone trudges back inside to de-pause Emily in Paris.
Perchance some rainwear is in order? Something to keep your style high and your head dry.
Merely Made: I’m nice like that
I wonder what it’s like to be so unintelligent you genuinely believe Covid is a hoax and the vaccine is part of a governmental experiment in mind control?
Science tends to agree that those with higher cognitive ability are better able to empathise with others. So here’s me, taking a moment to humble-brag about my intellect, while simultaneously attempting to fathom the medically daft. I’m nice like that.
Anti-vaxxers, science cynics, climate deniers, Brexit die-hards; the most worrying epidemic in this country appears to be clotism. And it’s difficult to know what to do about it. You would have thought that even the most rudimentary secondary school education would insulate anyone from believing shock-Docs raging against testing and vaccines and generally not dying. But seemingly not. Come on pinheads, remember Dr. Nick Riviera in The Simpsons? He’s meant to be funny.
It appears it’s fine to talk about the dangers of fake news, social media, faux-experts, post-truth politics and confirmation bias, but the elephant in the room remains, a lot of people are just dumbos.
Haversack: Same vibe, fewer orifices
I never pushed the button on a pair of Engineered Garments FA Pants. You know the one’s — a five pocket phalanx up front; about as utilitarian as trousers get. I suspect they’ve been a hit as I’ve seen a number of Instagram dudes successfully carrying them off.
They’re a bit too pockety for me. I’m not sure my finely nuanced personalty could overcome the sheer volume of compartments. I don’t want to be the support act for my own slacks.
Hence my interest in these from Haversack. Same vibe, fewer orifices.
Comme des Garçons Homme: No one’s invented anything cooler
Presumably it’s written in the Dover Street Online brand book: that you say next to nothing about the products, before adding in the colossal price. Maintains the mystique right?
Contrast embroidery. Chest pocket. Buttoned cuffs. Curved hem. £395 thank you very much. Cha-ching.
With Comme des Garçons the story is implicit. No one’s dying anything with woad. There are no highfalutin Prussian blues or tales of Tibetan artisans. You either buy into Rei Kawakubo’s beautiful chaos or you don’t.
All of which is fine. Unless you’re sitting on the sofa, staring at a screen, trying figure out whether a cotton shirt covered in red topstitching is really worth 400 quid.
Kolor: That old Franco Moschino joke
Kolor is one of those brands that always feels slightly out of reach, both geographically and financially. In the UK the options are a hostile fingering from Farfetch, or a proxy service cowboy job. Choose either and you’ll end up anxiously refreshing a FedEx-page and sobbing into a large void where your wages once were.
The thing is, for clothesmen at a certain point in their evolution, Kolor can seem like the next logical step. The clothes push hard-luxe, but weave in wearability with a doff of the (technical) cap to workwear and athleisure. But Kolor is also bracingly avant-garde. Weird disassembling; wonky reassembling; unrelated garments shocking conjoined. And those colours: exacting hues, at once achingly now and queasily retro.
Whether you like it or not, the style tram trundles on, and if you’ve already rinsed the Nepenthes family, Snow Peak, Kapital, And Wander etc… Kolor offers a rewarding (but costly) path to explore.
Beams Fennica x Porter: One day soon we might actually be able to go somewhere
How do you feel about the government’s roadmap out of lockdown? Each milestone is (quite rightly) prefaced with caveats. Unfortunately these have proved markedly less popular with the average British brain-box than the prospect of a cheap getaway and a 1000 pints of Carling. So now B&Bs are fully booked and Instagram is strobing with aeroplane emojis.
The thing is, a lot might go wrong between now and a giddily optimistic booking. Boris Johnson says that the Brazilian variant does not worry him enough to derail the plan — which on currently form means the Brazilian variant is a death sentence, we should be fucking terrified and stop browsing swim shorts immediately.
Sacai: It’s not the luxurious grandeur that’s the problem
I frequently post about Sacai, the Tokyo imprint founded by ex-Junya Watanabe and Comme des Garçons staffer Chitose Abe. Although I sometimes feel it’s an exercise in futility. Both for me and anyone reading this. The twisted beauty of the collections is not in question; weird hybridisations captured within wearable silhouettes, a positively bellicose approach to cutting and pasting. Some pieces are so rarified, so heavy and ornate to the touch, that you think to own them would render the entirety of your existing wardrobe somehow weaker in comparison. But it’s not the luxurious grandeur that’s the problem, it’s the price.
Unlike your Engineered Garments, your Orslows and your Comfy Outdoor Garments, Sacai is at the pointy end of luxury. When you’re trying to calculate the cost-per-wear ratio of a £560 short sleeved shirt you’ve got to ask yourself if the Sacai lifestyle is really for you? I’m expecting Rishi Sunak’s budget will offer a Sacai stipend specifically for underachieving Londoners.
Questionable enthusiasms
Teneo: Getting the details game right
The collaboration between Teneo and The New Order Magazine has caught my eye. Check the Teneo Instagram to see brief videos showing three dudes strolling outside a Japanese shopping centre before stopping for a quick wrestle. Videos of bros getting their wrestle on are not typically my bag. But the clothing is another matter; dark, casual and boasting zig-zagging, contrast lace ribbon detail. Trust. It’s savagery.
I’ll tell you right now, the picture at the top of the page isn’t it. I expect the new issue of TNO to carry a feature, but for now it’s only available at a pop-up in Tokyo’s Estnation store. In the UK we’ll have to content ourselves with the remnants of Teneo’s AW20 collection, which, if you’re not familiar, still deserves a look.
Studio Nicholson: Less is more (expensive)
The older I get, the less attractive I feel so the less I reach for minimalist clothing. I’ve always thought that really simple, paired back garments look best on the absurdly attractive. I mean, you have to be Gosling-level to make a plain white tee and chinos looks anything other than utterly mundane. Hence I’ve spent the last few years loading up with multi-pocketed gilets, flowery bucket hats and leopard-print shoes — anything to distract from the slowly withering form within.
And yet, the appeal of the quiet remains. A restrained palette of navy and tan. A reliance on form over embellishment. Just a clean, gently progressive silhouette worn with the kind of confidence common to those with innate good taste. It’s why I keep coming back to Studio Nicholson. And why I can hear this cardigan whispering my name.
ROTOL: What to do after you’ve finished Cobra Kai?
If, like me, you’ve reached the end of Cobra Kai and crave more sensei-level excitement, you may find this two-piece from Japanese makers ROTOL of interest. It’s available over at Kikunobu Shop as a separate jacket and trouser. But for the full Daniel-San experience, you’ll probably want to double-team them like the long-haired bro in the picture.
It’s not entirely clear why he’s standing in a pile of broken wood. Perhaps he lost his temper with a table and went full Miyagi-do? To my mind he looks a bit disappointed, like he’s just realised he’s now got nothing to eat his dinner off. Even so, his outfit is well-weapon.
White Mountaineering: Shirts like this will quickly find their purpose again
I ate a prawn on Wednesday. The first prawn I’ve eaten in a year. My girl hates prawns, she says she won’t eat anything with a face. Consequently they are never included in our Ocado deliveries. The store around the corner does sell prawns, but they’re ‘corner shop’ prawns and I have a deep mistrust of anything sold alongside anonymous bags of frozen chicken legs and Dr. Oetker’s Ristorante Pizzas. (Is he even a real doctor?)
So on Wednesday I Deliveroo-ed a Yaki Soba from Wagamama and ate my first prawn in a year. Quite the shock it was too. Shockingly familiar, it tasted just like a prawn did a year ago. So precisely did it taste like a prawn, I barely noticed it.
It’s a common worry right now that when things go back to normal it’ll be weird. That people will have forgotten how to make small talk, or buy a train ticket, or drink three pints without publicly shitting themselves. But I don’t believe it. I think that however this plays out, however long it takes before we approach normality, we’ll all slide right back into how we were without much effort at all. Just like my anticlimactic prawn, we’ll be small-talking and using our rucksacks to nab a double-seat and lining up the Jägerbombs just like before. And shirts like this one will quickly find their purpose again.
Monitaly: I blame Adam Curtis
Did you see Panorama on Monday night? Titled Vaccines: The Disinformation War, it shone a light on anti-vaxers and their twitish belligerence in the face of fact. Truly the psychological equivalent of a Victorian freak show. Roll up, roll up, it’s the Amazing Pea-Brained Woman: hear how she believes Covid is a secret government plan to sterilise the world!
For a little intellectual nourishment I switched to Adam Curtis’ new six parter Can’t Get You Out of My Head. Ever have that feeling that your mind is less a biological wonder of endless potential and more like an already overstuffed toy-box? Listening to Curtis connect the dots between Chairman Mao’s fourth wife Jiang Qing and the paranoia of the American suburbs I could actually feel the edges of my brain. As an antidote (‘antidope’?) to the terrifying stupidity exhibited elsewhere it’s a triumph — assuming you’re happy to have the limitations of your own intelligence brought sharply into focus.
One TV, one evening — jumping between the remorselessly dumb and the brow-furrowingly complex. It’s exhausting is what it is. Something of a refresher is in order, something simple but smart. So here’s a piece designed by the brilliant Yuki Matsuda for his label Monitaly. With all that triple-needle stitching and crazy pocket detail it’s hardly straightforward. But (and this’ll bring everything sharply into focus) it’s half price.
Cost Per Kilo: a lot of similarly ‘unique’ visions
A bit of this, a bit of that, stitch it all together and wallop. Streetwear’s addiction to generating new garments from bits of old garments remains at full strength. Countless brands are at it: compounding clobber from the mismatched, the misshapen and the misunderstood. For a business that thrives off unique creative visions, there are a lot of similarly ‘unique’ visions.
The results of all this nuclear cut-and-sew swerve from the intelligent to the downright fugly. I’ve seen some expensive, high-end attempts that should come with free travel sickness pills. God knows what butchery awaits the patrons of places like ASOS and Urban Outfitters.
The wearable collage is certainly difficult to get right. But with a little restraint and acknowledgement that not everyone wants to look like a broken gif, garments like this one from Korean imprint Cost Per Kilo emerge.
Tatamize: Birthdays, The Karate Kid trilogy and size-free millinery
The lockdown birthday. It comes to us all in the end. For me it arrived last Thursday in the form of a day off with my girl and the full Karate Kid trilogy. It’s difficult to reconcile being one step closer to the gallows and the continuing drudgery of Covid with the idea of celebration. So instead I took the opportunity to use my birthday as emotional leverage. Gently pressuring my girl, through a combination of whimpers and sad eyes, to get her to watch a lot of something she wasn’t at all interested in.
As any student of the Miyagi dōjō knows: man who catch fly in chopstick accomplish anything. And so it was, through a mixture of my childlike enthusiasm and Daniel-san’s bumbling charm, that my girl fell steadily in love with the world of make-believe karate. She’s now committed to watching Cobra Kai with me. Which is a gift in itself. It’ll give me a much needed break from her choice of film which always seems to involve a heroine who is tired a lot during act one, develops a tickly cough in act two, then spends the whole of act three whispering through a bloody handkerchief as she (all too) slowly succumbs to a diabolical wasting disease.
Anyway, speaking of gifts, I did get some cool ones. That’s the good thing about birthdays, unlike Christmas, you don’t have to pretend to be interested in giving — you just sit back and watch as the conveyor belt of poorly wrapped parcels trundles towards your grasping hands.
TD by itten: We all know a pair of smart jeans when we see one
From the unconsciously drab to the unconscionably lean. For a garment so universal, jeans run a remarkable spectrum. In recent memory alone, the denim pant has cycled from laughable ultra-wides, courtesy of 90’s sidewalk botherers JNCO, to today’s similarly hulking, but rather more straight-faced, Needles HDs. Jumbled in between, various permutations of straight, loose, high-rise, low-rise, mom, boot-cut, flared, ripped, patched, skinny and super-skinny.
If this constant reinvention has taught us one thing, it’s that some people can be convinced anything looks cool. Legend London for instance, caters exclusively to men who want to look like a perfect bell-end.
You will have noticed the omission of ‘smart jeans’ from the list. This is because, outside of elasticated Sunday supplement denim, jeans tend not to be directly marketed as ‘smart’. Even so, we all know a pair of smart jeans when we see one.
Off the pace
Sasquatchfabrix: Where are all the dressers hiding?
Do you miss people watching? For most it’s an entirely innocuous act. For the style-minded it’s almost vampiric. Gawping at well dressed people is nourishment. Some dude in camo trousers and two-tone loafers. Eye-fucking someone’s Junya parka. Give me a buzzy metropolitan environment, a decent sidewalk perch and an empty diary and I’m digging in for the day. Keep the lattes coming.
Of course, that was then. Now it’s just a daily lap round the block to dust the cobwebs from my knees. And frankly, the stylistic optics are bargain bin. I don’t know where all the dressers are hiding in Peckham right now, but the people I see on my walks appear to have given up. Bedraggled fleeces, snotty looking beanies, trouser hems dragging in puddles… It’s a Ken Loach reboot of Zombie Flesh Eaters.
The worst is women wearing those black, body-conscious, padded jackets. Semi-athleisure, semi-practical, entirely appalling — the sort of thing that sighs off the production line at Sweaty Betty or Lululemon. These are garments so poisonously mediocre, so numbingly ubiquitous that I genuinely believe they’re bad for our mental health. Unfortunately my streets are rotten with them.
Sacai: Down day
Anxiety. Screen fatigue. No sleep. Complicated jackets.
White Rats III by Broken English Club — metallic banging and despair.
Lukewarm Nescafé and cigarettes.
It’s almost time for work again.
Needles 2021 Fall/Winter lookbook
Because it’s so so beautiful, I thought I’d stick all the shots up here.
Shinya Kozuka: “They’re. Too. Big. For. Legs”
Have you seen the new Brut ad yet? It’s a dismal parody of a posh fragrance spot interrupted everyone’s favourite intelligence-tumour, Vinnie Jones. Basically, Vinnie gets a little over-emotional because people seem to want to buy fragrances that aren’t Brut.
“Grab yourself some Brut, it just smells good”, he lies.
“No messing about”, continues Vinnie — proving once more that the advertising industry is happy to glorify the idea of being dumb as soil.
At one point Vinnie points at his nose and says, “use your nose.” You start to wonder if Vinnie actually has to point at things to remember what they’re called.
To be fair the man is now just an approximation of the human form, a sneering megaphone, a bucketful of bull’s knuckles in a Peaky Blinders cap. I’m not sure he even knows what’s going on, is he aware he just said Brut smells good?
I expect anyone under the age of 30 won’t know what Brut is. And I doubt Vinnie Jones’ enthusiastic attempts to regress the UK’s taste levels will succeed. But really, this is some next level trollop.
Vinnie barks on, “forget all this nonsense and use your nut”. ‘Nut’ at this point being a dusty old slang term for ‘head’ that no one in Brut’s target market have even heard of, let alone use.
But Vinnie isn’t done earning his wedge.
“It’s not about success, or being someone you ain’t”, he continues. earnestly trying to puncture the artifice surrounding posh fragrances — the all too familiar archetype of the raging British dunce.
But then, wallop! We only go and cut to an end slate with bottles that clearly read ‘Brut: Paris 1965’ and ‘Brut: Attraction Totale’. What was that about ‘being something you ain’t?’ Paris eh? That’s where them Frenchies live. And isn’t ‘Totale’ the Italian spelling of ‘total’?
What a fucking palaver.
Needles: Yeah, I know, I’m a hero
Let’s watch another episode, then go for a walk. Let’s go for a walk then watch a film. For every step on the pavement, there’s a skip down a menu. Existence is a Möbius strip of Netflix and walking.
If I’m not walking, I’m watching. Something’s got to give.
I’m the kind of person that needs something to look forward to. I’m kept sane by that warm mental blip reminding me that there’s something good just around the corner. Maybe even a nice surprise. I assume my girl feels the same. So (in a remarkably uncharacteristic act of selflessness) I bought my girl a surprise.
“I don’t want to make you any more despondent”, I said, “but there’s a white mark on the quilt.”
“On the new quilt?”, she panicked. “For god’s sake. What is it?”
“Dunno”, I shrugged, “you should probably check it out.”
She hurried off to the bedroom. I listened. Silence. Then a loud, “oh my god”, followed quickly by, “what have you done?”
Xenia Telunts: Perfect for the sofa-based detective
Hold tight, it’s more loungewear. A couple of days back it was kaleidoscopic stripes by Dusen Dusen, now it is giant kimonos featuring splodgy houses and pot plants.
Finally the importance of loungewear has hit home. I’ve got a pair of ‘day’ pyjamas by Nowhaw, but, during this chill we’re all tired of talking about, they’re not quite substantial enough. The thing is, I do a great deal of sofa-based detective work; Death in Paradise; Marcella; Vera; The Bay; The Pembrokeshire Murders. And I can’t concentrate if I’m cold.
Someone is killed to death, there’s a cop with family problems and a familiar rotation of British supporting actors — to some it’s repetitive, but to the experienced investigator it’s all in the detail. Frequently, my Assistant Constable (my girl) appears less than engaged — she spends far too much time on WhatsApp for my liking. If she doesn’t get with the programme it’ll be back to desk work for her.
Never forget, the murderer is always the most implausible family member, and while you’re at it, try and train yourself to zone-out the bits where the lead’s ex-partner turns up out the blue wanting to ‘spend more time with the kids’. It’s valuable work.
But of course, a sofa-detective is no use to anyone if they’re always shivering.
Kapital: Yes. I know. It’s cold.
It seems the hot topic is no longer lockdown measures, or the effectiveness of the vaccines against new variants, but rather: when do you switch the heating on? We’ve been cold before. Yet no one in human history has ever bothered to work out how much heating a home for a day actually costs.
Some are advocates of wool, turning up to Zoom calls looking like Scott of the Antarctic. While others claim to hold out till mid-afternoon before cranking up the boiler. Then there’s the one who shrugs, saying they’ve got the heating on all day — which means for the remainder of the call everyone is thinking about how much they get paid.
There is of course one perspective absent from the list. The individual who can afford to have the heating on all day, but prefers to spend the money on imported casual wear. Hello there.
Dusen Dusen: Forget catching Zzzs… it’s pillow fight king or nothing
At least things are clearer now. Depending on which doctor or politician you happen to be listening to at the time, lockdown is either going to start relaxing in March, or continue forever. It’s the kind of British exceptionalism that makes me wonder if those Brexiteers weren’t onto something. That, and being charged £57 import duty for a pair of Parisian shoes last week.
I guess paying more to import something from France than, say, Japan, is all part of the grand plan. I assume we’re just lulling the world into a false sense of security before really showing them the grand Brexit vision. It will take a minute though, first we have to lay off all the fishermen, relocate small businesses to the EU and close the car factories. Only then will we have those foreigners where we really want them.
Anyway. It appears lockdown isn’t going anywhere any time soon. So none of us are going anywhere any time soon. Probably time to get robed-up. If we can’t promenade around outside in our bestest-bestest, then at least we can lounge inside in a bold stripy gown, doing bad Terry Thomas impressions.
TOGA Virilis: Take your positives where you can find them
Well that didn’t last long. Biden in — hooray. Corona variants turn out to be more murderous — boo. A brief moment of optimism quickly flattened by a sledgehammer of baked shit. Your favourite virus just got better: now available in ‘YOU’RE COMPLETELY FUCKED’ flavour.
‘Back to normal in spring’ has morphed into talk of summer restrictions — like we didn’t see that coming — and morale is low. On the plus side the government have brought back the ‘video nasty’. A public information film so terrifying it should finally make any naysayers just as wary of Covid-19 as they were of ponds and pylons in the 70s. I hope everyone watches it.
As we all know by now, you take your positives where you can find them. Wandavision. Vintage David Hockney books. The new Bicep album.
I particularly enjoy performing my attempt at a Botafogo, in my underpants, during my girl’s serious Zoom meetings. I like to thumb at the elastic, slowly revealing a pyramid of pubic hair. Just a little. No knob. For me, it’s all about the poetry of the adult male body. For her, it means muting the call and telling me to ‘go away’ — but using ruder words.
Other times I just look at clothes on the internet.
Document: A coat for a calmer world
An emoting Lady Gaga. A warble or three from J.Lo. Mr Tom Hanks himself, speaking words designed to steady and balm. America slightly adjusts its posture and passes an especially painful Trump of trapped wind.
The world sleeps easier.
It seems fit to mark the occasion with a piece that captures this return to regular programming. Something sober and sensible, but also charismatic and refreshing. The nuclear football may now be held by a man so old he’s his own great grandfather, but he’ll do it with dignity. Something, as we’ve seen, money can’t buy.
Fortunately for the sartorially obsessed, money can (and if I get my way, will) buy this. And you know what, dignified is a decent enough word to describe it. Crisp navy. Mid-length. Simple, but complex. This coat will make you look positively presidential. We can say that again now.
Don’t read this: visit the Nicholas Daley archive sale!
Two reasons to hooray. Firstly, the breathing pile of excrement that’s been stinking out the White House is finally out. These last few weeks have been a knuckle-jangler. I rewatched nuclear-porn Threads (and glossy US equivalent The Day After — everyone has blinding white teeth and tans even before the bomb drops.) as preparation in case the orange clown-show decided to throw the ultimate tantrum.
As it turns out, he’s, “especially proud to be the first president in decades who has started no new wars.” And if you don’t count the civil one, he’s right.
Still, no naughty-step nukes from The Donald means we can all enjoy my second reason to hooray. The no less culturally important, Nicholas Daley archive sale.
Bridge and tunnel
Engineered Garments: When the new feels familiar
Approaching a year of viroid abuse and nothing seems new anymore. Same drizzle. Same weary ‘what’s for dinner tonight?’ negotiations. Wash clothes, do work, watch news… Life is just a never-ending Netflix homepage — don’t stop scrolling, sooner or later there’s got to be something different.
Comfortably numb or uncomfortably numb — I can’t even tell. Everyone I know is so cold they’re wearing two pairs of socks. Bridgerton is ancient history. It was The Pembrokeshire Murders for five minutes.
This week I watched four wannabe Ant Middletons miming diabolically to a fucking sea shanty. On paper they’re a sickening quartet of lobotomized clones — deluded exhibitionism, H&M-level taste, meaty cocks proudly folded and vacuum sealed up front. It’s precisely the kind of spectacle that would usually freeze me with fury. Yet I felt nothing.
Even the new feels familiar. Same. Same. Same.
Pallet Life Story: soak it in milk and chew your way through
Buckle up, there’s a new monster in the hizouse! Dropping on das ‘Gram yesterday, this patchwork clownshow made me cough coffee from my nose. It’s available over at Gloopi-Made — freaky name, freaky jacket, freaky fucking dancing. I don’t know where to start; there are four different cloths fighting it out; six different colours in the mix. It’s like a bowl of Asda Rainbow Hoops with sleeves. And to be honest, soak this thing in milk and I’d probably try and chew my way through it — buttons and all.
If the image above doesn’t wet your whistle, you’ve got no whistle. So polish those specs, lightly cup your testicles and let’s take a closer look at this beautiful madness.
Kapital: Court jester meets incontinence pant
Doubtless there is an entirely sensible reason why these trousers tie up at the knee. Some practical application. Some purpose.
I’m in the dark. To the infantile brain they appear to be a monstrous hybrid of court jester and incontinence pant. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen trousers like this being sold in the back pages of a Sunday supplement.
Margaret Howell MHL: Striving for gender neutrality
I’ve just bought a woman’s cardigan. A woman’s cardigan I intend to wear myself. Yeah boy — gender fluidity!
I admit, the decision is somewhat uncharacteristic. I do not, as a rule, shop in the ladies section. I have never worn anything you could reasonably describe as panties. But this cardigan from the Margaret Howell MHL line was too good to resist. Basically, I looked at the measurements, convinced myself the numbers added up and ordered the biggest size they have.
Mountain Research: bigger, bolder, stupider
As with most sequels Lockdown 3 isn’t as good as the original. As you’d expect, this one is bigger, bolder and stupider — Boris Johnson is clearly a Michael Bay fan — and just like any rubbish film, people are choosing to leave half way through to rejoin their normal lives. Which is a bit of a problem.
Of course the media and the politicians can’t just come out and say, “you’re all a bunch a of nitwits, it’s spreading so fast because you won’t just stay at home.” But doubtless they’d like to. Sequels are always stupider and Lockdown 3 is as daft as they come. We’ve got more hospital footage of people knitted with plastic pipes, gasping for breath as they explain they didn’t take the warnings seriously enough. Facepalm alert. Didn’t they see Lockdown 1 and 2? We’ve got people claiming it’s all a hoax because they once visited a hospital and saw a couple of empty beds. There are anti-vaxxers, u-turns, packed schools. And everywhere you look, joggers, like wheezing Spitfires, buzzing our pavements with their spittle-laden breath.
On paper it shouldn’t be boring. But as anyone who’s sat through parts one and two will tell you, we’ve seen it all before. The original was engaging, the second was more of the same, but this one is stretching credulity. Can people really be this stupid? There’s a killer on the loose: let’s split up it’ll be safer that way.
Kolor: harmonised to form a piece of art
I do enjoy the sales patter employed by certain menswear retailers. A frenzied mixture of hyperbole and (occasionally) outright nonsense, the attempts to justify, convince and ultimately get you to boot-up your Paypal are frequently, if nothing else, entertaining.
Take this example from Korean outlet I Am Shop:
“This jacket is a unique product worn by combining a classic oversized blazer and a casual windbreaker, allowing you to feel the world view the brand pursues.”
‘The world view the brand pursues’? It’s a blazer and a cagoule. What is it trying to say? That within every birdwatcher there’s a recruitment consultant trying to get out?
Perhaps I’m just not smart enough to understand? According to I Am Shop, “formal materials and sporty materials are harmonised to form a piece of art.” So now I feel even more dumb. This is art. And there was me thinking it was just a way to get punters to cough-up for two jackets at once.
Needles: like finding a vein of gold, or an extra bit of Titanic
If you visit the Nepenthes London site and click ‘Sale’, then ‘Needles’, you might logically expect to see all the Needles in the sale. However, in-line with the current global topsy-turvyness, this is actually not so. For instance, this hat is hidden away under ‘Accessories’ > ‘Hats‘. It’s Needles, it’s on sale, but for some reason it’s not in general population.
When, like me, you spend an absurd amount of time circling the navigational array of every decent menswear site on the planet, you occasionally discover the odd incongruity. It’s like finding a vein of gold, or an extra bit of Titanic. And the very fact I feel so passionately about this gives you a good idea of how little it takes to get me excited these days.
Post-Imperial: New year, another favourite brand
So how’s 2021 for you? It seems remarkably similar to two days ago as far as I’m concerned. In spite of the deluge of Facebookians humble-bragging about 2020 being a tough year (you don’t say) and how they just ‘know’ 2021 is going to be great, we’re now 48 hours into the new year and things are still essentially piss.
I’m happy to offer a fake ‘boo-hoo’ and a real ‘told-you-so’ to the residents of Dover, who after voting for Brexit are now apparently shocked it means turning an area of natural beauty into a fuck-off lorry park. In the US a withering Trump is thinking about starting a war with Iran to get his Twitter follower count back up. While Jacob Rees-Mogg silently hovers over the UK in his steam-punk Deathstar, watching gleefully as the proletariat continually flout the rules, resulting in more deaths and expediting his chance at the big chair. Happy new year all.
The one positive on my personal horizon is the acquisition of a yellow corduroy Post-Imperial shirt. New brand: achievement unlocked! My girl bought it for my birthday (which isn’t until February) but when the postie arrived with the mystery box, I badgered and whined to such an olympic degree she gave up and let me have it. Anyway, long story short, it’s amazing, Post-Imperial is now my new favourite brand and, as befits a despicable gobbling gargoyle like myself, I already want more.
Together is coming
Comme des Garçons Homme: Televised Coronavirus
I have a family connection to the island of Jersey. So last night I popped my ‘The Real Housewives of…’ cherry and watched an episode of ITVBe’s The Real Housewives of Jersey. Suffice to say, after wincing through about 25 minutes, I had to re-watch Threads to cheer myself up.
Trading standards should take note, as the contents appeared to contain neither ‘housewives’ (they all seemed to have jobs of a sort) or any sense of reality — the infantile script soon shattered that illusion. I can confirm it’s set on Jersey. But not the actual Jersey, more a Jersey of ‘alternative facts’. There are no cliff walks, WWII relics and friendly seafood restaurants here. This is Jersey as seen though the lens of Liberace’s bed pan.
Each interchangeable participant is a random assemblage of creosoted tits and thighs, vacuum-packed inside a drag queen’s nightmare. Each has a vocabulary on par with a Mr Men book. And each appears to spend a great deal of money to look like they shop at QVC. This is an irony-free zone: watch as shameless self-importance ruthlessly fucks modesty in the arse.
The ladies bounce and totter and squeal in a futile effort to repackage the banal as sensational. Lordy, there’s a couple of gay guys. One of them sometimes wears a dress. Look out, one housewife has glanced at another housewife in a slightly displeasing way… OMG scandal!
The show presents the island’s Royal Yacht (the piss-head’s disco of choice) as a venue of sophistication. The wives coo over some local Banksy rip-offs. And when the husbands are wheeled on to mouth their lines you can almost feel the gun in their back.
Naturally the whole thing is plastered together with tone deaf cuntspeak about “loving Champagne and diamonds” and solemn nodding when a character dressed like a Toffee Penny with builder’s carves says something like: “you’ve just got to take every day as it comes.”
It’s televised Coronavirus. Breathless, queasy and if you watch enough of it you’ll lose your sense of taste.
The art of receiving
So, I’ve opened my Nepenthes-heavy gifts and now I’m browsing the sales for things I didn’t get and don’t need. What a despicable, grasping individual I am. As a child the hinterland post-Christmas and pre-new year was spent playing with new toys. But I’m already bored of playing with my new Needles sweater. I wore it for a Boxing day walk around a graveyard and now it’s not new. I’m sick of Tony’s Chocolonely. I’ve watched Wonder Woman 1984. I want more stuff. Wah-wah. Just hate me why don’t you.
..-. ..- -.-. -.- | — ..-. ..-. 2020
Needles: A pleasingly premature taste of tomorrow
Typically at this time of year things start to wind down, yet everything’s speeding up. Coronavirus has developed a 70% power boost. Shops barely have their ‘We’re back!’ stencils on the window before they’re forced to shut again. Christmas is on, then off, then on, then off… The French don’t want our lorries, but they might change their mind any minute. Broccoli is now the new toilet roll.
The country is a giant Scalextric track, and the car keeps falling off.
Menswear hasn’t escaped this national tizzy. Thirty percent offs are the norm, then “for 24 hours” a further 10% off that. The Bureau has gone on sale already and Kafka is offering its Patrons an early saving. While over at Nepenthes London they’ve already got Needles SS21 in stock.
I can’t keep up. I haven’t yet grubbed around in the post-Christmas sales and Needles are already tempting me with an age-inappropriate fringed velour tracksuit top.
BROWN by 2-tacs: A pocketful of sexual repression
Now here’s a piece to wear to Back to the Future’s Enchantment Under the Sea dance. Rev your DeLorean, give your Gibson a thwaggg and biff Tannen on the nose; this is so 1950s it comes with a free pocketful of sexual repression.
Back to the Future not your bag of candy canes? In that case think T-Birds vs the Pink Ladies. Or, somewhat ironically after the year we’ve had, Happy Days.
It’s squared off. It’s got a chunky hem. It comes with its own Buddy Holly soundtrack. But with fewer hand-jiving greasers, and more greasy hand-sani, does this style still work today?
Tender: A thousand yarn stare
When you look at this picture do you even notice the jacket? Christ forgive me, hide me from those eyes!
For some reason retailer I Am Shop have decided to style this unassuming Tender jacket on a dude who’s stare could curdle milk. I’m all for left-field model selection (you’ve seen my own attempts at street style) but why combine soft Welsh wool with General Zod? It’s overpowering. Once you see his eyes it’s over; nothing else exists. All you can do is brace for the searing heat of laser beams, before floating away as ash in the wind.
This dude is simply too mesmerising. I can’t imagine an outfit his intense vibes wouldn’t dominate. Which is a shame, as it’s the jacket that really deserves the attention.
Song for the Mute: Unwrap another Golden Barrel
Whoa! It looked today like we were about to snip the last thread sending us plummeting into a no-deal abyss, and now Johnson has agreed to a bit more talking. I wonder, when the final outcome is clear, which of his two contradictory views he’ll have to pretend to believe? Would no deal have been “a failure of statecraft.” Or will no deal in fact be “wonderful”, as he’s recently taken to saying. Does anyone believe a word our diet-Donald says?
I genuinely don’t think anyone cares anymore. Especially now we’re switching Coronavirus off on the 23rd. It’s not going to be re-booted until the 27th, so we can all pile round each other’s houses, cough, snog and spit on the turkey. Fuck everything, it’s jingletime! Hang the tinsel, pop open the Roses and let’s have a hug in front of the Christmas Strictly. What do you mean Granny says she can’t taste her Baileys?
There’s a grim certainty hanging over everything. Obviously Santa’s going to deliver preventable deaths to thousands. Obviously whatever piss poor arrangement Johnson agrees to will be presented as a triumph. And obviously a nation of duped peons will wake up to a new year with the worst economic predictions in generations, no new job-packed Toyota factories, crippling tariffs on small businesses and the cost of Granny’s funeral to consider.
Fuck it all. You voted for it, you can gobble it up nitwit. I’m going to look at this insanely expensive Song for the Mute jacket. You stick with your Mrs. Brown’s Boys Christmas Special, see where it gets you.
GoopiMade: Stuck in a hinterland between hope and despair
The other night I sat through Celebrity Antiques Road Trip. Bananarama were on and I watched as they pretended to be excited when a Royal Crown Derby cup and saucer they bought for £25, sold at auction for £35. In a year of depressing spectacles it was still an impressively bleak watch.
For a change of speed I followed it up with Muscle. A new art house film exploring the male psyche against a backdrop of steroid abuse, nuclear machismo and highly antisocial behaviour. I thought it might be fun. One hour and fifty minutes of grunting, crying, casual racism and the most nauseating suburban orgy committed to film later, I can say that ‘fun’ is not the appropriate word.
Banal bargain hunters or high-brow protein shakers? Life’s full of such juxtapositions right now. We’ll look anywhere for something, anything, to break the monotony. It’s not quite Christmas. We haven’t quite got the vaccine. We’re still on the precipice of committing to the idiocy of a no-deal. We’re all just treading water until we can open our presents.
Do I want art-house or dumbed-down? A takeaway or more boiled veg? Shall I read a book or just boot up COD? Should I clash-up some pattern and colour and become a figure of hopeful optimism? Or just give up, dress head-to-toe in dark navy and vanish into our societal shambles?
You can probably guess from my tone which I’d prefer.
Kenneth Field: If Romesh Ranganathan was the cure for Coronavirus
At last. Today. The first injectee. Just 68,041,626 to go. Shame it took so long. I recognise the astonishing achievement of the global scientific community. It’s just that if the vaccine for Coronavirus had turned out to be something more commonplace, something more easily findable, we could have saved a lot of trouble.
It’s unfortunate that Uniqlo padded jackets weren’t the cure. Or the smell of an M&S Best Ever Beef Lasagne. Things would have been very different. If exposure to Romesh Ranganathan had been a vaccine, I expect there’d have been no outbreak at all. His omnipresence across all forms of media would have inoculated the country immediately. Although it’s not Ranganathan’s fault. He could never have known that if he’d modulated the delivery of his ‘giving birth is like constipation’ routine in a way that naturally boosted the body’s T and B-lymphocytes, 2020 would have been amazing.
Byborre: a bicycle-pump for your ego
There’s something exquisitely awkward about self-proclaimed titles. So cringeworthy, like taking a bicycle-pump to your ego. Woo-hoo, over here, check out the status on me.
Scott Disick (notable for impregnating Kourtney Kardashian) bought an English title on the internet. He now prefers to go by Lord Disick. Presumably because he’s a dicksick. And of course you don’t see Anton Du Beke putting up a fuss when Tess calls him “King of the Ballroom.” But then he’s no stranger to a little bogus prestige: as is clear from Anthony Paul Beke’s birth certificate.
Surprisingly this kind of shameless self-applause doesn’t crop up in fashion all that often. So it is queasily refreshing to find Byborre, an Amsterdam based textile innovation studio, quite comfortably self-identifying as the “Masters of Knit.”
AiE: A confusing entry point
Often the most interesting menswear is quite confusing. What, precisely, is it? What’s it trying to say? And not least, when would you actually wear it?
Kenta Miyamoto, head of design at AiE, is well versed in the art of confusion. As you’d expect from a Nepenthes family brand, AiE collections nod to Needles here and Engineered Garments there, but the overriding sense is one of befuddling chaos. A jumble of ideas, pattern, print, shape and colour fighting to be seen. It shouldn’t work. Yet, when worn en masse, these erratic pieces add-up. The riddle suddenly makes sense.
So where does this leave the AiE beginner? You can’t very well drop on everything all at once. Unless you’ve got a bottomless purse, you’ll need a starter piece. Something that carries the AiE DNA, but is equally at home sitting with gear you’ve already got. Something like this.
Sage Nation: The most important trousers in the world right now
One of the less discussed, but welcome, results of ‘generation woke’, is that masculinity is no longer measured by the rules I grew up with. To celebrate a man because of his earnings, his athletic prowess (either on the sports field or in the bedroom) his ability to bottle-up emotion or his appetite for sexual innuendo now feels positively archaic. It’s all embarrassingly out of step with contemporary mores.
Yet if anything, with all those old-fashioned machismo measures out the way, it’s now easier than ever to spot the alpha dudes. It’s simple. They’ll be the ones wearing the biggest trousers.
The Nerdys: a world of hurt
What a week.
I’m having what can politely be described as ‘tummy troubles’. After a phone appointment with my doc I’m prescribed dried apricots. Ever had one? It’s like eating something that’s washed up on a beach.
Then I’ve got my sister sending me WhatsApp videos of my infant nephew having his ‘biffy baff’. My fucking eyes! Why would my sister send me footage of a small boy’s knob bobbing in bubble bath?
To round it off, after hours of back and forth, my girl and I finally agreed to buy an armchair on Vinterior. Then we spotted the extra £150 it’d cost to deliver from the Czech Republic. So that’ll be a grand for a chair designed by some dude with a name like a spilt bag of Scrabble tiles.
What a week of piss.
It makes me want to do something stupid, like lash out 180 quid on a shirt with a silly pocket that I definitely don’t need.
Post-Imperial: this beaming yellow over-shirt must be mine
Perhaps you remember the brand Post-Imperial from the Engineered Garments collaboration last year. The powerhouse project resulted in some eye-popping pieces, as designer Niyi Okuboyejo combined his Nigerian heritage with EG standards like the Loiter jacket, the Ghurka Short and bucket hat.
I’m a bit surprised the brand hasn’t appeared at stores like The Bureau, Kafka, Garbstore and Hip Store. With its New York base, West African influences and traditional artisanal dying techniques it feels like a no brainer to me. The current collection, available at Matches, boasts some enviable tie-dye sweats in cotton-chenille and look at that corduroy… jumbo and fuzzy, seriously soft and comfortable surely.
Doubtless the vibrancy of Post-Imperial’s colour palette might frighten some, but for me it’s the opposite. A man can’t live in navy, olive and grey alone. Unless he insists on it, but where’s the fun in that? Consequently, I’ve decided that this beaming yellow over-shirt must be mine.
Conichiwa Bonjour: part Breakdance 2 ‘dance battle’ part Alison Moyet
I wonder why brands never get bored of making sweatshirts with the names of cities and universities on them? I understand the classical appeal of Ivy. I get Ametora. But in a post-Superdry world — where every possible graphical permutation of sport, academia and metropolis has already been jacked, morphed and spewed into airless malls — I would have thought the concept thoroughly exhausted.
New in at London’s Garbstore we find Conichiwa Bonjour. A brand that still seem to do a roaring trade in mutated Ivy staples. You can get a face-full of vibe over on the brand’s Korean site. It’s all sweats, tees, caps, hoodies and liners. Colourful. Unpretentious. It’s streetwear brah. Clothing designed around a glamorised ideal of what people do on streets. I expect skateboarding’s on the moodboard. A closing-time screaming match followed by sick and tears, probably not.
Comme des Garçons Homme: New COD Cold War update
What’s with Call of Duty Black Ops Cold War developers Treyarch? Of course you’ve got your gun modding, psychological profiles and in-game perks. But is it too much to ask for some character options aimed at the more sartorially-minded bro? Is it just me or is all-over camo a bit 90s? Camo’s okay for a bit of autumn/winter flare, but what about spring/summer? I can’t even find any cruisewear in the menus.
Of course, I want my gunsmanship to do most of the talking. The first and last thing my opponents should see is the flash of my AUG. If they’ve got time to appreciate the cut of my box pleats I’m doing something wrong.
That said, it’d be nice to have a more varied wardrobe. Some days I’m just not feeling utilitarian murder-wear. It might be nice to slice a terrorist’s jugular in a jolly summer-weight tank top.
Imminent departure
Nepenthes London: who’s the real victim here?
The Nepenthes hardcore may have spotted these knits over on the Hakata store Instagram. But what you might not know is that they’re expected in the London store next week.
How these Shetland made sweaters have made it the 9,206 miles to Hakata, before the 735 miles to London is anyone’s guess. I blame Brexit. Let’s not forget (as if we didn’t already have enough to worry about) that clown show is still incoming. I think of it like a third wave of the virus, but one we voted for. I’m sure the country’s already beleaguered small businesses can’t wait to enjoy more checks, tariffs, hold-ups and paperwork come December 31st.
And let’s spare a thought for the real victims here. Overindulged guys like me who have to wait a week longer to buy some slightly unusual knitwear. I said it. What?
Click and collect
Needles: I like things and I won’t apologise
It’s about this time that thoughts turn to Christmas, specifically Christmas presents. More specifically the receiving of them. Giving’s okay, but let’s not pretend receiving isn’t the reason we all turn up. Watching your Dad open another posh Labour and Wait apron he didn’t ask for, and doesn’t need, is fun. But it’s just the warm-up act, an amuse-bouche before your own animalistic tearing can begin.
Of course, I’m out of step with the mood of the times. It’s all experiences these days, rather than things. But I don’t apologise, I like things, I want stuff. I want to send someone a link in November and unwrap precisely that thing on the 25th.
You might want to do the same with these trousers when you see the reduction in price.
Niche: sunflowers, daisies, some disembodied somethings and a multi-coloured job
I’m vulnerable to embroidery. A real sucker for it. So much more luxe than a print. Almost anything rendered in embroidery looks cool. For example: I’ve got no particular affection for flowers, yet this new collection of floral sweats from Japanese brand Niche is owning me.
Petals, leaves, stalks; in real life I can take ’em or leave ’em. I canceled my girl’s weekly Freddie’s Flowers drop when Covid began to bite. But embroidered flowers, on a sweatshirt? That’s my kind of arrangement. Sensitive, considerate, friendly: wear one of these and people will assume you’re all those things.
Primury: detail in the mundane
Stuck in our homes. No outside stimulus. Our view of life ever more abbreviated. Is it me or does the mundane begin to exhibit a level of detail hitherto unnoticed?
I’ve never before noticed that before her Zoom pilates class my girl crawls around picking up bits of fluff from the carpet. God forbid her fellow contortionists think her anything less than house-proud. It’s the digital equivalent of a 1950’s granny scrubbing her front step.
I’ve never paid much attention while my girl cuts my hair either. It’s become so tediously routine, I’ve typically zoned out and let her get on with it. It was only the other day I actually realised the hatchet-job she’s been doing on my eyebrows. There are clearly notches where there should be hair — I’ve been on business calls looking like Vanilla Ice.
The detail in the mundane. It’s all we’ve got right now. And in menswear terms what’s more mundane than the white canvas sneaker?
Grei: abnormal circumstances call for triple denim solutions
“You must go for a walk”, says my chiropractor, “every day.”
He’s is wearing a hazmat suit, he looks like one of the scientists at the end of ET.
“I do go for a walk every day”, I lie, as I squeeze past him to escape.
I don’t enjoy walking for walking’s sake. A walk has to have a point. There must be something to do at the end of a walk, otherwise why walk? But with everything closed, there may well be walking to be done, but there’s nowhere to walk to. When I do drag myself out for a leg-stretch I end up walking in circles, a quick ‘lap of the block’ then back to the sofa for Escape to the Country and eclairs.
There may be no destinations but the pavements are still chocka with walkers and, my personal bête noire, the runner. It’s impossible to enjoy a 20 minute stroll without being swarmed by runners. Runners over here, runners over there, most of them running directly at me. All of them cantering about, snorting and puffing — like they’re trying to prove they’re the most runnery runner who’s ever done a run. And when they pass by (always ignoring the two metre rule) are they deliberately trying to pant germs into my eyes?
No wonder I don’t like walking. It feels unsafe. And unlike my back-doctor I don’t have a hazmat suit. Maybe this three piece denim armour is the next best thing?
Tilak: ready for adventure
Context in menswear is so important. Take a look at the website of Czech brand Tilak. It’s full of people doing stuff that isn’t watching boxset TV. They’re all wearing primary coloured leggings and body-hugging cagoules, they’re jumping up and down and walking up stuff, apparently for fun. It’s almost like they don’t spend every day moaning, smoking and eating mint Clubs. This is not a cool context.
Now check out Japan’s Collect Store. Here we find Tilak again. But the context is entirely different. Scroll down the homepage and you’ll see individuals doing little more than standing in the street, wearing clothes, looking a bit moody. This is a cool context. Just because you’re wearing a technical brand, doesn’t mean you have to pogo about, climbing trees and playing Poohsticks. It’s quite sufficient to lean against a branch of Lloyds Pharmacy eating Quavers safe in the knowledge that your sweater cost more than everyone else’s.
South2 West8: the star of a 70s made-for-TV horror film about Yetis
Proper cabin in the woods stuff this. Fuzzy, warm and practical, with a strong retro flavour. There’s something of the ‘video nasty’ about it. This is the gear worn by the local ‘crazy’ warning the kids to stay out the woods. Or perhaps the camp councillor, just before he’s beheaded with a pair of shears.
I doubt such a fate would befall me around Peckham. The only daggers I’d get would be the green eyes of envy from the local style-bros. To which I obviously say, bring it on.
South2 West8: the sophistication of a Parker pen
That didn’t last long. Just the other day I was tossing my toys out the pram over a lack of sartorial inspiration. Then this monster lands over at Nepenthes London. Hold the phone. Call the cops. It’s back on baby.
Take a moment, look at that pattern and those colours, drink them in. So scarily wrong, yet so perfectly right. It’s like a time-machine to a more naive time. A time of Harold Wilson, portable cassette recorders and the sophistication of a Parker pen.
I’ve been looking for a reason to regrow my clichéd lockdown moustache and here it is.
HAAT-ery: who decides what suits you?
Why do so many people think hats don’t suit them? It seems that for many, the simple act of wearing a hat is a big challenge. Believing that hats simply don’t ‘suit’ (whatever that means) is a common act of self-delusion. The thing is, if you wear hats, you get used to hats and come to believe they suit you. If you don’t, you don’t. It’s as simple as that.
But if there’s one thing left that unites the human race, it’s that we’ve all got heads. And in virtually 100% of cases, they’ve got a top bit which will fit a hat nicely.
Of course, there are hats and there are hats, and today we’re exploring the latter. The Haat-ery is finally open for business, offering an unapologetically unique approach to millinery. These are not your standard hats. Yes, they’re challenging, confusing even. But if you’re a committed hat wearer and ready to explore options outside a Norse Projects beanie, you’re in the right place.
Unfil: banishing stylistic impotence
I haven’t been wowed by much this season. Maybe I’ve reached peak clothing. Or perhaps I’ve just been emotionally lobotomised by the constant avalanche of shit news. But I’m not getting excited by anything. Engineered Garments are offering asymmetric zips, muddy patterns and a battalion of belted coats and I can’t get onboard with any of it. And that jazz stuff with musical notes down the sleeves? I’m sure I’ve seen that stuff at Camden Market.
I like the Needles sweater I posted about the other day, but that’s about it. I’ve dozed on Sasquatchfabrix and Monitaly. While CDG Homme are knocking out stuff that looks like last winter’s EG and then there’s that horrible CDG Shirt x Futura collaboration. Everything looks the same (or worse) than stuff I already own.
Doubtless I’m a twat. A spoilt, whiny crybaby with nothing left to buy. Boo-hoo me. Boo-fucking-hoo.
I just want something to come along and smack me out of this malaise. I want to see something I really want, something to banish this stylistic impotence.
Forget the heating bill, buy this Needles sweater
So what have you been talking about this week? What topics are keeping the traps of your workmates, your family and your friends yapping? I expect it’s much the same as last week. And the week before. And the week before that. In the absence of much outside stimulus, the art of conversation is withering on the vine.
US election: Yes, we still hope Trump loses.
TV: No, a night on the sofa with a boxset doesn’t feel like a treat when it’s all you do.
The Queen’s Gambit: Yes, it’s about chess, but don’t let that put you off.
Work: Yes, we’re working more hours than ever before (caveat: but we’re lucky to have a job)
Christmas: No, it won’t be the same this year.
Covid: Yes, another lockdown is a certainty.
The one new conversational gambit this week goes as follows:
“My flat is so cold… but I don’t want to have the heating on all day… it’d cost a fortune.”
Cue universal agreement and, if you’re lucky, a side bar around, “does anyone really know how much heating costs?”
Then someone will say they’d rather, “stick another sweater on“, before collapsing in giggles as though they are the first person to ever say such a thing.
Conversational rock and roll it is not.
Kapital: Like tiers in the rain
This is not a drill. My NHS app alert is high. It might be very high tomorrow. I don’t know what the tiers mean. Can I catch it from TikTok? Can I eat a packet of Nik Naks in my garden?
And the drizzle… It just won’t stop. I feel like Rutger Hauer at the end of Blade Runner: defeated, miserable and a bit damp, with nothing left to do but accept the inevitable.
Impossible times call for implausible measures. I made up some nonsense about the knitted optimism of a bright yellow roll neck the other day. It was so convincing, that I convinced myself. I bought it. It arrives today.
But I think I need more. More unreasonably exuberant clothing. More stuff I can put on to provide some wall of positivity between myself and the end times.
Heimat: wary of woollens with an aquatic bent
“Should fit snug with initial wears”, says retailer Clutch Cafe of this glorious golden knit. But what if you don’t want it snug? What if your very idea of hell is bright yellow fabric stretched taught across a surplus of tummy? What then?
I’ve encountered this issue with ‘nautical style’ knitwear before. I bought a tightly woven roll neck sweater from North Sea Clothing, it was a size too small, but a steal in the sale. Course when I got it home I realised that it looked fine while standing pin-straight, but as soon as I moved about I looked pregnant. I stuffed it with cushions to try and stretch it out. But as it turns out, serious fisherman’s knits are built to withstand the rigours of light upholstery. Ever since I’ve been wary of woollens with an aquatic bent.
Clarks Originals: For an audience who’ve never heard of Campag Velocet
For me, Clarks Originals are the 90s. Katie Puckrik on the box, Sliding Doors in the cinemas and a nation of youths greeting each other with an affected “alright our kid”, while swaggering bow-legged, like orangutans in parkas. I find it impossible to detach Clarks Originals from all this cultural baggage.
Whether you aligned with the The Blurs or The Oasises, it was a period of pretence. Kids from the Midlands acted like they were from Manchester. While kids from Surrey zipped up their funnel-neck trackies and deleted their aitches to live their best park life. Any cultural cache the Clarks Wallabee enjoyed as the de facto footwear during the early days of acid house was demolished. Suddenly everyone and their uncle was nodding along to Supergrass in Desert Boots and Desert Treks.
It’s clear that for many, this period never went away. Your head-to-toe Oi Polloi guy still dresses for a night at Checkpoint Charlie’s or speculative queuing at the Atlantic Bar & Grill. And Clarks are always in the mix. Those signature colours, those slender gum soles, that distinctively Clarksian last. These days Clarks seem as anachronistic as Mickey Pearce in Only Fools… propping up the bar in a 90s disco wearing his 80’s grey fleck suit.
F/CE: the only blips of real joy
Is it Christmas yet? Has it already happened? Did I get anything good? When every day’s the same it’s difficult to keep track. Wake up too early; coffee; smoke; laptop; sandwich; laptop; Six O’Clock News; TV; bed; repeat. Could Daedalus himself design an ordeal more wretched?
My spine is now ossified into the curve of the sofa. My eyes are dry and itchy. I begin every day with a heaving sigh. What shall I have for breakfast? Toast with peanut butter. Or jam? Or marmalade? The unyielding banality of it all.
Interesting clothes offer the only blips of real joy. Exciting and weird stuff, glimpsed via distant websites. But even then there’s just a fleeting moment to covert, before the crushing truth of our circumstance surfaces once more. No one’s going anywhere. No one’s seeing anyone. Socialising, the fundamental catalyst for the clothes game, is cancelled.
The Conspires: remember to keep breathing
According to a recent poll by Hope Not Hate, 17% of Britons believe Covid-19 was released on purpose to reduce the size of the population. That’s over 11 million people in this country. You might want to let that sink in.
A massive 25% believe ‘global elites’ are in thrall to secret satanic cults. Which basically means a quarter of people right now, living in the UK, genuinely believe Christopher Lee is back daggering virgins as Michelle Obama prostrates herself before Pazuzu.
Of course this is all QAnon’s doing. One anonymous post on 4chan back in 2017 and now look where we are. From within the casual racism and prolapse gifs of the world’s grottiest message board has risen a new level of global idiocy. People, and a lot of people at that, are believing this nonsense.
If it teaches us one thing, it’s to never underestimate the stupidity of others. And just to be clear, I’m not casually bandying the word stupidity about, in this context we’re talking proper, soil-brained, lemming-level thickery. It’s remarkable these fuck-wits remember to keep breathing. And look at the percentages, you may well have one of these loons living next door.
All the more reason to protect yourself. By which contrivance we can now turn our attention to this idiot-proof vest.
Typing Mistake: like a wearable technical drawing
As a career keyboard-prodder, I’m inevitably going to be drawn to a brand called Typing Mistake. If only to learn the rational behind the unorthodox choice of name.
Fortunately, with the help of Google Translate and our irony detector bleeping madly, we can learn:
“Typing Mistake is not an inspiration from a point that flashes like a flash, but from a very simple mistake caused by a typo in Korean/English keyboards.”
So it goes without saying:
“Completed and incomplete, right and wrong, correct and incorrect answers are like the innocence of young children who bravely stand up and walk again even if they fall without boundaries, and sometimes even small mistakes can be more beautiful than any other perfection.”
Exactly how this appreciation of literary baboonery manifests in a white shirt with black stitching is unclear. But I guess, like the innocence of young children who bravely stand up and walk again even if they fall without boundaries, I couldn’t care less.
Bru na Boinne: don’t try and tell me this cardigan isn’t alive
It’s possible NASA will uncover alien life beneath the frozen red desert of Mars. But it appears they could’ve saved themselves a lot of rocket fuel. Galactic intruders are already among us. They’re hiding in plain sight within Bru na Boinne’s winter collection.
Aggressively fibrous and entirely irregular; don’t try and tell me this cardigan isn’t alive. It’s clearly sprung from the bowls of some poor sap, straight onto a coat-hanger to await its purchaser and permanent host. Ever seen the Mexican sci-fi The Untamed? It’s an shokushu goukan freakshow of galactic sex-tentacles and willing human participants. Put this cardie on and that’s your fate. An erotic ravagement by an unearthly being made of wool and acrylic.
Pras: Once in the cultural stratosphere, you can’t be seen to drop down
I went for a socially distanced bowl of chips the other day. I asked the waiter if I could get some ketchup. What he didn’t day was, “yes, of course I’ll get you some ketchup.” Nor did he say, “no I’m sorry we don’t have any ketchup.” Either being a perfectly reasonable response.
He said: “sweet life.”
I asked for ketchup and he said “sweet life”, then ran off to get my ketchup.
Sweet life.
I mean, I guess there’s a sweetness to ketchup. Besides ‘savoury life’ doesn’t really have the same ring to it. But that wasn’t what my server was getting at. He was saying ‘no problem’, or ‘good choice’, or perhaps an amalgamation of the two.
Sweet life? I’m all for seeing the positives in life, especially now. But if we’ve got to the point where requesting a condiment warrants a ‘sweet life’, you know times must be tough.
That said, I do have another theory. I like to imagine the poor lad was so intimidated by my progressive streetwear, he assumed I would only respond to nonsensical urban patois. Maybe I just look like a ‘sweet life’ kind of guy.
Digawel: Cool enough for you?
My girl frequently pulls a face. When I drop crumbs on the sofa. When I tread a single leaf in from the garden. This time it’s because of music I’m playing.
“A bit full on isn’t it?”, she says.
Secretly I’m pleased she’s noticed.
“It’s a new album called Harvest Vol-1“, I say, “on the label More Rice.”
“I see”, she says.
“It’s a collection of electronica from South Korea, the Philippines and Thailand. Pitchfork described it as ‘dancefloor weaponry’.”
“I only listen to dancefloor weaponry”, I add.
My girl frowns. Smiles. Then starts singing, “this is the rhythm of the night”, over and over again, while chasing me round the room, flicking at my bottom with a tea towel.
I don’t think she entirely appreciates how cool I am.
Pherrow’s: A tranquil, egoless prospect
There’s a quiet modesty to London retailer Clutch Cafe that I’m starting to find addictive. While other (admittedly great) stores focus on seasons, unceasingly peddling the new, Clutch seems content to sit back with a strong coffee and an incomprehensible Japanese magazine about motorhomes, in a shirt that whispers, rather than screams its heritage.
Clutch Cafe don’t sell ‘household names’ like Engineered Garments, Needles, Noma T.D. or Sasquatchfabrix. They sell Soundman, Jelado, Belafonte and Coherence. Small, artisanal imprints. Brands which command fewer column inches, but remain extremely considered, superbly made and offer a tranquil, egoless prospect.
Covidstyle: How to choose the right mask for the right occasion
The countdown to bumwipe rationing starts here. Corona’s back baby, and it’s pissed off.
Most people with the ability to read recognise that the UK Government’s response has been shocking from the get-go. Words like inept, bumbling, even idiotic, don’t begin capture the sheer scale of the horrorshow.
We’ve had: ‘Stay home, protect the NHS, save lives’. Then: ‘Stay alert, control the virus, save lives’. Then: ‘Hands, face, space.’ And, because Boris assumes most of the population can’t count past three, come Monday we’ll have a new ‘Three Tier system’.
Let’s be frank. By this point everyone’s confused. Some stay locked in. Some occasionally nip to the corner shop. And then there’s everyone else.
You can get a good sense of ‘everyone else’ from the vox pops on your local news. “There are too many people out shopping”, moans the woman out shopping. No sense of irony, completely stoney faced; it’s remarkable. Our nation of complainers have finally turned on themselves. Then you’ve got your textbook angry Englander. Brainwashed by decades of tabloid abuse, this ruddy-faced genius stares the camera down and barks about how we should, “forget the whole thing and just bloody get on with it.” Even as these respiratory droplets of bullshit hang in the air, he’s already thinking where his next can of Skol Super’s coming from. We’re not talking Mensa members here.
Within the fecal matter of our societal prolapse there remains the humble mask. A simple cotton symbol of right-thinking decency. A badge of honour for anyone with a conscience. Of course we’re bored of them, but they’re essential and they’re not going anywhere. So it’s only right and proper that the more sartorially minded might give some thought to the mask. In particular which style is right for which occasion? You wouldn’t wear a tuxedo to a brunch. So it follows, a man of menswear might want access to a range of masks to reflect both circumstance and mood.
Comfy Outdoor Garment: I want a bubble made of moisture wicking, quick drying fleece
Interest in Japanese outfitters Comfy Outdoor Garment seems to be growing — at least in my digital echo chamber. Championed in the UK by Manchester till-ringers This Thing of Ours, the brand offers urban technical, acid rambler style kit. Mountains of drawcords, zippers, quick drying fleeces, micro ripstop and breathable waterproofness. It’s vibe somewhere between a dystopian free-climb and a saucer-eyed Balearic session. Top one, etc…
This Thing of Ours are hyping this cyber-top as their favourite piece of the season, and no doubt, it’s a power choice. But for some reason I can’t stop feeling this Ribenary fleece.
Kapital: “It’s not about the image, it’s the thirst”
This the ‘Maze’ pullover‘ by Kapital. If you look closely, you’ll see there’s a graphic of a maze upon its torso. See the little man about to enter the maze? If you trace his route you’ll discover he’s about to enter perhaps the easiest maze ever devised. I’m not sure it even qualifies as a maze, really it’s just a spiralling path. I’m not sure the little man could get lost if he tried. You might also notice that there aren’t actually that many mazes on it. Most of the graphics look more like targets.
To title a pullover ‘Maze’, then fail to deliver on either quality or quality of mazes feels like an oversight to me. This is England goddammit. We’re used to well considered, luxury products like Brexit and Test and Trace. Come on Japan, pull your finger out.
Bru na Boinne: Boo-hoo me
I keep getting up too early. This nouveau lockdown is twisting me. These four walls are everything; work, family, relaxation, sustenance, joy, despair; it’s one shifting morass. When does a cocoon become a tomb? I nap in the afternoon. I stay up too late. I can’t lie in. I’m up at 7am on a Saturday, gawping at my Mac writing this. My candle has been burning at both ends for so long I can no longer see the middle.
I’m sure it’s the same for many. But as the murk of winter descends, as the rain sheets against my windows, you’ll excuse me if take a moment of mournful introspection.
What are you doing? Are you working through this? I mean, I know we’ve got a love of menswear in common, but what else do you do? I smoke; outside, in the drizzle, with my hood up — a pathetically idiotic vision if there ever was one. I watch obscure 60s and 70s films — they seem to bring me a more profound sense of escapism than modern cinema. I eat a lot of sandwiches for lunch. Always accessorised with plain Walkers; I find their inherent blandness works with everything.
Electronica; walk round the block; Deliveroo; Citalopram; Netflix; Google Slides; Amazon Prime; Slack message; Slack message; Slack message… Boo-hoo me. Boo-fucking-hoo.
Kapital: Reason abandoned in the face of savage animalistic threat
So, Trump’s got Covid. Are you allowed to hope for the worst? When the most loathed man on the planet contracts a potentially life threatening disease, how many of us secretly hope it’s the end of him? “Well of course, I wouldn’t wish death on anyone.” That’s what we say. But what do we think?
I’m going to plead the fifth on that one. I’m not craving the attention of the CIA. But it’s an interesting question. What’s the sustained impact of a monster like Trump on your moral centre? I’m wondering if it’s like Straw Dogs — reason and civility are slowly abandoned in the face of savage animalistic threat.
These trousers represent a threat of sorts. Less existential certainly, but enough to make you double-check the mirror before you head out for a pastry.
Danner x Snow Peak: Positivity from somewhere
I’m a little underwhelmed by the season’s first Engineered Garments drop. I know, right, it’s almost heresy. Maybe I’ve reached peak EG; finally fatigued by fatigues. Although I think it’s more to do with the palette. I get it’s autumn, but all those blacks and stormy prints, they’re making me miserable. Back in semi-lockdown, with shares in bum wipe rising and America’s orange psycho barking on the box, I don’t need any more gloom. It’s probably why I’m sitting here at 7.30am, typing in a ludicrous leopard print Monitaly top, with a ten minute mix of Frankie’s Welcome to the Pleasuredome on loop — a brother’s got to get some positivity from somewhere.
If I was going to drop on some new EG, I’d probably go for this tan and orange checked Loiter. It’s not really me — a bit countryfied, a bit Peter Bowles in To the Manor Born — but at least it’s not grey. Of course it’s ideal for a grouse shoot — fortunately one of the few activities exempt from the ‘rule of six’, courtesy of our ‘man of the people’ Prime Minister. What laughs I could have deliberately coughing on a bunch of poshos, as we blow the heads off some peaceful wildlife.
Comme des Garçons SHIRT: The delusion remains intact
Have you seen the Comme des Garçons SHIRT x Futura collection? Take a look. Would you wear it?
When it comes to Comme des Garçons I know I’m indoctrinated. Since the earliest collections in the 80s, I’ve happily convinced myself that Comme is it. The most important and radical brand of my lifetime. For me, cool begins and ends with Comme.
I’m so throughly self-programmed that I can overlook the genericism of PLAY sneakers and CDG, the tatty, logo-daubed yard sale. And when faced with the Comme des Garçons SHIRT x Futura collection, I may roll my eyes, but my delusion remains intact.
It’s tempting for viewers of the recent Netflix documentary The Social Dilemma to assume such brainwashing is a recent, digital phenomenon. But the right brands have always had such power.
Fennica x orSlow: The gateway to a risqué lifestyle
I don’t wear jeans. I realised this back in July while looking at some jeans by Fennica x orSlow. Or at least, I don’t wear jeans in the truest sense, nothing that looks like what people think jeans should look like. I’ve got baggy cargo-style trousers in a lightweight denim. I’ve got denim ‘trousers’, with the kind of ample pleating you’d find on 80’s business slacks. But nothing that looks like a 501.
Mostly I wear trousers in cotton or wool. My daily goal is to look like a cross between a creative polymath and a quietly subversive lover. And I tend to feel trousers, rather than jeans, are effective in getting this point across.
Clutch Cafe: Oozing with confident idiosyncrasies
The last thing I bought from London’s Clutch Cafe was a hat. Built from thick ecru cotton, it’s a thing of beauty — generous floppy brim, robust neck cord, leather detail: the quality is superb. The only problem is the brand name: Mr Fatman. I never want to say Mr Fatman out loud. If anyone asks where I got my hat, I say, “Clutch Cafe.” Not Mr Fatman. Never Mr Fatman. For a dude with a committed relationship with family-sized bars of Dairy Milk, it’d be asking for trouble.
Regardless of Clutch Cafe’s passion for oddly titled Japanese brands, it remains a top destination for those with an appetite for millinery. There are two total weapons in store right now. Both will lobotomise your wallet. And both go super-heavy on the boro/sashiko. The ignorant will assume you found your hat in a skip. But you’ll know you paid a fortune. Who’s laughing now?
Wellder: The funnel-neck strikes back
Within the genre of higher-neck garments the funnel-neck doesn’t get much play. It’s always roll-neck this and mock-turtle that. Put simply, a funnel-neck is wider, more gapey. You might remember them from the ladies section of the Littlewoods catalogue. In there you had all manner of anodyne blondes, leaning against garden furniture, wearing camel knits with necks like baggy foreskins.
NOMA t.d: Be afraid
As bad sequels go ‘Lockdown 2: Lives or Livelihoods?’ has loads going for it. A super-dumb back story for one. Masks in shops but not in pubs. Two metres, one on a Sunday. It’ll all be fine by Christmas. Get a test. There aren’t any tests. Stay home. Stay alert. Hands. Face. Cardboard box.
Just a couple of weeks ago it was the public’s moral duty to work in the office and eat out. Now it’s not. The government’s decision making would stretch credulity within the most trashy airport page-turner. And we’re supposed to believe there’s some kind of strategy at play here?
Of course every sequel needs some new baddies. This time we’ve got the anti-vaxxers, QAnon and the Rule Britannia crowd trying to out-thick each other over at #thinkingforyourself. It’s just the kind of nuclear-stupid a sequel needs. According to one Bolton resident, quoted recently in The Guardian, “people (are) laughing and shaking their heads at others who are wearing masks.”
The first one was just the virus, now it’s the virus plus the great British idiot. Be afraid.
Nerdys: Handle with care
Contrast stitching can be a cruel mistress. Make no mistake, she’s a commitment. Once you’re in, you’re in. And unless you resort to a tub of Dylon and a messy afternoon in the bath, there’s no escape.
Part Frankenstein’s monster, part 90’s Jay-Z, contrast stitching turns the utilitarian right up. Which, when handled responsibly, suggests the casual insouciance of an international troubadour. When handled irresponsibly, you just look like you work with an acetylene torch and sheet metal.
Nicholas Daley: Just got to tough it out
Just a few weeks back The Bureau had some cropped Monitaly sweatshirts in their sale. I didn’t buy one. They dropped to around £60 and I still didn’t push the button. I’m an idiot.
Annoyingly now I’ve got cropped tops on the mind. Not, I should clarify, ‘crop tops’. I understand the market for middle-aged male pole dancers is fairly modest. I mean slightly cropped, as in the hem sitting around the belt-line rather than concertinaing down the body. I’ve got it in my head that for winter, my buffet of looks won’t be complete without a truncated, plain navy knit or sweat, worn over an untucked shirt. It’s the old ‘play on layering’ game. I’ve shuffled a stratum of gilets, waistcoats, long jackets and short jackets, now I want to add knits to the mix.
JieDa: Oversized or just too big?
This is the era of the ‘oversized’. A time when the right size is the wrong size and bigger is apparently beautifuler.
I’ve often thought making an oversized garment must be fairly straightforward. Surely it’s just a case of making a medium sized garment and labelling it a small? (That’s a degree from The London College of Fashion for you.)
But of course there’s more to it that that. Oversized isn’t too big, not in fashion terms anyway. There’s proportion to consider. An oversized garment needs to be big in the right places. You might want a longer hemline for example, but maybe the sleeves should be the right length.
All of which makes this oversized coat from Japanese designer Hiroyuki Fujita’s label JieDa so interesting. Excuse me if I’m missing something, but is this oversized, or just too fucking big?
Nothanksfreewifi: One less act of ecological butchery
TK Maxx is now the UK’s sixth-largest fashion retailer. The ailing Topshop is now number seven, seemingly unable to compete with Maxx’s bazaar of bad taste.
I’ve never understood advocates of TK Maxx. I get that for the super-young it can offer a cheap(ish) and cheerful(esque) pipeline of 90’s style trophies. But for anyone older, (physically unable to wear a Roberto Cavalli muscle-T with anything approaching youthful irony) the racks are positively gruesome.
Among the (and I quote) “high end designer labels” on offer are such dusty stalwarts as Armani Collezioni, Giuseppe Zanotti, DKNY, Dsquared2, and Michael Kors. But what do these brands even mean any more?
“No way, is that a Michael Kors bag?”, said no one ever.
Bru Na Boinne: Embroidered life beyond the homemade
We can think of embroidery as print’s older, more sophisticated sibling. Everyone’s at it these days, stitching-on a sense of luxuriousness to simplistic and otherwise mundane pieces.
Increasingly we see embroidery aping the ‘naive school‘. Crude and crafty, like this piece from (yesterday’s spotlighted brand) Heresy. This is clothing reflecting back our DIY digital culture — where any Herbert can scribble something into Procreate and (amongst the right peer group) be hailed a genius. Of course, there’s nothing wrong with that per se — I happen to enjoy cosseting my own graphic experiments within the auspices of the naive school. But there is embroidered life beyond the homemade. And these new sweats from Japanese brand Bru Na Boinne illustrate the point.
Heresy are already anticipating our new topsy-turvy world
Looks like we’re heading for Lockdown 2: Electric Boogaloo. Who would have thought it, seems like encouraging people back to restaurants, schools and offices isn’t the best way to stop folks coughing all over each other.
What does a second lockdown even look like? My money’s on full societal regression. With Johnson’s crew breaking the very rules they espouse, brazenly offering multi-million pound deals to their mates and now sticking two fingers up to international law, there’s no hope left. Our moral centre is being shat on by the very people we elect to enforce it.
I anticipate mass looting, urban fox hunting, and men and women wearing furry knickers like Raquel Welch in One Million Years B.C. And in Rees-Mogg’s Britain cows will wear bowler hats, even as toddlers begin to bark.
We can also expect the rise of paganism, the original religion of the peasant class. And in such thinking it looks as though Peckham creative cluster Heresy are well ahead of the game.
Adieu x Très Bien: Precisely the amount of attention I have spare
Parisian cobblers Adieu are rarely without a collaboration or four on the go. Insatiably creative? Or simply a reflection of French attitudes to fidelity? Difficult to say, but right now Adieu are enjoying a ménage with Undercover, Etudes and Très Bien.
The latest brand to catch Adieu’s roving eye is Kickers and together they’ve sired an unearthly burgundy hybrid. Both parents are acutely visible in the mix.
I think it’s their work with Très Bien that most frequently delivers the goods. Check out the hairy madness at the top of the page. Those aren’t shoes, they’re pets. But pets you can wear. Which in my book makes them 1000% more useful than any other pet.
Nicholas Daley: Irritatingly magnificent
This is danger-level finesse. My eyes have rolled back like a shark. I’m over-loaded with sensational. I’m feeling physical pain. This is the only fit that matters right now. This is a pint of hot Christ.
Eastlogue: Far from conventional, but is it unconventional enough?
Big Eastlogue and Unaffected drops over at South Korea’s Fr8ight. There’s something interesting going on here — a corduroy jacket with cable knit sleeves that definitely looks better worn than on the hanger. But I’m going to play it safe today and spotlight this over-shirt.
Hereu: What’s your baggage allowance?
Hold up. Don’t go anywhere. I know what you’re thinking. Thin soles. T-bar strap. Looks like something your niece would wear to primary school. But let’s just give these slender numbers a moment.
Is it possible there’s something here for the more open-minded menswearman?
Curly: As my incompetence becomes clear
Ever Frogtaped the edges of a wall, painted, peeled the tape off and had to go over the many irregularities with a tiny artist’s brush while balancing on a stepladder? What about putting up a solid wood floating shelf when you can’t find the studs in the wall? I began a week off with such DIY ambitions, only to feel them slowly collapse as my incompetence became clear. Last night, faced with four cupboard doors I couldn’t line up I admitted defeat. My girl called a bloke on TaskRabbit while I hid under the covers.
Four days of electric drills and rock hard paint brushes has done for me. My back aches, my neck’s sore. As I doze in the morning I see the contents of my Bosch 33 Piece Drill Bit Set marching Fantasia-style. I dream I’m on Shutter Island: but rather than investigating a missing person, I’m just trying to screw on miles and miles of shutters.
My limitations are clear. I’m fundamentally incompatible with spirit-levels. I’m a thinker not a doer. I’ve decided I function best when left alone with a Scandinavian crime drama and an M&S Victoria sponge. Nice and comfy. Probably in a cardigan like this.
Adish: A window into different days
The current headline show at The Design Museum in London is Electronic: From Kraftwerk to The Chemical Brothers. And as electronic music neither begins with Kraftwerk nor ends with The Chemical Brothers, I wasn’t surprised to find the scope of the experience a little restricted. Impossible perhaps to comprehensively nail the most influential musical form of the last 50 years in an hour’s museum tour.
Still, there is much to love: Laurent Garnier’s ferocious soundtrack — a seamless interlocking of the familiar and the obscure and the experimental graphics used across years of labels, releases and posters — all attempting to visualise a mood, a sound, an energy. Seeing the original Chicago fliers for nights boasting Ron Hardy, DJ Pierre, Adonis and Phuture is worth the price of admission alone.
Rounding things off The Chemical Brothers, and a room blitzed with more strobes than the human eye can process. Impressive stuff.
There wasn’t much clothing though. No focus on the dungarees and pastel Kickers of the acid days, no reference to the leather-trousered John Richmond and Nick Coleman fan-boys as house embraced glam.
I remember the Blackburn raves, all the girls wore tops like this one. Clothing designed for jumping about. Practical and androgynous. A signal to every opportunistic herbert like me that they were there to dance not romance.
Kolor: A cocktail of phlegm and nasal mucus
I dislike generalisations. Yet I make them all the time. “Of course, it’s wrong to generalise…”, I say, before doing just that. Does inserting such a caveat insulate the speaker from idiocy, or simply magnify it?
I’ve lost count of the times I’ve railed against the spray-on jean bro (the ripped knees, the driving shoes, the socklessness). Lumping them all together as an easy target for derision – shorthand for herd mentality, cheapness and unsophistication. I really am a terrible person. In my head I’ve blindly ascribed my other pet hates (misogyny, hypocrisy, public spitting, eating on the Tube…) to anyone with even the faintest whiff of Boohoo.
Of course I’m too lazy to finesse my argument with any scholarly learning. Far easier to assume anyone in a muscle-fit knit is a bell. If a guy was to hock up a cocktail of phlegm and nasal mucus and gob it on the pavement, would he be more likely to be wearing a low-cut v-neck tee, or a Sasquatchfabrix Haori shirt?
Bru na Boinne: What I’ll wear when they come for my tinned ravioli
Autumn then. After a brief spell of luminous optimism — during the weirdest summer in living memory — it’s time to face facts. It’s getting chilly. What will that mean for viral infections already on the rise? And what about the tanking economy — didn’t someone mention catastrophic job losses just in time for Christmas? Trump seems to be balancing the books too — his tacit approval of humanity’s dark side is again stirring the angry and empty-headed. And Johnson’s keeping his head down. Is it better to have no leader or one who can’t tell the truth?
Scary times. Hole up, sit tight, ride it out. Stock up on tinned goods and buy a baseball bat. If you’ve got any hatches, now’s the time to batten them down.
Unfortunately your joyful floral shirts and printed shorts are now useless — fold them into plastic tubs and bury them in the garden. The end times are coming. You’ll need ready access to baked beans, toast, blankets and fresh water. And maybe a blazer like this. I mean, if doomsday lands on a Friday or Saturday night, you’re still going to want to look good.
Beams+: A question of credibility and cultural worth
The other day I read a piece about Congolese sapeurs on The Guardian. I’ve read about them a number of times over the years. But it reminded me that for these remarkable dandies, Pierre Cardin remains a label of desirability and prestige. So I visited the Pierre Cardin page — a sad digital window into a once vital brand. I looked at the current Pierre Cardin offerings over at House of Frazer and discovered you can get two branded Pierre Cardin sweaters in 100% acrylic for £20. I remembered that my first ‘designer’ fragrance was a prized and vaguely phallic bottle of Pierre Cardin, bought in the early 80s from Boots. I couldn’t afford Armani. I can still recall the smell.
It made me think about the collapse of credibility and cultural worth. Either through over expansion and dilution of the brand (as was the case with Cardin) or through the loss of an eponymous designer — Helmut Lang, Martin Margiela, Alexander McQueen, Jil Sander.
I considered how all these thoughts stemmed from seeing some beautiful pictures of African sartorialists. And how the mind is this remarkable muddle of half-remembered facts, sensations and emotions, lying dormant. Just waiting to be threaded together, to be patchworked into a whole.
N. Hoolywood x Undercover: A total coating in violent plaid
Where do you stand on an outfit made entirely from one fabric? Is it, as the old joke has it, as far away as possible?
It might be on-trend right now, the whole matching trousers or shorts and shirt or jacket, but I don’t know…? A suit I get, obviously. But when you’re talking about a full human carpeting in one hazardous pattern (like in this collaboration between N. Hoolywood and Undercover) I’ve got some issues.
I mean, who’s the target market? Harajuku kids probably. But I live in Peckham. And while I like N. Hoolywood and (to a degree) Undercover, I have to wonder… would I be okay picking up my Snappy Snaps prints in this? Or heading to the ‘world famous’ Khan’s Bargains for some screws? Or enjoying a battered animal part in Roosters? I’m not entirely convinced the N. Hoolywood/Undercover lifestyle is compatible with my own.
Amachi: Suspiciously arable
This the ‘Meeting Jacket‘ by Japanese brand Amachi. I like the idea of a jacket specifically designed for meetings, although I’m not sure this would suit the kind of meetings I have to attend.
I tend to meet a lot with technology clients looking for creative digital solutions. If I turned up in this I expect they’d consider me suspiciously arable, a bit of a straw-chewer.
That said, it’s an interesting, albeit rustic piece. Pity I’m not in business with sheep castrators or Witchfinder Generals.
Nigel Cabourn × Maison Mihara Yasuhiro: The warped antithesis to conveyor belt sneakers
I’m surprised that Studio Nicholson’s purple over-dyed Moonstars haven’t flown out. Released a few weeks back, I was convinced their rich Ribena-ery hues would prove a winner. Seems not. All sizes are still available; while, predictably perhaps, the plain black has sold out.
I wonder if the same fate awaits these nuclear Tango numbers from Nigel Cabourn × Maison Mihara Yasuhiro? Could it be bros don’t want shoes the colour of convenience beverages?
Kapital: If you made fakes this good in the art world you’d get arrested
I go back and forth on the whole faux vintage thing. But you can’t knock Kapital’s prowess in the space. This waist bag looks like it’s been dug from a collapsed mine, or stolen from a Californian bum’s shopping trolley. Except it’s brand new, it just looks as though it’s already lived a thousand lives.
YSTRDY’S TMRRW: Gucci via David Cronenberg
The stock in loafers is pretty low right now. They’re routinely associated with Love Island style, an ignominy that’s almost done for them. Loafers are, sadly, integral to the shambles — in amongst the tatty beanstalk jeans, polished hair and expansive displays of bare ankle. Or at least, they’re things that look like loafers.
These are slip-ons as prisoners of war — miserable and emaciated, their vamps cut as low as their pride. Sometimes they pretend to be driving shoes. Sometimes not. But they always look ridiculous — suede sodden by puddles, the eternal full stop at the end of skin-tight denim and British veiny feet.
Shoes like these from YSTRDY’S TMRRW give hope to proper loafer-likers. Goodyear welted, high front, solid leather sole; perhaps it’s not too late to reclaim the slip-on from the spray-tanned hillbillies.
Zattu: It’s nice to be reminded that bags still exist
For me, the principle function of a bag is still irrelevant. The threat of the lurgy remains too great. So I have no need to transport things from a place I’m currently in to a place I’m currently not. I’m not taking trains, or cabs. I don’t bicycle. I haven’t ventured beyond walking radius of my house for months.
I kind of miss bags. After all, for those of a certain mindset, they’re in integral piece of a look. My go-to navy Porter rucksack is gathering dust. A bloated concertina of other bags hang from pegs in the hall, unused, almost forgotten.
It’s nice to be reminded that bags still exist. And this knotty freak-show from Japanese makers Zattu does just that.
Hender Scheme: Nauseatingly cool
Whether it’s undeniable must-cops, or subversive fleshy monstrosities, at least you can’t accuse Hender Scheme of being boring. There are few brands more eager to constantly reimagine footwear classics — deconstucting and reconstrucing, twisting the familiar into the unusual, stitching weirdness into every vamp.
It’s remarkable to see how ahead of the pack they are. When you look at Hender Scheme it’s difficult to believe we live in a time where some blokes still stride about in pointy brogues with lime green welts and red laces.
Comme des Garçons Homme: Strong disposition required
On Friday night I went to a pub for the first time since Covid. I wore olive Needles HD pants and polka dot bucket hat, a flowery Engineered Garments jacket and a pair of navy Yuketen Blutcher Rockers. And I felt a bit ridiculous.
Our al fresco drinking was punctuated by trips indoors to the loo — requiring the further addition of a mask. I walked in and caught sight of my costume in the pub’s grand mirrors. And I felt uncomfortable. Embarrassed even. For the first time in years, I questioned the way I dressed.
The root of this paranoia is lockdown, or rather emerging from it. For months I’ve been nowhere, seen no one. Life has been a daily cycle of plain tees and battered shorts, there’s been no call to ‘dress up’. So Friday night came as a shock to the system — it actually made me wonder if I’d been getting it all wrong. Do I really dress like a clown?
I’m a butterfly released from its chrysalis. But no one ever wonders if the butterfly actually likes its new look?
Porter Classic: Difference in the margins
Ohmygod no. Ohmygod totally. Ohmygod I love ahht. I sometimes listen in on my girl’s Zoom calls. They all speak like that in fashion. Ohmygod, Ohmygod… The words bound so tightly — miniature detonations of habitual punctuation, precursing everything. They all do it. I especially enjoy the prenounciation of ‘it’ as ‘ahht’; a sort of mash up of vocal fry and west London posho.
Three girls walk ahead of me. They laugh as the passing cars kick-up roadside puddles. They’re all wearing the same giant fluffy sandals. Black and matted, fake fur dragging on the tarmac. All three of them identical.
It’s interesting what people will do to fit in.
Blue chore jackets. Everyone’s got one and this jacket looks much just like other jackets. But look closer and you’ll see. The sashiko stitching. The variations in texture. The pocket finishing. It’s actually not like other jackets at all. Subtle sure, but this is what happens when you try to eke out your difference in the margins.
It’s interesting what people will do to stand out.
Undercover: Yank it on, you’re good to go
Storms in London. Good. I’m tired of lying starfished on my bed, my finest underpants sodden, glued to me like molten tar. I don’t do heat. But I’m no hypocrite. I’m not one of those people who whines that it’s not sunny, then whines that it’s too sunny. I never want it to be hot.
The thing is, my entire sartorial ethos is built around layers. One layer, a t-shirt or the aforementioned underpant, is not layers. It’s just a single layer, worn only to conceal my erotic dignity. I need more than that. I need to wear piles of clothes dammit. This Undercover knit would be a good start.
White Mountaineering: A pleasingly ironic outcome
Hunting. Horrible. I could never pull the trigger on a laughing deer. Yet I’ve no problem with Mr Moo Cow sliced and served into Tesco’s Finest Chuck and Brisket Burgers. I’m unprincipled. I’m a hypocrite. I like sausages, but I couldn’t hatchet a pig.
So when it comes to ‘hunting’ shirts my fraudulence is complete. I’d wear this shirt. Even though it’s basically a celebration of murder.
Ambush: Deliveroo for t-shirts?
Are you Deliveroo-ing your groceries? As the kind of paranoid/sensible individual continuing to lead life under 85% lockdown, getting supplies from key-tap to doorstep in 20 minutes is invaluable. It’s not just corner shop stuff either. M&S is on there, as well as Morrisons and Co-Op have just expanded their range of dubious looking puddings. Of course the corner-shop connoisseur is still catered for — I can even get a Ginsters delivered from my local Shell garage – but for me the revelation is the standard kitchen produce.
I’m surprised there hasn’t been a Guardian ‘culture’ piece on this phenomenon. I’m equally surprised no one’s extended the service to t-shirts.
Needles: Can you look at this objectively?
How does the wild west look fit into UK life? Awkwardly, I suggest. Sidesaddle, at best. It’s difficult to separate the look from its intrinsic theatricality. Over here it’s the preserve of line dancers and the lonely middle-aged bloke in the corner of the pub wearing cowboy boots. Not exactly what you’d consider cool.
I was banging on about this kind of thing just the other day and now Needles have hopped into the stirrups.
Death to Tennis: One million would do it
Yesterday I asked my mother-in-law for a million pounds. I explained that I do enjoy my job, it’s just that I think I’d enjoy lockdown much more if I could just give it up and spend my days watching TV and eating M&S caramel crispy bites. She laughed so loudly she couldn’t hear me reading out my HSBC details. Thing is, she’s got a couple of bob. She probably wouldn’t miss it.
I’ve often thought that if rich people knew how happy it’d make me if they simply gave me a million pounds, they’d be lining up. I’m not greedy, one million would do it. I’d say goodbye to the mortgage, buy this yellow blazer and snuggle in for a Vera marathon.
Ryo Takashima: Embracing samurai minimalism
Where do you go next when you’ve compiled a wardrobe full of orSlow and Engineered Garments standards? The answer, for an increasing number of men is what we’ll call samurai minimalism. Super-sized straight trousers; boxy half-sleeve blazers; tie-fastened wrap jackets —the look is arch, arty and straight-faced. Konnichiwa fuckers, you’re Hong Kong Phooey on Citalopram.
Embracing the voluminous samurai minimalism look might not seem a huge leap from your existing loose fits. But it can be. For the novice, discretion is advised. Take it from a guy who’s elephantine clobber has panicked friends into thinking I’m suffering from some kind of wasting disease.
Funset of Art: An anime Buster Scruggs
This is one of those ‘I dunno?’ pieces. Lying precisely on the fault-line between essential and head-slapping mistake.
There’s so much going on, it’s difficult to make sense of it all. Four different blues, bandana patterned trim, turbo-cowboy pockets — what’s it trying to be? As a picture of the Wild West through a Japanese lens, it’s difficult to imagine anything more literal. Add a Boro patched stetson, a faithful horse with giant spinning eyes and a pistol that shoots dreams and you’re ready to star in an anime version of Buster Scruggs.
Efilevol: For those non-existent occasions when a sensible number of pockets isn’t appropriate
When is too many pockets, actually, properly, too many? We’re all familiar with excessively pouchy clothing. South2 West8 won’t knowingly release a garment with fewer that six pockets. While Engineered Garments and Sassafrass appear to be in a battle to see who can stick the most pockets on a pair of shorts — I still maintain there’s room to store a book of matches between a man’s scrotum and anus.
Of course you usually see this kind of compartment-heavy gear in denim, chambray and ripstop cotton — tough-guy fabrics, intended for proper blokes who like tools, bags of tools and mending stuff with tools. But then they actually end up on Nesquik drinking softies like me. And I don’t know one end of a claw hammer from the other.
Is it all a bit fraudulent? I don’t need battle-ready cloth and an absurd amount of pockets to sip a latte and make a gif. Maybe I just like the idea of people assuming I’m as useful as Bear Grylls, without actually having to bite the head off a fish?
So what about a more lifestyle-friendly approach? What if you parked the action-man fabrics, but kept the stupid amount of pockets? Would that work? Fortunately, Japanese brand Efilevol are all over this shit.
Real Bad Man: Less edgy than Benny Hill
The grand reopening of pubs has proved something of a damp (and evidently contagious) squib. So it’s no surprise that back gardens have become the new nightlife venues. Last night, two houses over, it was a deafening reggae toasting session. Three nights before that, next door choose to host a barbecue; giant plumes of smoke drifted through neighbouring windows to a soundtrack by The Red Hot Chilli Peppers. Fumes I can handle, middle-aged funk-rock I cannot.
I suppose this is what you sign up for when you live in Peckham. Even so, this DIY festival culture is giving my liberalism a knock. I’m starting to feel like a pearl-clutching curtain-twitcher — what are they doing now? Where’s the number for the council?
And this t-shirt doesn’t make me feel any better.
Paraboot: The clothing conversation for people who know nothing about clothing
I imagine, on slow news days, the ‘debate’, such as it is, still rages amongst the denizens of the Daily Express letters page and Loose Women. Socks with sandals, surely not? It’s one of those interesting clothing conversations that seems to attract only people entirely ignorant of clothing.
They say, only geography teachers wear socks with sandals. A statement that is both rooted in some kind of Brexit-style picture-book past, and factually inaccurate.
Socks and sandals are not only worn by geography teachers. Tens of thousands of people wear them. Are they all geography teachers? How many viably employed geography teachers do we have in the UK? And I don’t have the data to hand, but I expect there are some actual geography teachers that don’t wear sandals at all.
Nuterm: Fool me twice
I counted it up yesterday. Since the Brexit vote, I’ve said the phrase, “people are idiots”, out loud 34,562 times. What do I mean by ‘people’? I guess, everyone that isn’t me — it’s remarkably easy to fall into generalisation when all your information is piped into your lockdown bunker.
People are, “surprised and outraged”, when their Spanish holiday is canceled in the middle of a global pandemic. Brexit looms — because of course, a second buggering of the economy is what’s missing right now. Donald Trump Jr can’t work an apostrophe. Virgin Galactic are pressing on to space, while yet to master the working train toilet. And then there are the pubs.
The government cancels daily Covid briefings and simultaneously opens pubs — a calculated measure risking human life in return for economic stimulous. Exactly as planned the nation’s bumpkins assume the plague has gone, stuff the pubs and (surprise and outrage!) catch the virus.
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice — go for it I’m dumb as shit. There’s only so much facepalming you can do.
Fennica x orSlow: I just realised I don’t wear jeans
Yesterday I realised I don’t wear jeans. I thought I wore jeans. I have jeans. But now I can’t remember the last time I actually put any on.
I have never seen my father in a pair of jeans. In my formative years I learned something of the history of denim and bought into their totemic importance to counter-culture. I wore jeans and went to acid house parties. My father did not.
Spin forward to yesterday. I’m looking at the jeans pictured and the denim penny drops. When did I become a ‘chino man’? I wear some variation of cotton trousers, pretty much always. A realisation I’m not sure I’m entirely comfortable with.
Criteria for equivalence
Phipps: This is a top that you can wear
This morning’s helpful email from Mr Porter was titled, “A foolproof guide to wearing shorts.” I haven’t read it. But I do wonder who needs a foolproof guide to wearing shorts?” My guide for wearing shorts is broadly:
- Buy some shorts you like.
- Make sure they’re the right size. (This rule can be applied to all clothing.)
- Choose a day that isn’t freezing.
- Make sure you have one leg in each leg hole. If you find you have a giant bottomless pocket on one side, you’re doing it wrong.
- Fasten the fly so no one can see your knob.
- Congratulations, you are wearing some shorts.
I expect the Mr Porter guide goes on to explain the right shorts to wear to the Glyndebourne Festival. But I’ve also found that it’s possible to choose and wear shorts entirely free of pseudo-aspirational marketing.
Visvim: The strange appeal of inauthentic authenticity
A pebble is an authentic pebble. A tree is authentically a tree. But in a world where every flat white needs a narrative, it’s not surprising the meaning of the word ‘authentic’ has been refitted to feed the demands of the marketing landscape.
Authenticity is now a byword for ‘not mass produced’. A false equivalence of course, as even mass produced stuff is authentically mass produced. But so what? People no longer care about stupid things like the meaning of words.
Visvim is probably one of the most authentic brands in the world. Certainly the most authentic brand that goes by a meaningless name (look it up) and sells shirts with authentically pre-ripped elbows.
Nerdys: The era that taste forgot just got tasteful
The influence of the 1990s and early noughts has been strong menswear for some years now. But the addition of 1970’s signatures is starting to make things interesting. I’m not talking about the kind of catwalk brands that regularly trade on porny gigolo luxe. Rather the more street-level imprints. Needles’ wild-west shirting is getting ever more late-period Elvis, while the flap of the kick-flare is audible over at SasquatachFabrix. And if you want to head down the rabbit hole of late 60s early 70s graphics, LA’s Online Ceramics have an acid flashback in your size.
Of course, this doesn’t mean you’ve suddenly got to dress like background character in a Blake Edwards comedy. But there are pieces with nods to the era that taste forgot, that actually look pretty tasteful. For example, this blouson from Japanese brand Nerdys based on 1970’s American vintage.
Dr. Collectors: A Baz Luhrmann remake of Paris, Texas
Can you capture the dusty riddles of the American west in a trouser? Los Angeles denim evangelists, Dr. Collectors are up for the challenge. Even if the results are straight from a Baz Luhrmann remake of Paris, Texas.
Itten: Incompatible with Facebook
Whooping comedians in cowboy hats; exploding buckets filled with Mentos mints, baking soda and Coke; middle Americans shrieking that masks are actually muzzles: Facebook is a horror show. Even sidelining Zuckerberg’s moral belligerence, it feels done — closer to the cultural irrelevance of MySpace every day.
Of course these opinions aren’t new. But during a lockdown when we’ve all exhausted every entertainment opportunity, anyone can be forgiven for taking a peek back through Facebook’s window.
Here’s a picture of when we were younger. I’m having a glass of wine and it’s only a Tuesday. Carole Baskin’s cover of ‘In Da Club’ is ‘magic,’ declares 50 Cent.
There’s only so much eyerolling you can do. Facebook is truly the Primark of the internet.
Today I was looking for Japanese brand Itten on Facebook. They have a page, but it hasn’t been updated it since 2015. It appears Itten have long known the score. 2015, that’s around the last time Facebook was relevant.
Toga Virilis: Beyond the heritage safety net
The idea of form over function turns a lot of men off. Pieces like this parka from Toga Virilis, that carry unusual embellishment, get sneered at by some for being too fashiony or dramatic.
It’s a shame as I think heritage is sometimes used as a safety net of sorts. Engineered Garments, orSlow, A Vontade, President’s, all safe — with their familiar navies and olives, their pockets and hoods. There’s lots of tradition in there, modernised certainly, but still retaining a clear inheritance from the past.
It’s interesting that some are comfortable to move beyond reworked fatigue jackets and have begun to seek a heritage far from their own, through kimono fastenings and nehru collars. And yet, often for these very same men, the strikingly new remains off limits.
Interview with Russell Cameron of Kafka Mercantile
The guys over at Kafka are certainly good sports. Shortly after posting a celebration of the mysteries of Kafka Man, they got in touch, answering a Q&A I’d sent them a couple of weeks before.
Owned and run by brothers Russell and David Cameron, Aberdeen’s Kafka Mercantile has been operating since 1990. With a brand mix including Visvim, Eastlogue, Blue Blue Japan and the Nepenthes family (including The Conspires) plus oddities like the revivied Texan shoe brand Autry, the store is a pillar of quality menswear.
The last couple of years have seen beloved indies like OTHER/Shop and Present shuttered, while many others have downsized. Kafka’s resilience (alongside The Bureau, Garbstore, Oi Polloi, Goodhood, Hip Store) is a blessing for the more discerning consumer.
Here’s Russell on the mighty Kafka Mercantile.
Kapital: Risk it all for a future filled with happiness and immense Japanese trousers
Take chances they say. You’ve got to risk it for the biscuit. But in truth, most of us don’t. We stay in the underpaid job, or the unfulfilling relationship. We stick with what we have; an uncertain future remains the greatest fear.
Such is the dilemma when faced with Kaptial’s Shimokita Nore-GI pants. You already know what normal trousers do. You’ve got normal trousers. They work. So why rock the boat? Why get involved with giant, cropped baggy trousers covered in elastic bits?
Ultimately it’s about taking chances. Dare you risk disaster and embarrassment against a better future? A future filled with happiness and precious stones and immense Japanese trousers. Never forget, he who wears wins.
Hender Scheme: The domain of the perpetually unaffordable
Like the Sacai sweatshirt we looked at the other day, Hender Scheme shoes exist in a domain of the perpetually unaffordable. Ever thought about buying a pair of their classic sneaker clones? The natural leather finish invites you in, the £700 plus price tag reminds you it’s members only.
I’ve just spent the last 45 minutes searching for these shoes in a size 10. For Hender Scheme they seemed reasonably affordable — around £350 on Japanese sites. But of course there’s not much demand for size 10 in Japan. So I end up at Bodega, in the good old US of States, who’ve kindly stuck an extra £100 on the price.
Mysterious, versatile and mildly terrifying: who is Kafka Man?
This man models for Aberdeen’s Kafka Mercantile. On the store’s website, he’s the leading man in the Curated Edits section. He wears clothes. He’s photographed in those clothes. But is that the end of the story? No. No it is not.
Kafka Man is perhaps the most mysterious man in menswear. The clothes may change but the sunglasses always remain. He’s perfected the ability to wear clothes whether standing on rocks, soil or in the middle of a cornfield. He often looks like he’s planning to strangle someone with his shoelaces. There are layers going on here.
Let’s examine the evidence.
Sacai: A heart-stopping sense of volume and quality
A thing of terrifying beauty. A diptych of delicious nightmares from the brush of Hieronymus Bosch? John Carpenter’s The Thing, startled mid-assimilation? But which is the monster, the cotton or the nylon?
Japanese brand Sacai produce these scandalous hybrids season after season. Brutal conjoinings between sweatshirts and MA-1 flight jackets. They’ve become the brand’s signature. A queasy trademark, at once bewildering and aggressively seductive.
BHR: The difference is obvious
From an outsider’s perspective the line between great and shit can be impossible to navigate. For many a pair of cotton trousers is a pair of cotton trousers; whether laboured over by a small team of artisanal perfectionists, or coughed off a mechanised production line. To some ears the bleeping electronic music ringing from my neighbour’s garden is the same as my bleeping electronic music. Even though his is basically an H&M soundtrack album and mine is the product of Bandcamp’s obscure and tortured. To some the difference is obvious, to most, imperceptible.
If this sounds pretentious, snobby even, it’s because it is. It’s also simply fact. How many times has someone questioned your sanity when you’ve taken the time to explain the heritage (and awkwardly reveal the price) of an ostensibly simple garment? You paid what? But it’s just a denim shirt. You have heard of GAP?
Likewise, the outsider will never appreciate this t-shirt.
Malibu X Battenwear: Suddenly, a living breathing audience
So the great unlocking has come. It’s now over to the collective intelligence of the British to carefully weigh up the odds, before getting ten beers in and having a fight. At least it’s something to tut at on the news.
For the menswearist, the relaxation of rules does mean you can now legally pimp about in all the new kit you’ve stockpiled over the last three months. Suddenly you’ve got a living breathing audience for that questionable sale shirt — a reminder, if any were needed, that the full length mirror in the spare room never rolls its eyes at your fits.
I suppose this has coincided nicely with the end of the sales. They were really starting to stink up the place. It’s still a gold mine for Needles shirts that nobody wants over at Mr Porter. But on the positive side, new season pieces are starting to appear. Like these sandals over at New York’s Blue in Green.
Mfpen: The punchline apparently erased
Elasticated trousers used to be a joke — mostly spotted in the old folk’s ads in the back of the Daily Express. Perforated leather slip-ons, motorised awnings and yes, rubbery waistbands; a boon for the arthritically fingered. The only other market demanding a similarly pliable midsection was (and presumably remains) the uncommonly vast. Gentlemen with so much pork on the loin that regular trousers simply can’t cope.
It’s unclear when this particular trouser fastening moved from Viz piss-take to highly desirable. At some point during the frenzy of the last ten years — the global explosion in men’s fashion, the rise of athleisure, the west through the eastern lens, the continual hybridisation of menswear’s past and future — elasticated trousers just felt right again. No jokes about, “having room for your pints.” No suggestions that you’d come out in your pyjamas. All of a sudden the stretchy pant was simply part of the landscape. Their former life as a punchline apparently erased.
Uninvited visitor
Magic Castles: An adequate metaphor
It’s well documented that Boris Johnson lies. But it’s how he lies I find interesting. Listen to the rallies between our PM and Keir Starmer, during Prime Ministers Questions and it becomes irritatingly clear. Johnson uses the phrase, “everybody understands…” a great deal. Commonly as a precursor to a statement many people don’t understand. “We’ve been very clear that…” is another one. Teeing up information which remains unclear to most.
The promised app was once a vital part of the defence against Covid, now it’s the “icing on the cake.” But of course, “everybody understands” that. So much fluffy rhetoric. So casual with the historical revisionism. You wonder how he has the gall, but then you remember who he is.
As long this amoral sasquatch remains our leader we’re just hostages to this bullshit. What’s a good metaphor for that? A shirt with pockets like the bars of a prison? Yeah, that’ll do.
YMC: Right under your nose
Far from the bewilderment of eastern retail I spotted this jacket. Affordable and straightforward, but with a ruggedly appealing design sensibility. I occasionally check in over at the YMC brand site. Much of the product I find rather anonymous, lacking in the kind of fabric choices and baffling details the Japanese often use to elevate the familiar. But each season there’s usually one or two braver pieces.
My last buy was a pair of drop-crotch checked trousers that make me look like Alison Moyet. It’s a good look. Sometimes you can spend so long looking farther afield, that you miss what’s right under your nose.
AiE: Huffing and whining like a giant cry-baby
The Coverchord sale started yesterday and within moments the navy Suvsole sneakers I’d been stalking for weeks sold out in my size. And not to me.
When a window of retail opportunity slams shut and you’re not around to hear it, does it make a sound? I’m not a philosopher, but I made a sound. A drawn-out whine. Then a loud moan. Beasts in the wild come running when their mates are in distress. Yet I could still hear my girl typing in the next room.
Finally, I exhaled with such force I could have unblocked a trombone.
“WHATTTTT?”, she shouted.
“Nothing”, I said.
N. Hoolywood: Fancy a Covid-99?
I’m being tormented by an ice cream van. It plays a horrifying version of Yankee Doodle. Up and down. All day, every day. Clang, clang, jangle, jangle. Like it’s being scratched out by a wind-up monkey with two screwdrivers and a steel drum.
Do I fancy a Covid-99, with two flakes and extra cough sprinkles? Do I trust Mr Frosty not to have picked his nose and scratched his arse before having at it with his red syrup? No I fucking don’t. Don’t get me wrong, I like ice cream and I’d have one if it was delivered to me by one of those government scientists from the end of ET, all tucked up in his boiler-suit and gas-mask. But it’s not. It’s in a van outside my flat. Advertised by the sound of a Dalek falling down a fire escape. Go away ice cream man. I’m never going to suck your diseased Soleros.
5 sale things I didn’t buy because I ran out of money
As the sales advance, so my spending power retreats. During the last few weeks I’ve bought a number of pieces for myself, while in parallel funding a conveyor-belt of new Simone Rocha and Shrimps accessories for my girl. I’m a busted flush. Yet I keep scouring the sales. I see my remaining savings like an un-pinned grenade. To save myself (and my mortgage payments) I’ve got to throw myself on top of them, accept the pain and leave sale shopping behind.
The nag of the ‘coulda woulda shoulda’ is mine to endure. But the least I can do is share the five things that for one reason or another have evaded my grasp. Maybe you’ll buy one of these picks. And enjoy it. But if you do, never forget I saw it first. I wanted it first. And in many respects, even as you wear it, I’m there clinging onto your back like a haunted rucksack, whispering in your ear that it should have been mine.
Eighteen East MFG: Incompatible with a publicly voided anus
A bit of decorum. That’s what’s needed. A little dignity. Often my girl accuses me of snobbery. And yes, I suppose I have reasonably specific views on clothing and film and literature. And interiors and art and design. And bars. And learning. And music. It’s true. I can become quite exhausted from eye-rolling alone. Recently my neighbour has taken to playing Born Slippy loudly in his garden. Yet my tutting remains audible. It’s 2020 for fuck’s sake, sort your taste out.
I’ve also got reasonably specific views on not taking a shit in a cardboard box on a beach — in that there’d have to be a gun to my head. But what a surprise. No sooner had Johnson pretended he had confidence in great British common sense, than 500,000 great British simpletons descended on Bournemouth for an orgy of knives, booze, drugs and scat play. As a left-leaner sometimes it’s tough to support the people, when the people are so frequently pricks.
Bring back decency I say. Try ‘being a grown up’ on for size. It’s a journey that can start with this utility vest.
Kapital: Drink responsibly
Two cans of lager in and this pink jacket and hat are starting to look plausible. I’ve hardly touched the booze during lockdown — my enjoyment of the hop and the grape is too predicated on debauched socialising. But I’m far from the shitwits on Bournemouth beach. I’m just here, lying in my garden. It’s late, the sun has gone. And I’m wondering how fucking ridiculous I’d look in this combination from Kapital.
Hender Scheme: A thing of gristle and teeth
It’s over to the people now. No more Downing Street Covid briefings. Two metres is now one metre, plus something vague. Pubs are back. Restaurants are back. Hairdressers are back. It’s party time again. The reggae chugging on my street last night said it all. Thank God it’s all over. Except it isn’t.
Boris blustered on about how well the government had handled things (if you conveniently ignored the mountain of evidence to the contrary) and how now things were certainly safe enough for you to hurl your savings at stuff you don’t need, Chris Whitty and Patrick Vallance stood stoney faced. They weren’t going to take the rap for this. If anyone actually listened to the boring smart blokes, all they did was reiterate risk. Boris conjured Bacchus, the scientists championed caution.
Outside the tide is changing. People are bored. Just like during the first few weeks of the crisis, our uniquely British idiot is, once more, beginning to think Covid just happens to others. Of course the daily infection rate suggests otherwise, but who reads that anymore, amiright? Fuck it. Let’s crack some cans. Let’s get pissed. Fuck one metre, who’s for some blowbacks? Cough Roulette anyone?
Sasquatch Fabrix: Shouldn’t bucket hats always have fringes?
Using Deliveroo for grocery shopping is embarrassingly extravagant, but occasionally surprising. Finally, Marks & Spencer have joined the party. I’ve had my first pack of Extremely Chocolatey Milk Chocolate Rounds in three months.
Another discovery are Co-op’s Rainbow Uni-Cones. For the uninitiated these bad boys are basically a Cornetto with a Queer Eye makeover. Vanilla and raspberry ice cream, raspberry sauce, white chocolate coated cereal pieces, and strawberry flavour pearls, all atop a black cone. Forget the calorie count this is lifestyle ice-cream. They’ve taken a classic, hauled it through Accessorize and on to Vauxhall’s drag bars. Too much is not enough.
It’s the same story with this new bucket hat from Sasquatch Fabrix.
NOMA t.d: My god, it’s full of SARS
Ghhrrrrrr… the social pressure to go out. Come to the park they say. Just a couple of gins in tins they say. We’re all two metres apart. Over the weekend I finally relented.
Even when there isn’t a global pandemic I’m not into the park. There are bees. There’s soil. It’s uncomfortable. As we approached the park I was struck by the sheer amount of people actually in the park. My fear of catching an illness that can liquify your lungs surged.
“My god, it’s full of SARS”, I said. Before my party’s withering half-smiles put me back in my box. Has no one actually watched 2001?
It’s unfathomable to me how anyone can enjoy the outdoors without a full suite of exorbitant Snow Peak equipment. Although as I’m yet to commit £215 to even just the bamboo folding chair, I had to rough it on a rug. Like a rotting dog.
I could have done with a shirt like this too. It looks positively diseased. Anyone would think twice about spinning their frisbee at a man who appears to be sweating bleach.
She’s Lost Control: swerving into Goop territory
With the greatest of respect, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me. I love Goodhood. But they appear to be swerving into Goop territory now. Have you seen their new stock by the brand She’s Lost Control? Check out the ‘Handcrafted Herbal Ritual Bundle‘, instructions: “use the aromatic smoke to charge the smoky quartz crystal and then set a positive intention.” And only 32 quid? Can you believe it? I must say I’m having trouble.
This is proper Paltrow territory — what next, actual snake oil and fanny candles? If there’s anything worse than a spiritualist it’s a trendy spiritualist.
Or maybe you fancy the ‘Luck Giftset‘. This one includes a pyrite crystal which apparently helps with “money manifestation”. Here’s an idea. Don’t spend £32 on a Herbal Bundle and don’t spend £24 on a Luck Set, knickers, knackers, knockers… you’ve manifested 56 quid.
Midorikawa: quarrelling with the very idea of maleness
Where do you find comfort? Now the shock has subsided, now the unusual has become the usual. Rhiannon Lucy Cosslett nailed it for me over at The Guardian. The country is split in two. You’ve got your don’t cares and your don’t dares, and I’m steadfastly in the latter camp. I refuse to leave lockdown until I think it’s safe to do so — the government’s seesawing guidance only makes me more resolute.
So I’m seeking succour in the familiar. I’ve lost count how many times I’ve browsed the same sites, the same Engineered Garments pieces, the same reductions. Although I’m also comforted by the nostalgic. Peering back at my own past through dopey re-runs of Buck Rogers in the 25th Century and The Equalizer. God help me, I even did some Airwolf the other day. Often I go even further, hijacking a past that wasn’t strictly mine. Forgotten 60’s and 70’s British cinema is my current balm. Performances by Paula Wilcox and Hywel Bennett, one-time household names, consoling an uncertain future from their place in the past.
Who goes there?
Needles: Can anything at 50% off ever be a mistake?
At sale time 50% off is where it starts to get interesting. Don’t get me wrong, any discount is good discount, but half-price… You know the retailer is still getting a bit and you’re getting a premium piece for a comparative steal — it’s a win win.
Undoubtedly the prospect of getting carried away hangs heavy. At 50% off even the most rational punter can be hypnotised into buying for the sake, or worse, copping a risky piece that ultimately neither suits nor satisfies. But, and I say this with all due hypocrisy, fuck that. Enough with the baby talk, it’s 50% off. What are you waiting for man? Someone to hold your hand?
This oversized Needles jacket is 50% off right now. Available in all sizes. It’ll suit you. It’ll suit anyone. You’ll never think buying this was a mistake. Definitely. Probably definitely.
BAL: wonky and unfathomable
You can’t argue with this. You could try. But you’d lose. It makes as much sense as queuing to get in Primark. Albeit with a considerably higher level of taste.
Featuring art work by Tokyo based artist Kazuma Ogata, this is a sweater by Bal. It looks like something Dr Strange would conjure up after a night on the pop with Thor. Wonky and unfathomable, but with a mystical beauty of rare seduction. I don’t know why one arm is orange and purple. The monochrome shapes on the chest are a mystery. But by the power of Vishanti I’m sold.
Unfil: a sense of schadenfreude
All of a sudden fashion is out of fashion. Watch as those at the top of the tree frantically about-face in an attempt to remain relevant.
Giorgio Armani, at 85, and with Armani Collezioni, Emporio Armani, Armani Jeans, Armani Exchange, Armani Junior, Armani Casa, Armani Dolci, Armani Caffé, Armani Fiori, Armani Hotels and Armani Ristorante under his belt, has now decided that the churn of high-speed fashion is “criminal” and “absurd”.
“We really need to rethink what this industry stands for”, ponders Anna (Nuclear) Wintour, after building a career around the persona of a self-important monster, and for years, fielding criticism around the lack of people of colour in her publication, along with tales of bullying and unreasonable behaviour.
It’s difficult to watch this unfold without a sense of schadenfreude.
ERKN: there’s a Nobel Prize in that
Anyone else enjoy watching our brave lions stick it to the man yesterday? By ‘brave lions’ I mean a pin-brained mob of Viz caricatures. And by ‘stick it to the man’ I mean punching a police force ordered to protect exactly the same statues they wanted to protect in the first place.
It’s this kind of block-headed thickery that we English stand for. It was about time we proved we could out-stupid Brexit. I dare say yesterday’s riots caught the attention of the world’s natural historians. A new human sub-species, you say? White, adult, male and with the cognitive ability of soil? There’s a Nobel Prize in that.
This level of dumb can help you clarify your place in the world — kind of like a mental palate cleanser. If I ever doubt my morals, my intelligence or my purpose, I can take comfort from the fact that I never choose to openly piss on a dead policeman’s monument while surrounded by thousands of smartphones.
Necessary or Unnecessary: a lumpy mouthful of syllables
There’s a certain irony in a brand called Necessary or Unnecessary putting out a shirt like this. See that button fastening. It’s all skew-whiff.
The guys over at Necessary or Unnecessary have seemingly concluded that regular, straight-up-the-front buttons are unnecessary, while buttons on-the-wonk are considerably more necessary. I imagine they’re in the minority in this. But it hasn’t stopped them putting out five different colour-ways of what they call, ‘The Sidewinder’.
Niche: Lovely flowers
I’m having déjà vu with this shirt. I don’t think I’ve posted about it before. Or have I?
I guess we’re all vulnerable to our mind’s weirder whispers right now. Is it one metre or two? Why am I the only one in the park wearing a mask? In the US people are fighting for the right to risk catching a life-threatening disease. Crowds of protesters are hurled together, surely not all virus free. Is life now just a level of risk?
Will the Garden Rescuers ever run out of gardens to rescue?
Kapital: just the right side of berserk
It’s Monday 4.45am. I didn’t set an alarm, I just woke. My mind honking at me — Mr Porter sale, MR PORTER SALE…
So yeah, as I scribbled yesterday, the Mr Porter sale is now live. I’ve just tipped my wish-list into my shopping bag and copped hard. Might take a little longer to arrive, they say. But that’s fine. I’m lucky the things I wanted had been chopped by 50%.
This is sadly not the case for all the pieces I recommended yesterday. I banged on about a patchwork Kapital sweatshirt which is stubbornly refusing to move from its hefty £520. Some Kapital pieces have conceded to the scissors, but to my mind, they’re either too generic, too spenny, or too deranged.
The Kapital fan looking for a piece that’s not too costly and just the right side of berserk would do well to check out these hats.
Mr Porter sale starts tomorrow
I’ve got a love-hate relationship with Mr Porter. For every pair of Yuketens, they field ten pairs of Louboutin trainers. They stock an enviable selection of carefree Kapital, yet their editorials seem obsessed with rules. Slim-suits with roll-necks. Bajillion quid Jaeger-LeCoultre watches. That incessant Mr this and Mr that.
Madmen was just a TV show.
Still, their sale starts tomorrow and on such occasions I’m happy to make hay with Mr Hypocritical — I’m going to drop some bucks while turning a blind eye to myself. The day after that, my usual tiresome programme of reverse snobbery will resume.
Reproduction of Found: Reassuringly old-timey
Straight reproductions of vintage kit have never been my thing. They remind me of ageing ravers — committed to the idea that electronic music ceased being good after they stopped dancing. Of course, veneration of the past can be rewarding. Just as long as it leaves room to appreciate the possibilities of the future, or even just the now.
Usually these kicks from Reproduction of Found wouldn’t do it for me. But these are unusual times.
Snow Peak: Perfect for boosting the spirits of the flagging lockdownee
So to drizzly days. The sun’s siren call has faded and for now, our parks and walkways are free of the giddy and incautious. Time to button up. Time to bolt down. It’s back to beans on toast, jigsaws and chill-beating button-ups.
Snow Peak are great at outdoor wear for indoors. They know life can’t always be lived around modernist field ovens and bamboo picnic tables. So here we have a shirt designed for wherever and whenever — lightweight, oversized and with a quick-dry capacity that’s as suited to spilt Chardonnay as it is a downpour.
Itten: A great beer garden shrug-on, some day
The human heart can be lifted by the most curious things. The recommissioning of a beloved TV show. The scent of a freshly vandalised easter egg. Your mum’s face when you play her a minute of left-field techno. A loose-associate’s misfortune.
This jacket raises my spirits. The world is a tempest of disease and racial protest. The head of the most powerful country on the planet is the stupidest being ever to be categorised as a ‘human man’. And yet, today, through the smears on my screen, I saw this jacket and felt happiness. It’s by the brand Itten. Just a pleasing thing of cotton and buttons.
Bode: A lovely drawing — whatever it is
The lockdown rules. For me, they’re now a Netflix drama I used to watch — I caught a few episodes, got confused and dropped out. Many others have stuck with it though. So I occasionally pick up snatches of the ongoing plot. Apparently you can now finger up to four strangers in a car park. While OAPs are allowed out for five minutes a day to mumble some casual racism, before being shoved back inside with a special broom.
I heard something about sport too. During a plague for which there is no cure, it’s important that highly paid, low IQ individuals are allowed to kick, bat and throw balls on TV. Otherwise pointy-shoed blokes will have literally nothing to think about — they’ll begin to paw at their own faces and stumble into traffic. Autopsies will reveal completely hollow heads.
These shorts feature characters doing a sport. It’s a detail that makes me like this garment approximately 100% less. But you never know, one of you out there might be a fan of whatever it is they are doing.
White Mountaineering: Contemporary colour pairings
While wearable menswear rarely deviates too far from traditional shapes, colour always can be relied upon to keep things current. This tee from White Mountaineering is a fine example, boasting specific hues of russet brown and azure blue.
Taken alone the tones may seem unspectacular — cover an eye and look at them on their own. It’s easy to imagine each as a yawnful block-colour tee by M&S Blue Harbour. Yet together they present as ultra-modern. I find web-tools like Shape Factory’s Pigment to be of particular inspiration when exploring contemporary colour pairings.
Nanamica: I don’t believe a word of it
So, from next week six people can meet up. Six people from the same family. Or different families. Or some from the same family and some not, or four entirely unrelated people and a couple of strangers, or an entire party of strangers, but only if you’ve driven 360 miles to get there with a pensioner in your car and stopped half way to look at a castle…? I’ve lost track. The only thing I’m sure of these days is that I don’t believe a word of it.
Is this based on science? Or does Johnson just want us to focus on anything except the fact that the serpent-faced necromancer he pays to hiss in his ear made the rules, then broke the rules and half the country thinks he should go?
I expect the other half of the country is probably lapping this up, shaking off their picnic rugs as we speak. As I say, fuck knows. Our proudly idiotic isle is incapable of surprising me any more. Unlike Nanamica, who’ve dropped a shocker with this shirt.
Kapital: Worn in a very specific way
Unconventional, unprecedented, avant-garde: it’s inarguable, the clothing from the Japanese masterminds at Kapital is truly unique. No one does it quite like them. Melting smiley faces, bandana jackets, frantic patch-working and an approach to trousers that’s simultaneously amusing and mildly terrifying.
Head-to-toe Kapital is only for the headstrong. Even in London, it’s rare to spot such a spectacle. For most, it’s far more feasible to wear one piece at a time. A single demented statement, sensibly framed by the more conventional. This tends to be my approach to Kapital. Put simply, I’m never going to wear a pair of leggings with a skeleton bone print. But I would wear this hat, in a very specific way.
*A Vontade: Become the real you
Even during the best of times, it’s rare enough for stories concerning menswear to surface in the mainstream media. While the ongoing pestilence has naturally banished such foppish coverage completely. Or so I thought. Call it Covid fatigue, but over the last few weeks a number of outlets have jumped on the idea that sustained lockdown is encouraging men to dress as they’ve always wanted to.
All it’s taken is a pic of Armie Hammer in a crop top, some dude (apparently married to Gwen Stefani) with a homemade haircut and a handful of ‘only famous in the US’ types with pink mullets and it’s a ‘thing’.
Supposedly, now free of social pressure and the formal demands of work, us blokes are now free to revert to our most comfortable form, the drummer in Green Day.
Comme des Garçons: Something I don’t understand, but need to be part of
That (given the opportunity) I would happily wear one of these rings is a source of some disquiet. I don’t want to be an idiot. I read a great deal, I write, I learn; the human condition is a passion. Still, I want one of these rings. These giant, vulgar, Vegas slot-machine rings. And I know it’s only because they’re from Comme des Garçons. They’re designed by Rei Kawakubo herself and that’s enough to make me assume some level of irony at play, some deeper meaning — something I don’t understand, but need to be part of.
They don’t fit my personal style. So I think I should bend my style to meet them. Yet I know for certain, if these absurd rings weren’t by Comme des Garçons I wouldn’t care. Were they to carry the stamp of a different brand — Dior, Givenchy, Prada say — I’d simply see them as the splashy lunacy they undoubtedly are. I’d think them a joke.
Sadly my blinkered devotion to the house of Comme is such that piss becomes gold. Nonsense is the only sense. As I say, I don’t want to be an idiot. I just fear I am one.
Apart at the seams
Smock: Not ‘just like’ anything
Florals, like so many elements of menswear, are easily mishandled. A blossomy Engineered Garments parka worn beneath a navy field vest looks superb. An equally florid shirt teamed with thin trousers and driving shoes makes you look like you’ve been dressed by your wife.
Quality, brand, print, colour — florals are a broad church, and I’m sorry but your flowery H&M shirt is not the same as a jacket like the one above from Smock. This blazer features an impressionistic suggestion of flowers; muted yet bold; gaudy yet sophisticated. A flowery H&M shirt is just what knobs wear.
Eastlogue: Is there anything as dumb as not buying this jacket?
Yet again the country appears split in two. There are those that think it’s safer to stay locked in and those that think otherwise. I’m very much in the former group. Having given it some thought, I’ve concluded that I’d rather not risk catching a pestilence that might kill me dead. For me the choice between nodding off during episode cajillion of Homeland, and nodding off permanently in an ICU is no kind of choice.
For reasons I cannot fathom, many, many people appear to disagree. They seem perfectly happy to enjoy a daily game of Covid Roulette — gambling prolonged group meets and a couple of gins-in-tins against being throttled to death my their own lungs.
And bizarrely there’s increasing social pressure around this. On a couple of occasions now I’ve been dammed as a pearl-clutching hysteric because I don’t think socialising is all that wise.
Fuck ’em I say. I’d rather a lifetime of watching Carrie Mathison’s bottom lip tremble than risk an early expiration date. To think otherwise is just dumb. Perhaps even as dumb as not buying this Eastlogue jacket.
Belafonte: Why the fuck have you got a lion on your sweater?
Yeah baby, you’re the mountain lion. Yes you are. You’re a big bad mountain lion, poised, alert, ready to strike. Today your pray might be a packet of Cheetos, but tomorrow, who knows… You’re a bad man, a powerful man, a man of urgency and unspeakable erotic tastes.
At least, this is what I tell myself during my morning meditation. It never makes me feel much different though. I remain a lethargic lump who moans when the TV remote is out of reach.
Perhaps I need to dress the part.
Jungle: This shit is the piss
I’m a very exciting man. I’ve got loads to say, lots of compelling opinions on everything from current events through to 1970’s Italian horror movies. I’ll happily talk for hours about underground electronica. Everyone I know knows this. It’s not surprising that when I arrive at a pub my friends suddenly have an important phone call to make, or they have to run home to put the cat out. I get it. They feel inadequate.
But I’m self-aware too. I know not everyone’s as enchanting as me. Some dudes need a little help in grabbing and holding people’s attention. Which is where this hat comes in.
les Briqu’a* braque × Fennica: Treat her like a lady
Yum, yum, fucking yum. And a yee-haw for good measure. We’re talking embroidered polo shirts from les Briqu’a* braque × Fennica. We’re talking candy store colours. We’re talking stripes. We’re talking hand-stitched wild west motifs.
I’d like to take one of these shirts out for a good time. Treat her like a lady. Steak dinner, bottle of mid-priced wine, cocktails, casino, Premier Inn, the works. Conversation might be one-sided, but the electricity will be real. We’ll both feel it. No point fighting it. We’ll both know the evening will end with mini bar Cointreau, a quick flannel bath and silent but respectful coitus.
Why BBC2’s Dave is your new menswear god
People that are always recommending TV shows are the worst. It’s just one of the things we’ve learned from lockdown life. We now know Zoom bingo gets boring very quickly. Kipling’s Cherry Bakewells and creme fraiche is all sorts of wrong. And untimely death is a massive inconvenience.
We’ve also learned that everyone thinks their taste in TV is brilliant. If I watched everything I was told to watch I wouldn’t be writing this, I’d be squatting on the sofa in my own piss, square-eyed, as an English/American/Spanish detective solves a murder/kidnapping while also keeping his teenage daughter from falling in with a bad crowd/arguing with his ex-wife, while drinking too much lager/bourbon/sangria.
That said, you’ve got to watch Dave.
Moonstar x Fennica: Sometimes I think it’d be easier ordering through a Ouija Board.
A couple of weeks back I rolled the dice and ordered some sneakers from Beams Fennica. It’s a Japan only brand, so I had to resort to a proxy service. Using proxies makes me nervous. I sob molten fury if an Amazon order doesn’t turn up when it says it will. Add in a faceless intermediary, a proxy website seemingly designed on a VIC-20 and a language that looks like a spilt packet of Quavers and I’m ready for a psychiatric ward. Sometimes I think it’d be easier ordering through a Ouija Board.
And yet, the sneakers turned up. Beautifully packaged. Mint condition. They took about seven days from mouse-click to doorbell. I should have more trust in people.
Sasquatchfabrix: I am deeply self-important and pretentious
As everyone knows Comme des Garçons invented the colour black in 1981. Prior to that nighttime was dark blue and coal was brown, just like soil, which made it very difficult to find. Now of course black is used everywhere, frequently to denote the most important things in life like TVs, TV remotes and Mars bars.
Black clothing is typically used to announce pretentiousness. If you’re wearing black you look intelligent even if your head is full of candy-floss and unicorns. Fashion PRs wear a lot of black. Art students wear black too. This is so they can appear convincing when discussing the profundity of some blancmange smeared over an old pair of tights.
Engineered Garments: it’s goodnight from him
Terrestrial TV sucks right now. You know something’s gone terribly wrong when it’s a toss up between Doc Martin or something called Dogs With Incredible Jobs.
They’ll bring back Barrymoore next.
This jacket reminds me of TV. Or at least what guys on TV used to wear. Nice bold checked jackets. You know, like The Two Ronnies. Say what you like about the Ronnies, but no one ever found a dead man with a ruined ringpiece in their pool.
Unaffected: not for use, just for being
Here’s a question for your next Zoom quiz. Outside of their prefix, what connects the words unrivaled, unused and unaffected? Why, whey’re all East Asian men’s casualwear brands of course. And for an extra point: two are from Japan, but which of the three is from South Korea? Answer: Unaffected.
Feel free to add that to your next family quiz and watch as your parents nod off through the sheer excitement of it all.
Naissance: gin and elderflower and a few short stories from The Glue Ponys
From my lawn I can smell the barbecues. And the portable pizza ovens (this is Peckham after all). Kids howl, footballs sail over fences; the pull of the saw, the fizz of the sander, the clump of the hammer — such is garden-life during lockdown.
I’d rather just sit in the sun and read quietly. But one of my neighbours thinks differently. He prefers to fill his garden (and thus mine) with bush-league club music, streamed via Spotify complete with deafening ad breaks. Perhaps this is just the rich tapestry of diversity you get when you live in London. I prefer to think he’s just a cunt.
1 thing
Kenneth Field drops at The Bureau
Give me strength. Global economic prospects look dire. Everyone’s furloughed, going part-time or taking voluntary pay cuts. I can’t seem to get hold of crunchy peanut butter anywhere. And yet the exciting menswear drops keep coming.
New in at the ever mighty The Bureau in Belfast is Kenneth Field. Sounds like a character from an 80s sit-com (I’m seeing Anton Rodgers or Keith Barron) but farcical misunderstandings aside, it is of course a beautiful range of casual wear.
Kaptain Sunshine: terribly, terribly grown up
Yesterday I sat playing Modern Warfare Free-for-All. I’m concentrating. Headphones on. Lost in the sounds of automatic gunfire, grenades and player chat.
Then from nowhere: “Rampboy I’m going to fuck your mother.”
I admit I was surprised. There are millions of global Modern Warfare players. What were the chances that I’d ended up playing against my mother’s lover?
A quick phone call to my mum put my mind at rest. She remains a grandmother in her late 70s happily married to my father for over 50 years. I’m beginning to suspect my gaming rival was merely annoyed that I’d shot him in the face three times in a row.
HAVERSACK: mission accomplished
So the UK have the highest death toll in Europe. That’ll show the remoaners. We don’t need the EU to win at death. Once again we’ve proved why Her Majesty’s England knows best. Suck it Johnny Foreigner.
After such a triumph we all deserve a good sit down. Let’s pour ourselves a tall G&T, get Her Majesty’s The One Show on and snuggle up in a cosy cardie. Maybe one like this. But not this one obviously, it’s made in Japan. What have that lot ever done for us? Mission accomplished.
Merely Made: the longest journeys are in the imagination
I went for my first walk in six weeks yesterday. I felt like Veronica Cartwright in Invasion of the Body Snatchers — pokerfaced, unemotional, but afraid that at any moment passersby would start pointing and screaming. My walk didn’t last long. I turned a corner and came within a metre of a mum and her buggy. My legs went. My girl had to hold my hand all the way home.
During a lockdown there’s a certain irony in selling trousers called ‘Nomadic Pants‘. Nevertheless, here they are and with a blanket 20% off over at Korean makers Merely Made they’re an appealing proposition.
SUVSOLE: standing between me and any clear sense of happiness
Occasionally I’ve spotted Japanese brand SUVSOLE crop up at UK retailers Size? and Footpatrol. One style here, one style there, no consistent buys. Currently SUVSOLE is absent from both store’s brand rosters. It’s a shame, because this trail-runner murders.
If you’re about the Hoka One One life, but, like me, haven’t dropped on a pair, these are the niche alternative. I do love Hoka’s (the Engineered Garments co-sign doesn’t hurt) but I’ve now got it in my head that they’re too common.
Let’s be clear, obviously they’re not. I’ve only ever seen one dude in them IRL and he was a ridiculously on-point Japanese dude queuing for a Simone Rocha sample sale. Outside of that, I’ve only spotted them on Nepenthes’ Instagram channels. But (as regular readers will recall) when it comes to menswear, I’m prone to irrational snobbery. It’s a condition that all to frequently stands between me and any clear sense of happiness.
Don’t pity me. I’m a twat. Besides I want a pair of these now.
Auralee: power relaxation with power price tags
If you’re looking for the perfect lockdown look, check this bro. He’s been at that hair with clippers. He’s gone full pyjama suit — keeping comfort and Zoom respectability on lock. And he’s keeping the virus at bay with a stare that says, ‘baby, I’m doing 100 squats each morning and ODing on vitamin D, let’s dance.’
Document: a decent enough metaphor for the times
So, how you getting on? I must say I’m struggling to keep up. Apparently at the weekend, parks were both full and empty, depending on your chosen media outlet. Testing goals are now not about how many people you test, but how many people you could test if people could actually get to the test. Boris Johnson calls it an, “invisible mugger”, but if you remember, it’s a mugger he was happy to keep shaking hands with as the world entered lockdown. Is he tough on crime or not? It’s conundrums such as these I ponder, sitting here, sipping my Peroni with a Domestos top.
Chaotic times call for something simple, and this here baggy tee might do the trick. But look closer. Can you see? Even this isn’t as straightforward as it might appear?
You’re not going out like that
Homeless Tailor: a bit Victorian Dad?
Got to love a pleated trouser. Sure, you’re struggling to raise a smile as antique comedian Lenny Henry trots out his Flavor Flav stylings on the BBC’s Big Night In. Yes, you’re eating dry toast because you’ve run out of butter. No, sunbathing is not the same as exercise. But look at these aggressive pleats. Pointy and stupid and brilliant. High waist, low pleats. It’s possible I’m losing it, but I’m grinning in a way Lenny Henry shouting, “boomshakalaka” will never achieve.
White Mountaineering: like dressing up a Ken doll as Action Man
I can’t remember when I last wore a pair of lace-up shoes. It’s getting that way with trousers too — I haven’t been out of shorts for weeks. Every day it’s cut off Engineered Garments trousers, or giant Sasquatchfabrix techno shorts that crackle when I walk. Up top I dress for Zoom, off camera it’s a world of knees.
Consequently I’m feeling these White Mountaineering shorts. They’re militaristic, but perhaps a little too delightful — like dressing up a Ken doll as Action Man.
YSTRDY’S TMRRW: stumble and squint your way outdoors
I hate short sleeved shirts. I like this short sleeved shirt. I hate short sleeved shirts. I like this short sleeved shirt. My sister, my daughter, my sister…
Lockdown’s knotting my mind like a sausage plait. I don’t know what I think anymore. I’m listening to a track called ‘Approach It Like A ‘90s DnB Banger‘ by Fear E on loop. I have a permanent soft headache. I’m suspicious of the skirting boards. Is it okay to eat soap?
Engineered Garments x Kafka: tough times call for tough clothing
Toughing it out at home is no joke. Whether it’s rearranging your objets d’art or hoovering up all four eps of Unorthodox. Every day there’s the same news. There’s the same pair of shorts to put on. There’s another celebrity gurning on Zoom. Have a shower, have another toasted sandwich. Open a coffee table book, close a coffee table book. And that Ocado delivery won’t unpack itself.
Tough times call for tough clothing.
NOAH: the hypocrisy of snobbery
I’m a slave to snobbery. I’ve never had any interest in the brand NOAH. Those multi-coloured logo hoodies did it for me. Why was everyone suddenly dressing for an Australian pub quiz? And those caps. With the little + under the brand. Yeah, we get it, you’ve got £48 to spend on a hat. Logos, logos, logos… gah.
But this shirt is a different beast. No brazen branding, no threadbare aphorisms. It’s just a simple white shirt with splash of visual poetry on the back. Because I’m such a hateful snob I struggle to admit I like it, but I kind of do. If you’d told me this was by Yohji Yamamoto and only cost £148 I’d bite your hand off.
RANDT: in more sane times I’d fear it
Every day the same. Same people, same four walls, same back pain from working on the sofa, same boxset recommendations over and over. I don’t care what you say, I’m just not that interested in watching a schlock doc about a hilIbilly who wanks off tigers.
Lockdown is like a general anaesthetic for the senses. Social paralysis, intellectual numbness; I actually think someone could saw off my leg and I wouldn’t notice. A friend told me yesterday that they’d been spying on a family member’s rightwing Facebook feed. Apparently it was full of ‘brave Boris’ posts — get this, some pricks actually want to clap for Boris’ recovery. It’s the first thing in weeks to make me feel anything. Utter despair, for the interested.
And then this jacket hit my Instagram feed.
Meanswhile: not officially sanctioned PPE
It’s difficult to look at this hat without considering its PPE effectiveness. Admittedly it doesn’t feature a mask. But surely that neck nappy would offer some protection? Can you get Corona through your ears? I expect it depends on their size. Did I mention I’m not a medical man.
Draw distance
This is what lockdown fashion looks like
So now Holby City are donating ventilators. As if this madness couldn’t get any more unreal. Let’s not forget that back in 2017 the Tories cheered after blocking a pay rise for nurses — now props from a BBC drama series have become the key to someone’s life or death. Johnson waved to his carers as he left the ICU. It seems the main reason people rail against politicising the virus is to try and dodge this gruesome hypocrisy.
As I scribbled the other day, there’s no dodging the impact on the garment industry. Sure, there are many tales from frightened Boohoo workers saying yokels won’t stop buying £5 swimsuits. And it’s possible such online shithouses will do well out of this catastrophe. But the smaller indies, freelance designers, journos, models, stylists, make-up artists, snappers — it doesn’t take a genius to realise they’re going to face serious hardship.
So what does fashion look like under this new normal? I’m sorry to say, it looks like the above.
Camiel Fortgens: another coolest guy on the planet
Money fucking supermarket! This dude’s grabbed my attention. What a confident bro — sun’s out, guns out. And look at the scale of those trousers. He looks like an egg being swallowed by a snake — but in the coolest possible way.
This guy’s modelling Camiel Fortgens‘ current collection. I’m not that familiar with Fortgens, or his work. But anyone who would put this badass, in these pants for their look-book has got to be worth your attention.
Story MFG: Love the indies? Support the indies!
This is the longest I’ve gone without buying anything. Outside of the necessary survival goods — vegetables, bread, milk, personal paper — my debit card has fossilised. There’s been no running to a buzzing door. No feverishly murdering parcels with the kitchen scissors. I haven’t daubed a wonky signature onto one of those grey boxes that look like 80s mobiles for weeks.
That changed on Tuesday.
I bought this Story MFG jacket. It arrived today.
Studio Nicholson: frisbee in the park
If I stand in my garden I can hear sirens. The echo of emergency vehicles is distant, but frequent. They have not yet reached my road.
It’s a daily reminder of this new normal. And that I’m lucky to have a garden in the first place.
Last weekend I watched as, between strained breaths and tears, hospitalised sufferers urged the country to stay indoors. Last weekend I watched footage of people picnicking in busy parks.
If Brexit taught us that this country is home to millions of dumb fucks. Then the parklife footage suggests there are thousands even dumber than that.
Sillage: the hardest of hardcore
Regular readers will know I’m all about that semi-smart jacket life. You know the sort of thing, unstructured blazers, or shirt-jackets, with a hint of lapel — a second layer with a nod to formality.
I rarely use grown-up structured tailoring. While I can’t help thinking a parka, jeans and sneakers belongs in Camden Market thumbing though Elastica CDs. I prefer the stuff in-between. Not smart enough for a wedding, a bit smart for the pub darts team — that’s my bullseye right there.
Eastlogue: fossilised in cultural amber
I’m still looking at shirts like these.
Even as the last respirator is wheeled into NHS Nightingale. As Matt Hancock trembles through his briefing. As my Slack channel overflows with YouTube exercise links. Even though the world is on its knees.
The interior self
Needles: well nawty behaviour
Seen The Gentlemen yet? It’s another double-barrelled job-lot of Guy Ritchie geezerness: you know the sort of thing, shooters, dealers and well nawty behaviour. As a watch it’s okay. As a runway for on-point tracksuit-chic it’s extremely tasty.
Eastlogue: getting excited just doesn’t feel right
The shops are shut. Inboxes fill with discounts and pop-up digital markets. Beloved indie brands cling to their fans through social media; often not to sell, just to talk.
It’s an uncomfortable and introspective time for those of us who consider clothing to be one of life’s great pleasures. Getting excited about a colourful jacket just doesn’t feel right.
Zucca: downright optimistic is what it is
If there’s one thing that’s going to get us all through this, it’s the idea that one day soon, a man, perhaps a man like you, will be able to freely wear this exact Zucca jacket in the kind of pretentious east London bar that has graffiti in the toilets, and fellow patrons will glance enviously at it, while pretending not to be looking at all.
We can but dream.
Eastlogue: a new leader will rise
Good to see Eastlogue offering pieces outside their typical palette of navy, olive and beige. Proper stoner territory this. Maybe the brand have been inspired by LA’s none-more-bongo Online Ceramics. Or is it just a reaction to the virus? This looks like the uniform of a new religion?
Think about it. After months of Loose Women and Cash in the Attic your mind’s going to start eating itself. Your intellect will perish beneath the teeth of stupidity; you’ll start to argue that Love Is Blind is an important sociological experiment; Boris Johnson will sound plausible.
Then you’ll be completely susceptible. A new leader will rise. A Pastor. American. Dressed in a top like this. Probably some beads. He’ll speak to us all through Zoom video conferences. He’ll teach us not to fear the virus, but to embrace it. But not before transfering our savings to his church.
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Loewe: Day three in the Big Brother house
Already Covid-19 has developed a new symptom — conference calls have gone viral. Tinny voices shrieking from smartphones. The robotic echo of bad connections. Hello, can you hear me, I’m here, I’m heeeeere, [fuck me], do you need to restart? Hello, hello…
It’s piss, no doubt. But there is one upside to this lockdown culture. If you’re using video conferencing, you at least get to show off the top half of your daily flex.
Lockdown
Infielder Design: Splattered with Covid-19
I’m on the tube, sitting opposite someone in a plague mask. I’m not wearing a plague mask. Now and again we lock eyes. Should I be scared that she’s a carrier? Or am I the infected? Know one trusts anyone anymore. We’re living through The Thing. But with fewer exploding stomachs.
Engineered Garments: Don’t cry, we’re all in this together
Don’t sneeze. Scrub your hands. Incinerate used tissues. Shit man, welcome to armageddon, population everyone. Required viewing: David Cronenberg’s Rabid, George Romero’s The Crazies and forgotten BBC gem The Mad Death. I wonder how things will look by Friday 10th April — 28 days later. My Aesop Aromatique hand-wash is already taking a hammering. This is the new normal. And quite right too. According to this frighteningly smart piece, businesses should go into lock-down immediately. My work-work is shuttering on Monday. So I’m hunkering at home for the forceable.
But amongst the chatter about the uselessness of masks and predicted infection curves, there’s one conversation notable by its absence. Sure, we’ve got to look after the elderly. But what about the impact on international menswear fanatics? If we’re all locked up indoors, who’s going to see how banging my new South2 West8 blazer is? It’s time for real talk people.
Yuketen: I want, I want, I want…
I’ve just had a pair of these resoled. Not these exact ones, mine are tan, I’ve had them for years. I took them to Hoxton Shoe Repairs and they did an excellent job. It doesn’t stop me wanting this pair as well though.
Yuketen Blucher Rockers (with the kiltie) have been my favourite shoe style for a few years now. I’ve got two pairs, the tan and a pair in green suede. But two is not nearly enough. I think five pairs would be a respectable amount. But I don’t appear to have a spare £485 to buy these. A fact that leads me to believe I probably don’t have £1455 to buy three pairs. Mathematics can be a real kick in the tits.
Medieval or Renaissance?
Bru Na Boinne: who dares wins, who cares doesn’t
Don’t like this jacket? You’ve made a mistake lad. Probably you were looking for boohooMAN and took a wrong turn. The internet’s confusing right? It’s okay. I expect you want some jeans with holes in the knees, or a pair of those big white rip-off McQueen trainers. No problemo, here you go. Any of that stuff will look boss after a quick 15 on the elliptical, a spray tan and a nicely oiled side parting. Mate, you’ll look ‘banging’. Up for some proper top bants I bet. I’m sure you and your identically dressed ‘crew’ are a right laugh.
Now off you go. Get yourself up West. And keep those legs spread on the train. You know what the birds like.
ATHA: giving conventional forms of beauty the finger
Deconstruction in fashion is a cruel mistress. For every fêted Comme des Garçons mutation, there’s another brand’s creation that looks like it was made by you, in ten minutes, with a pair of kitchen scissors. Frayed hems, unfinished button stands — you know the sort of thing.
Against a glittering 80’s backdrop of Lacroix, Fendi, Ferré et al, such dishevelment appeared radical. The stuff of artists, architects and visionaries. Of course deconstruction doesn’t pack such a punch these days. Yet it remains a familiar trope. Stylistic shorthand for avant-garde dressing and giving conventional forms of beauty the finger.
Barena: suffocating a snitch with a carrier bag
Somewhere between Jack Nicklaus and a mafia button man lies this. Yeah, strap in anarchists and ne’er-do-wells, it’s geometric knitwear time. A style beloved of louche 60s crooners and the shortest Two Ronnie.
This piece is from Barena, a brand rooted in the stylistic history of Venice, and it certainly looks the part. After a hard day’s punting, I can see your average gondolier tossing the stripy tee in the wash-basket and wearing this out for a few pints of Negroni.
Needles x Trickers: Japanese visionary meets Vic and Bob
Needles loafers either make sense to you or they don’t. Look at them, they’re all pointy and slim; they’ve got the smell of second hand car salesman. I dunno about you but I don’t hold the bejewelled guvnors in Rise of the Footsoldier up as arbiters of style. So why would anyone want to wear these?
BY H: when there’s nowhere left to go
Sometimes you’ve got to just take a breath. Camo, fluoro, leopard prints, colour clash, retro illustration, colliding geometry, idiot words. Synapses firing too fast. So many t-shirts with Droogs on. Too. Much. Pattern. This is menswear today, a street-fight where the Queensberry Rules take two diamond-encrusted fingers to the eyes.
With so much noise there’s nowhere left to go. What can you wear to stand out? How will you get noticed amongst 1000 hoodies covered in pop-art machine guns and paintings of Jesus hanging from a noose? There are only two approaches. One, beat the boujee anarchists at their own game and wear a top featuring a grinning picture of Jimmy Savile and the words ‘Pedo 4 Life.” Or, assuming you’re not ready to tackle that level of irony, just wear a plain cotton shirt.
Studio Nicholson: just a very very fat man
I own one pair of Studio Nicholson ‘Volume pants’. After the notorious Needles HD Pants, they are the biggest trousers I own. At least around the legs. Thing is, I was lucky to get them. I’m just going to say it, I’m not a fat man. Nothing against the turbo-sized. I just don’t think, by any scientific measure I qualify as fat, or even that large. And yet I can only fit into the XL. I was lucky there was one pair of XLs in the sale. And I do wear them. But too frequently I feel the bite of tight fabric around the waist, followed quickly by the thought that yes, I must be a very very fat man.
I mention this because Studio Nicholson are offering some savagely cool suiting. Bought as separates, but ideally worn together. So now I want a Studio Nicholson suit. Yet the brand seems to think I belong on a stage next to a pair of conjoined twins and a bearded women.
Story MFG: a couple of pillowy fistbumps to the eyes
Our favourite eco-exorcists Story MFG have just dropped new pieces for Spring. In the mix you’ll spot a heady rework of the ‘Short on Time’ style, dubbed ‘Second Trip‘. It looks like designers Katy and Saeed have been swigging from the lava lamp again — check out those grinning suns, spiky marijuana leaves, peace logos and tumbling mushrooms. It’s a simultaneous representation of the globally conscious and the bong-induced unconscious.
But this is the zeitgeist right here if you ask me — wear it to catch one of A24’s nuevo-folk-horrors, or maybe while idly (but theatrically) flicking through the pages of Weird Walk zine in some asymmetrical Shoreditch espresso hole. Dank Rowan Morrison vibes brah!
Magliano: a cardigan for a sex-dragon
This is from Italian brand Magliano. It’s called a Rave Cardigan, although I suspect it’s never seen the inside of a rave. Over at South Korean retailer, I Am Shop, they say it’s got the, “feel of ancient Greek nostalgia.” To me it looks like posh 90s casual wear. The sort of thing worn by expat gangsters on the Costa del Sol.
It’s something of an anachronism. Totally out of step with the prevailing mood of almond lattes, organic hand-sanitiser and motivational memes. This is a cardigan for a sex-dragon. A dude who looks like a blend of Hunter from Gladiators, 80’s man-model Fabio Lanzoni and Salvadore the yoga instructor from Couples Retreat — “yesssss, encouragement.” It’s to be worn bare chested. It’s to be worn while slowly eating cherries. It’s to be worn erotically.
Nanamica: trousers through an APX5 Holographic Sight
This is what trousers look like when viewed through one of Modern Warfare’s thermal scopes. But here they’re not sprinting from the erratic spray of my Kilo 141. They’re just hanging in Goodhood. With a label that says Nanamica and a sticker that says £247.
Andsox: stupider than they already are
I’m finding the illustration on these socks oddly prescient. All that’s missing is a dusting of nuclear fallout on the top of the tent and a couple of unnaturally hairy children fighting over a badger carcass.
My patience is over. Last night hoards of turnip-faced simpletons clashed their G&Ts in time to Big Ben’s chimes. They sang a song requesting that a fictional entity take special care of an old women. They fell prostate before a facist called Nigel — a being with the brain of a frog and the face of a frog. They wheezed and puffed and shrieked with enthusiasm, welcoming a future that anyone with actual expertise predicts will be a pile of shit.
Hope is dead. We live in a land of cunts.
Still, these socks are quite nice.
Sasquatchfabrix: looking like a dick was not central to their moodboard
Sasquatchfabrix’s denim pieces don’t seem to get much play in the UK. Goodhood et al have been offering coats, trousers and the familiar prints for time, but the brand’s denim experiments are rarely seen outside Japan. Perhaps this jacket explains why.
I can’t remember ever thinking that my outerwear would benefit from less front. Blazers, parkas, chore jackets — at no time have I considered the absence of a giant hole in the front to be a bad thing. Perhaps it’s just me. Maybe denim jackets with an orifice advertising your beer belly are a thing now? I spent last weekend in the Midlands — have things really changed that much while I was away?
JieDa: a visual statement so profound you can’t decode it
Today let’s get into artistic territory. Of course, we all enjoy US vintage through an eastern lens etc… blah… etc… But is there not also a place for some righteous pretentiousness? Is there not a place for oversized, overlong garments? A place for garments with abstract prints. Garments designed to be worn while standing perfectly still, with an utterly straight face; as though you and your clothing represent some kind of grandiose communiqué, a visual statement so profound even you can’t decode it? I would say yes. There is a place for it. Not in my wardrobe of course. But there might be in yours.
Polyploid make interesting coats, if you can find them
Polyploid is a German brand. They’re unisexual, which is obviously an open door policy for partner-pilfering. But they do make really interesting coats. Not just coats I should say, they also do a cool line in oversized trousers. But the coats, long-line and minimal, feel pretty good for now.
For a brand so close to the UK, it’s remarkably difficult to figure out who stocks Polyploid. I clicked on the stockist link on their website and it just says, ’email for details.’ The journalistic laziness kicked in — I didn’t bother. That said, they’re definitely stocked at Tokyo based Coverchord. And while Japan seems a fair way to go (proxy) for a German jacket, I can’t help but respect the fact that I’ve never heard of them. And as we all know, a good brand nobody’s heard of is worth around 1000%* more than a good brand everyone’s got.
*Figures hypothetical at time of writing
John Elliott: just a fleece with rectangles on it?
I’m liking the colours here. Chocolate brown (big colour I’m betting this year) a laser-powered yellowy orange marigold and a handful of neutrals. And what about that pattern — somewhere between a close-up of a LEGO wall and the naive motion graphics in The Lawnmower Man. I’m fully digging it.
The concept? Surely a study of the industrial linearity of man meeting the amorphous irregularities of nature. Or could it just be a fleece with rectangles on it? You can never be quite sure.
Needles: beautifully useless
It’s difficult to review clothes. I mean, one man’s chicken liver parfait is another man’s Gregg’s Steak Bake. But with these Needles bags at least, I can confidently speak to the practicality. I don’t own one of these specifically, but I do own an Engineered Garments equivalent — a very similar arrangement of cloth pouch and over-the-shoulder handle. Bags really don’t get much simpler. Nor, I would argue, more out of step with the demands of modern life.
Kapital: a single doppelgänger
I know we had Kapital the other day, but I can’t let this scarf pass by without comment. It’s a double-ender. It’s pulling double-duty. Beyond schizophrenic, this thing’s a doppelgänger and yet there’s only one of it. There’s a Gobelin (historic, French) tapestry on one side. There’s a dead fake leopard on the other. One side’s taking tea with grandma, the other side’s tearing grandma to pieces and scoffing her withered liver.
South2 West8: the me that I think is me?
My girl caught up on my last few posts last night. She seemed concerned by the apparent through-line of despair and downright morbidity. I explained I was fine. But, to change the subject and illustrate I retained some remnants of joy and optimism, I enthused about this jacket. She didn’t like it. Apparently it would make me look like:
- The kind of guy who introduces himself as an artist while never having produced anything beyond secondary-school-level daubings.
- The kind of guy who constantly bangs on about how ‘off his face’ he was.
- The kind of guy who goes barefoot in polite company.
I am, I should clarify, none of the above. But it is worrying that my girl considers the addition of this jacket to my wardrobe so perilous. Thing is, I really like it, I think it’s a bit of me. I wonder if the me that I think is me is not the same me my girl watches Death in Paradise with?
Beheavyer: waiting to crack a smile
Do you find bright and sunny colours lead to a bright and sunny disposition? When the style press suggests adding a pop of colour to scare away the January blues do you think that sounds like a bit of fun and a concept you can get onboard? I fucking don’t. It’ll take more than a yellow body-warmer to make me want to go back to work. And it’ll take more than a duck down interior to make me enjoy another year of conference calls, Google Slides and anaemic on-train wi-fi.
That said, unless I dive under a bus or jump into a canal (both of which sound a bit painy) this is life. And this is a bright yellow body-warmer. So let’s just get on with it shall we.
Kapital: everything starts 32 minutes ago
Putting to one side Thursday’s meltdown, let’s get back on the sartorial horse. What better way to ring in the new year than with an animal of a piece — a sweatshirt that’ll snarl as you pull it on and try to take a bite out of your chin. It’ a grotesque beauty; diseased with colour, schizophrenic of fabric. This is what 2020 looks like. You’re welcome to it.
Emerging from the C-hole
So here it is, merry 2020. Crushed Red Stripe cans carpet Peckham this morning. There’s a note on the door of my favourite cafe announcing its permanent shuttering. The banks are playing catch-up; overnight my balance has atrophied. I notice Well Spent has posted its last.
I don’t start back at work proper till the 6th. I’m one of the lucky ones. I’ve got another couple of days to sit in different cafes, typing rot about menswear, further withering my remaining capital on lattes and exorbitant sausage rolls.
White’s Northwest Boots: tough fucking tinsel
There’s nothing Christmassy about these shoes. If you’re reading this in a jolly nylon knit featuring a naked Father Christmas and the slogan “I’ve got a big package for you”, stop reading and take a long hard look at your life. If you’ve ever swigged a can of lager in a floppy Santa hat on the Tube go away. The Mrs Brown’s Boys Christmas special has your name on it.
We’re back at Clutch Cafe today. The other day we looked at their terrifyingly expensive Setto Indigo Label cardie. Now the spotlight swings to these terrifyingly expensive White’s Northwest shoes.
Setto Indigo Label: the people’s cardigan
Hooray. We’ve only gone and done it. We’ve won another five years of quietly selling off bits of the NHS, throttling the BBC, and ignoring those irritating layabouts in their sleeping bags outside Tube stations. Isn’t it brilliant. Once we’re rid of Johnny Foreigner with their inconvenient health and safety rules, we’ll be free to munch ourselves stupid on as much of Trump’s chlorine-washed chicken as we want. And if this vote has taught us anything, it’s that the climate crisis is just a storm in a tea cup.
Best just to forget about politics now, we’re in safe hands. Let’s all get back to doing what we do best, believing we’re better than other countries, being emotionally repressed and watching idiots try to fuck each other on Channel 4.
Sunnei: a stab at what feels right for now
Famously, you can’t please all of the dudes all of the time. There are heritage denim fanatics — the kind of guys who typically shop at Son of Stag or Clutch Cafe. Then there are guys who certainly appreciate the beauty of 22oz rope-dyed denim, but are also drawn to more modern fits.
These jeans from Italian imprint Sunnei are more likely to appeal to the latter. If the denim here has a back-story, one of antique looms and irregular weaves, it is not mentioned on the brand site. Rather I suspect, the denim here is good and serviceable, but nothing that demands documents of authenticity. Basically, these are fashion jeans. Or, to put it in a way that’s less likely to induce vomiting, we’re talking leading-edge design, having a stab at what feels right for now.
Kapital: like some kind of gynaecological oddity
Kapital’s Ring Coat is well known amongst scholars of modern menswear. It’s an elephantine parka which, when fully buttoned, smothers the wearer like a dumpy succubus. Wear it loose and the swathes of fabric corrugate at the front like some kind of gynaecological oddity. The Ring Coat is not for everyone. But for fans of head designer Kiro Hirata’s twisted take on military attire, it’s a classic. You might already own one.
This is a Ring Coat, but also not — technically, it’s a Ring Coat liner. But as retailer Kafka point out, it’s perfectly good to wear on its own — a position I wholeheartedly endorse.
Norbit by Hiroshi Nozawa: a weapon of a coat
It’s worth keeping an eye on Alpha Shadows right now, the store has gone early with reductions — preparing the way for a significant reimagining next year. Consequently, with 25% all orders, some pieces that were well beyond the reach of the average wallet, are now less well beyond the the reach of the average wallet. You’ll still need a big wallet is what I’m saying.
Having said that, if you’re in the market for an investment piece, then this weapon of a coat by Norbit by Hiroshi Nozawa might be what you’re after.
Nisica: Not a Christmas shirt
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s most things. But especially right now, the use of the term, “living your best life”. Ahhhhggg — it’s physically uncomfortable to even write it down. Why is this asinine expression of empty-headed enthusiasm so popular? It’s like having your teeth pulled by a phrase.
Thing is, I like slang. At least I like slang that’s the result of unique cultural experiences, burgeoning friendships, cultish music fanbases, specific passion centres. What I object to is the wave of empty, colourless terms presumably born of an internet meme and then repeated endlessly, in every possible circumstance by the middle-class and middle-aged. Come on mum of two, put down that ‘must-have’ & Other Stories top and say ‘bantz’ for me. Come on, say ‘winninggg!’ — specifically every time something wholly unremarkable happens. Even the BBC are at it, they’re now peddling the idea of “living your Christmas best life”, or some such twaddle.
Fuck this life. Here’s a shirt.
The sensible subversive
YSTRDY’S TMRRW: a fleece of a different hue
A fleece means different things to different people. To the vast majority it means something body-conscious from Berghaus — a garment with a griege anonymity so powerful it’s the closest we’ve come to developing an actual Harry Potter Invisibility Cloak. To others a fleece is what your gran wears to do the gardening. To a Shetland sheep it’s the only thing standing in the way of an abattoir hook. To Jason and his Argonauts, it means something quite different again.
On this site, a fleece means a boxy shape. It means a truncated length. It means a few utilitarian or vintage style details. And colour-wise it usually means camel. But not so today. This number from YSTRDY’S TMRRW ticks all the stylistic boxes, but presents itself in a rich turquoisey blue. The colour of a idealised ocean. Or a fine piece of Lalique. Or the Co-Op logo.
Soulland: schizophrenic shirting for the individualist
I find myself drawn to the brand Soulland. For a reason only clear to my subconscious, I’ve previously viewed Soulland as something of a gateway brand — a quick way for a novice menswearist to wear a logoed-T that didn’t originate on the high-street. There was a period a handful of years back when, in central London at least, branded Soulland pieces seemed a prevailing trend. I suspect this coloured my view. Either way, I decided to swerve the brand and have done until now. But this season’s shirts are making me reconsider my position.
Bode: altered state of corduroy
This is Bode. You know, the NYC design house that dusts off vintage textiles, quilts and other haberdashery and reshapes them into contemporary shapes. The brand’s been popping up more frequently of late, at more and more retailers.
But while its rarity decreases, two elements remain unchanged. Its wallet strangling cost. And its nuclear approach to style. Case in point — this corduroy over-shirt and trouser combination. Seemingly derived from the Book of Genesis via a live-action LEGO movie. This is clothing as an assault weapon.
The kind of beauty you cannot possess (unless you’re an XXL)
Oh dear, oh dear. I first saw this belter from Tender when it dropped at The Bureau a week or so ago. And I was going to spotlight it then, but I got a cold. So I coughed and wheezed. Then moaned and whined. And spent most of my waking hours wondering if a couple of Marlboros with my coffee might actually help matters. What I didn’t do was write anything about this jacket. And now look, they’ve only gone and sold all but the XXL.
YMC x Solovair: re-embrace the Monk
Monk shoes (shoes featuring a strap rather than laces) had a spike in popularity around 2013. Back then Four Pins was in the ascendancy and Milanese sprezzatura felt fresh and surprising. Menswear fanboys spent much of this period trying to ‘wear’ a pair of driving gloves in their blazer pockets in a way that looked unconsidered. Sunglasses, cufflinks, handkerchiefs, even your brolly had to sync with your ‘steez’. And if your shoes laced rather than buckled, well, you just weren’t playing the game.
Enter these YMC monk shoes. I reckon enough time has passed to re-embrace the strap. And besides, these chunky Solovair-built numbers are a world away from the foot-hugging, pike-tipped dandy-boots worn at Pitti Uomo.
Seven by Seven: Judas Priest!
I’m not a rocksman. I couldn’t tell you one song by Black Sabbath or Metallica. I only remember the name Judas Priest because back in the late 70s I recall it being used as an amusing expression of surprise. The kerrang of a guitar does nothing for me. And from a sartorial perspective I can happily live without ever experimenting with long lady hair (impossible in my case anyway) spay-on leathers and pointy boots covered with gems. All of which makes the appeal of this monstrously buttoned denim shirt all the more peculiar.
Needles: how do you feel about wearing the logo?
I don’t like logos on clothes. Or maybe it’s just, I don’t like most logos on clothes. This top is from Needles and features the brand’s butterfly logo; famously inspired by Steve McQueen’s tattoo in Papillon.
Back in May 2017, GQ posted a piece all about Needles – riding the wave of A$AP Rocky’s interest, they went into the 20 odd year history of the brand and proclaimed that Needles was now the label of choice of the globe’s, “stylish kids.” For many longer standing fans of Keizo Shimizu’s work at Nepenthes and Needles, this was exactly the news they didn’t want to hear.
Pherrow’s trousers: a club that will have you as a member
This is a strong pair of winter trousers. But they’re not just that. These are from Pherrow’s, a Japanese imprint with a formidable rep for producing vintage inspired re-workings, denim and superb quality sweats. The cut and the cloth really mark these out. The labyrinthine mix of wool, polyester, acrylic, rayon and nylon will certainly keep you warm. And the shape. Well, that loose-thigh-sharp-taper vibe will immediately grant you membership to the kind of exclusive sartorial club populated by David Byrne, Don Johnson and Ozone from Breakdance: The Movie.
HURRAY HURRAY: laugh in the face of capitalistic blandness
Dunno if you’ve been watching The Deuce, HBO’s criminally underrated drama. The concluding episode was on last week and without wishing to spoil, the final scenes offered a powerful juxtaposition between life back in 1970s/80s New York and today. Once Times Square was a mix of grit, ambition and authentic human experience, now it’s a mall of standardised digital signage and corporate fast food. Chunky tourists in shorts and baseball caps. A Gap on every corner. The very soul of the place diluted with every sip of multinational latte.
Needles x NOMA t.d. – a commitment from wallet and courage
Avid Nepenthes-heads will have clocked this Needles x NOMA t.d collaboration doing the rounds on social. With chore jacket stylings, big flowers and a velveteen finish, this thing is beyond the reach of the average mortal, demanding equal commitment from both wallet and courage. Basically, there’s no way you won’t get noticed-to-fuck in this.
Kolor overcoat: what does meaning even mean?
Wool. Polyester. Checked. Buttons. Savaged with a cutlass. Repaired by the optically challenged. Such is the way of Japanese brand Kolor. It’s tough to get in the UK now, particularly after the shuttering of Shoreditch’s Present. Nevertheless, Kolor continues to peak the interest of a specific type of menswearist. The sort of chap for whom a perfectly sensible checked overcoat rises to the level of a conceptual art work with the addition of some contrasting woollen strips.
DESCENTE fleece: ideal for the great indoors
Normal service has resumed. The UK is once again chilly, miserable and subject to frequent drenchings. No more freaky late-summer roastings; this is weather I get. Mournful and joyless. Weather that gives Englanders an ashen complexion that lives on their faces and in their hearts. It’s weather to celebrate fleeces – if you’ve the energy to raise a hip-hooray from your womb of worry, cynicism and 20 a day.
RECOUTURE for Ray Coal: reason takes a day off
Look upon these shoes and feel reason begin to twist and rend. What are they, why are they? They’re footwear, but how? Are they even man made? Or birthed from the very fires of Mephistopheles? Are they in fact alive?
Peer long and hard at these shoes people and watch as common sense takes a poo.
Store visit: SLOU, Lisbon
As I mentioned in a previous post, I’ve recently returned from a vay-cay in Portugal. As you might imagine, while there I spent ages and ages, trawling the Lisbon backstreets (on Google maps, by the pool) searching for interesting indie-menswear retailers. And I did find one in the end. It’s called Slou. It’s pretty small, but it packs in a few decent brands. And, to be honest, in the end I walked up a real life hill to get there, so I feel duty-bound to share my pics.
Mardon: unpretentious pretentiousness
Here’s a new brand for you: Mardon. It’s a stylistic collision of influences drawn from NYC, Italy, Japan and Korea apparently. You can buy into the brand over at Korea’s I Am Shop and right now, it looks like they’re the exclusive retailer.
The Mardon Facebook channel suggests the clothes are, “unpretentious and easy to wear.” Before using their next breath to extol the virtues of the “avantgarde” and “modern minimalism”. Make up your mind Mardon. Are you unpretentious or extremely pretentious? Not that there’s anything wrong with being pretentious mind you. Everyone appreciates look-books full of models with Friar Tuck haircuts, gawping blankly into chasms of asymmetrical architecture.
Undercover goes Clockwork Orange
Once, in the 90s, I wore fancy dress. I went to a ‘circus’ themed party as a Droog from A Clockwork Orange. I thought I looked suitably clownish, even with the baseball bat. I have never worn fancy dress again.
It’s interesting how the counter-cultural appeal of Stanley Kubrick’s essay in ultraviolence remains so pervasive. Decades after my generation discovered it on pirated VHS, it still pops up, referenced in everything from cartoons and pop music, to comedy and digital art. Fashion too. Just take a look at these slogan knits from Jun Takahashi’s cult imprint Undercover.
I met Deborah Meaden once
The Conspires: new Nepenthes brand
I’ve been OOO (Estoril, just outside Lisbon if you’re interested) so I’ve slept a little on this news, but Nepenthes have a new brand: The Conspires. It’s a co-creation between Engineered Garments’ supremo Daiki Suzuki and Keizo Shimizu, Needles designer and Nepenthes founder. And the concept? “Simple relaxation wear for adults.” I am an adult (in age if not sensibility) and also quite comfortable with the notion of relaxing. Sounds like a winner, but how do I get hold of it?
An escape from Folk horror
In the early 2000s my wardrobe was full of Folk. Arriving back in London, after five years in San Francisco, I found the city head-to-toe in heritage-wear. Barbour Chelseas everywhere. A few clued-up media types I spoke to were extolling the virtues of Folk, a small casual wear brand who were taking heritage and twisting it up. The details were everything; if your gilet didn’t feature a wonky pocket and some climbing cord, you might as well not leave the house.
I enjoyed Folk clothing for a couple of years. And then I didn’t. Folk seemed to be a gateway drug. Once you’d exhausted the range you’d start looking further afield, for more unusual details, more obscure brands. It didn’t help that Folk became popular. Really popular. And in tandem the collections began to sideline the hippy colourways and the ornamental woven pockets. Soon the range was dominated by straight-up navy separates; multiple variations around the blazer and golfing jacket. It started to feel a little tame. That original Folkness seemed to dissipate and with it my interest in the brand.
I think I’ve got a problem
Yesterday I visited the Goodhood Yard Sale. The selection was pretty measly, I should have walked away. Yet I managed to come away with a pair of absurd Suicoke leopard print sandals and a Nicholas Daley top that makes me look like an athletic Jesus. I think I’ve got a problem.
If I’m honest with myself, I’m most comfortable (both physically and emotionally) in a head-to-toe uniform of baggy navy separates. So why do I keep buying stupid shit?
Comfort: how important is it, really?
I wish Trickers made these. In fact they’re from French brand Adieu, which is fine and all that, it’s just my experience with Adieu shoes has occasionally been less than premium. I find them slim, somewhat constricting. Technically I’m a 9.5-10. But the last pair I bought was an 11.
This is almost certainly an issue with my extremities rather than the brand itself. But it might lead you to wonder why I bother at all. Why continue to buy shoes built around a last incompatible with your feet? And this is of course where things get dumb. I like their styles. I’m a victim. On balance, I find a modish, refreshed version of a classic, more appealing than the classic itself. And as slavish as that makes me, I’m prepared to suck up minor inconveniences – like comfort. So now I’m eyeballing these freaky looking olive chukkas.
Why are men’s shorts so horrifically tight?
Based on the evidence of my own eyes, I think I know why most men’s shorts are slim. It’s because most men seem to like them. Admittedly, there are fewer examples on the street now the rain has arrived, but give it one day of moderate sun and the pubs of the capital are immediately surrounded by geezers in slender, thigh-hugging shorts. When it’s warm they’re everywhere you turn; another plastic-pinted phalanx of pointy loafers, short-sleeved shirts and gonad-crushing dress-shorts. With one regulation omission, socks – presumably by the order of the fucking Peaky Blinders, eh geez?
I’m belatedly heading to warmer climes and have to consider the shorter trouser. Unfortunately this area of my wardrobe is understocked to the tune of one cut-off pair of EG Workaday trousers – and I only scissored them because I’d ruined them with Dulux. No, I’m not a friend to the short. I’m like an Edwardian Duchess, I prefer to keep my modesty (and pallid knees) covered. Nevertheless, I’m off somewhere hot, I need some shorts and I refuse to wear slim ones. What do I do?
Nepenthes London: Sasquatchfabrix over-shirt
The Nepenthes London outpost is filling up nicely. The downstairs has recently opened up featuring footwear and South2 West8. There’s also a space devoted to popups and colabs, currently filled with merch by Tacoma Fuji Records, the fictional music-based art collective founded by Tomoro Watanabe. There’s also room in the store (and the webstore) for Sasquatchfabrix, the Tokyo-based imprint that twists-up 90s skate and graffiti culture and turns it into something new.
To make this over-shirt Sasquatchfabrix have used an extremely precise, traditional approach to printmaking called Sumi-Nagashi. A lot of effort to make it look like you’ve had a fight with a family tub of Sudocrem.
Could these hats really make Strictly better?
These days, two weeknights on the pop means come Saturday evening I’m good for nothing except prodding at a takeaway with Strictly thudding away in the background. In my view it’s a particularly poor year for the BBC’s tentpole entertainment show. The term celebrity has never felt so flabby. I mean look at Emma Thynn, Viscountess Weymouth. She’s managed to sneak under the bar by being a zoo keeper and having a name that references a popular minty biscuit. It’s a new low that amusingly leaves pro-dancer Aljaž Škorjanec partnered with someone he’s comfortably more famous than.
Confident enough for a Japanese style Noragi coat?
I suspect I too frequently underestimate the challenge some of this site’s styles present. Taking the step into very wide trousers (of the type championed by Needles or Studio Nicholson) is, for many, I imagine a step too far. Similarly, I assume there are a large number of enthusiastic clothesmen who like the idea of standing out, but nevertheless consider a Japanese style Noragi coat to be the preserve of the clinically berserk. It’s a shame. As this wrap-over style, frequently held in place by a single tie, is actually an extremely practical and comfortable choice. No question, you’ll look a bit like a vintage porn actor. But, you know. Bad?
Beige plus beige equals what?
Do you double beige? You know, beige-on-beige. Beige trousers and beige jacket. Admittedly it’s a lot of beige. Mathematically around 50% more beige than you’re comfortable wearing in one go. But, perhaps you’ve seen the popularity of double beige on Instagram. Maybe you’ve encountered it over at the brand Studio Nicholson – they’re big on double beige and have been pimping it aggressively all summer.
As I write, I’m sitting on a train double-beigeing it. I’m wearing a pair of extremely wide beige trousers from the aforementioned Studio Nicholson and a beige raincoat by Nanamica. The trousers are heavy cotton, the raincoat is Gore-Tex, but the exact tone of beige is virtually identical. If I stand still I look like a tomb.
This is a Visvim canvas tote
This is a canvas tote. Look at it, you can see it right? It’s canvas. And it’s a tote. I’m going to assume you know what a tote is. Some people carry supermarket totes, presumably to advertise how ecologically woke their preferred supermarket is. Other people carry vintage record shop totes. This displays that they not only like music, but also insist on awkward antique formats. Others carry totes featuring slogans of the sort you might find on your mum’s Facebook page – sentimental truisms so profoundly useless the waste of words actually contribute to their carbon footprint.
This tote, on the other hand, is plain. It’s in a sort of sandy colour and it costs £325.
Snow Peak UK store launch
Following Nepenthes’ lead, Japanese outdoorists Snow Peak are setting up shop in London. Over on their spanking new UK webstore, they’re calling it the, “ultimate Snow Peak outpost in Europe”. Expect it “soon” at 16A Regent Street – which sounds pretty grand. Bricks ’n’ mortar aside, the webstore itself is already pretty interesting.
This and Wander fleece brings the déjà vu
Is it fleece time already? Is time moving faster, or does this top from and Wander just look like least season’s tops from and Wander? I’m not sure. Wasn’t last winter’s menswear all about burnt oranges, chestnuts and Peruvian browns? Or is that just every winter? Am I stuck in a really specific temporal loop? Doomed to encounter the same piece of Japanese casual wear over and over and over…
Dissolving desire
So, one minute you’re scrolling through Japanese casual wear site Strato and find a weird looking shirt from a brand you’ve never heard of. The next you’re following a link to Amazon UK, where exactly the same shirt is available for £22.84.
No question, clothes on sites like Strato or Digital Mountain just seem more desirable. Presumably it’s a combination of geography and impenetrable language, but if I see something interesting, I unconsciously imbue it with more value than something I can buy more locally. A position rendered embarrassingly redundant by this find.
Temple of gnostic sonics
Truly the Brexit of trousers
It’s mildly remarkable, but also secretly rather pleasing, that the easiest way to turn heads and provoke confusion in menswearland remains the wearing of large trousers. The slim cut continues its strangle-hold on legwear; contrary to numerous designers, from niche workwear artisans to chintzy runway brands, proposing different. As a signifier of taste, baggy vs slim is as divisive as leave vs remain. It just so happens that, as is most frequently the case, the scruffy art students of east London have it right, while regional fake-baked gym-bodies have it wrong. Large trousers make you look brave, challenging and counter-cultural. Skinny or slim make you look like you think All Saints is edgy.
Sacai shirt: stealth luxury or pretend poverty?
Owning a Sacai shirt is a rare luxury. I’ve been fortunate enough to take advantage of considerable sale reductions on a couple of occasions. However just straight-up buying a full price Sacai shirt remains beyond me. I mean, theoretically I could buy this, but my marriage would be toast, which is also all I’d have left to eat for the month.
Eastlogue powers up the corduroy
I like Eastlogue. Although not everyone seems to agree. The South Korean brand came and went within a season over at west London’s Garbstore. “It just didn’t sell”, I was told; which I suppose when you’re a shop, is probably quite key. In the UK you can still grab pieces over at Kafka and Alpha Shadows, although if you’re taken with this corduroy ‘flak shirt’ you’ll have to look further east.
FUTUR and Graphpaper bring the queasy beauty
Turning our attention to power-shirting, there’s this notable example over at Digital Mountain. Seemingly the result of a collaboration between a steamroller and a bag of pick ‘n’ mix, it’s actually the combined work of brands FUTUR and Graphpaper. It’s basically an oxford cotton shirt, but, for want of a more technical term, splodged.
Danner boots: super exclusive, super beautiful, super blue
If you remember we looked at some Danner boots just a few days ago. They were a White Mountaineering colab; light grey suede, remarkable fringing detail, about a billion pounds. These boots are Danner again, this time in conjunction with Japanese menswear magazine Lightning. Much more practical than their fringed bedfellows, but still hyper-luxe and ideal for the kind of utilitarian gentlemen for whom manual labour is positively passé. And if you hadn’t noticed, they’re blue. Seriously and unashamedly blue.
Do you feel like microwaved croissant?
One minute it’s summer, then it’s not, then it’s so summer there’s a reservoir of warm brine in your pants and your feet grow to twice their normal size. Do you feel like microwaved croissant? Is your forehead a fountain of sudoric discharge? Well, happy hotness people. Everyone says they want it until they get it, then they moan about it. And with every whiny flap of their trap, little ropes of glossy human dew fly from their upper lip straight into my glass of squash. Fuck this boiling life.
Thing is I never want it to be hot. Ever. I’d be happy if all year it was just okay. 365 days of ‘jacket weather’. Or ‘cardie weather’. Then I could wear this thing from Monitaly.
Open plan living, bungalow ranch style
Dr Collectors and the tale of the obvious weed pocket
Over to London’s Clutch Cafe for this tee from Dr Collectors. The label is created and run by revered denim collector and indigo authority Olivier Grasset; read all about him, his brand, processes and ethos over here. We’ll focus on this shirt. Called the ‘Weed’ shirt, it draws on army issue shirts of the 80s, delivering a boxy, wide fit as well as a thick-banded collar. Simple right? Yep, and admittedly this is far from the poke-your-eyes-out pieces we frequently spotlight here. But, a bro’s got to have basics too, especially ones to help combat this long weekend’s needling heat.
Comme des Garçons Shirt: is this the perfect one?
Yes, that’s right, another Comme des Garçons Shirt. Thing is, when Comme shirts are too swervy, too ‘designed’, they’re an unwearable hash of felt appliqué and exposed nipples. But, when the balance is right, you get garments that murder the competition. Perfectly symmetrical understandings between the practical and the avant-garde. Enough to out-pimp any menswear pretenders. Not enough to make you look like a mash up between children’s toy and a pole dancer.
This Comme des Garçons Shirt from the Fall drop over at Oki-Ni is bang on the balance.
White Mountaineering x Danner offer the fringiest boots ever
Fringed booties people. Combining the collaborative might of Japanese outdoorists White Mountaineering and US boot makers Danner. And yes, the result is mind-blowing.
Look upon them, see how they demand both reverence and fear. Have you ever witnessed such hardcore tasseling? Only the seriously headstrong or the seriously headfucked need apply. Are you dude enough to get soaked by this torrential downpour of suede rain?
Dries Van Noten bringing the sexy Charles Manson look
I dunno what’s happening to me at the moment. I’m fully aware of the kind of stuff that suits me, I know the kind of clothes I’ll get most wear from. I know that dark blues, olives and greys are my friends. Yet I’m increasingly drawn towards clothing that strobes.
If it’s not Online Ceramics and their psychoactive tees, it’s Story MFG‘s most hallucinogenic pieces; daubed in cartoon fungi and dancing butterflies. I’m usually the guy at the back, shrouded top to bottom in deepest navy, a bucket hat and a sneer. I’m not the guy selling hash cakes and shaking a rain stick. The most spiritual I get is ordering a Massaman instead of a Green Curry. Yet here I am spotlighting a Dries Van Noten shirt fit for a practitioner in energy medicine.
Sophnet: crude and clumsy in the best possible way
Some things are just inevitable. For example, I know the every time I visit my local pharmacy it’s going to take three really slow members of staff to get from the moment I hand over my prescription… to me actually getting my hands on the medicine. I also know that if I want to watch a Colbert video on YouTube I’m going to have to watch five seconds of Wix trying to get me to build a website about cactuses.
Such is modern life. My expectations are rarely off-target. I’m never shocked, I’m hardly even surprised. Is this Sophnet shirt surprising? I mean, maybe… Just the merest whisper. It doesn’t look like the stuff Sophnet normally make, so, you know, there’s that…
Do you dungarees or don’t you?
The menswear consumer can comfortably be divided between men who wouldn’t wear dungarees and men who would. The former group comprises virtually everyone, the latter, hidden somewhere within the use of the word virtually.
Divisive, inelegant and yes, there’s fucking Mario, the dungaree is maximum workwear. If you’re wearing them you either work with your hands, or you’re on-staff at an international menswear boutique. There’s no middle ground.
Story MFG: as brown as a shaman’s pâté
Floating in from a similarly hallucinogenic mindset as yesterday’s Online Ceramics, here we have the latest from Story MFG. Again we’re liberated from bothersome rules and best practices and dunked headlong into an LSD-laced apple bob – where the apples are human mushrooms and the water is the sound of a screaming dog. Wrap your sanity in a J Cloth and follow me down the rabbit hole.
Online Ceramics: somewhere within the smog of a shisha pipe
Listen closely and you can hear the sitar. This is Online Ceramics, an LA based t-shirt brand, up to their necks in psychedelic shenanigans, full-spectrum shrooms and the language of altered consciousness. Who are you? Who am I? In the world of Online Ceramics the answer to both is somewhere within the smog of a shisha pipe. Safe to say it involves waving goodbye to inhibitions, knocking back a shot of peyote and sacrifice your first born to a god with the head of a horse and the body of a smaller horse.
Grunting in front of Mad Lizzy
American designer Robert Geller runs his eponymous line and another called Gustav Von Aschenbach, which takes its name from the central character Thomas Mann’s novella Death in Venice. Robert Geller is a scholar. A designer comfortable theming collections around the Basel School of Design, and littering show notes with challenging German vernacular (Geller was born in Germany). A spot of pretension is no bad thing. This yellowy brown sweatshirt would just be a yellowy brown sweatshirt otherwise. As it is, it’s probably a metaphor for something. The last thing it actually is, is a yellowy brown sweatshirt.
A thrashing rubber dick of blazing colour
Oh the poetry of the male mating ritual. The steamed mirror, air heavy with Paco Rabanne Invictus, the restless hum of the WAHL grooming clippers; it’s a meticulous program of necessity. Without such preparations, the male risks going unnoticed, neglected in favour of other, more dynamic members of the pack. The burden of beauty is heavy. When the clippers are silenced and the bathroom window popped to release the fug of amateur cologne, then the male must dress. And he may choose a shirt like this. A proud peacock of a shirt. A shirt that says ‘I’m here and I’m ready to party.’ The equivalent of a female baboon’s angry red anus.
NOMA t.d. elevating the standards
This is a nice enough day-to-day standard from NOMA t.d. Fundamentally it’s a cotton chore jacket, but the collision of checks elevates this from the domain of the labourer. It’s certainly an interesting jacket, but hardly a sensation. It’s neither dull enough for you to get lost in a crowd, nor dynamic enough to make someone embarrassed to stand next to you. How does that sound for an enticing Saturday afternoon read? I dunno, if you’re feeling as apathetic as me, the following just might be just the kind of noncommittal, lazy bullshit you’re looking for.
Going hard OAP
The Engineered Garments shoulder pouch is as simple as it comes. It’s basically an envelope on a strap; big enough for an iPad Mini, or a handful of spectacles, fags, lighters, iPhone, pack of Percy Pigs; the usual contraband. As someone with shoulder-on experience of this pouch I can report with some confidence on its practicality. And packed lightly, it’s slender enough to wear under your jacket or blazer – you know, like they do in the EG look-books.
My old shoulder pouch is plain navy; humble and simple. This season’s are straight-up lunacy. Someone’s been watching Grey Gardens and has decided to go hard OAP. It’s like a raid on Downton Abbey’s attic – giant floral jacquards, geometric roses, some shit that looks like it belongs on a piano stool and is that some kind of tapestry? All of it measured, chopped and sewn into bags intended for a fully grown man to use. Lean in, you can almost smell the granny.
White Mountaineering outerwear with a tale to tell
As a look, country ‘n’ western singer meets helicopter rescue crew is broadly underrated. Not so it seems over at Japan’s White Mountaineering. This jacket manages to successfully interpret a hillbilly’s heartbreak when his wife runs away with a paddle steamer captain via the bold plaid. While the strap-heavy utility vest tells the tale of her subsequent fall overboard and winch to safety. It’s the age-old story of love, loss and aquatic rescue.
Boba Fett playing the Clavicord
TOGA was founded in 1997 by Yasuko Furuta, the menswear line TOGA VIRILIS followed in 2011. According to a recent interview with Furuta, the brand is for those who are, “curious, liberal, boundary-crossing, independent and flexible.” As someone who considers himself (in varying degrees) all of those things, this should be the brand for me. And it is, save for two small but important details. Firstly, at £228 for a long-sleeved t-shirt, TOGA VIRILIS will take a scythe to the most healthy wallet. £632 for cable knit cardigan? £430 for a pop-over shirt with a polo-collar? This is Dior-level ker-ching. Secondly, TOGA VIRILIS menswear is a toss-everything-in, miscellany of every style, all yelling at once. Giant paisley, animal print, wild-west, embroidery, velour, velvet: it’s all going on. Plus there are chunky silver buckles all over the place. It’s showy, theatrical and camp. Ideal stagewear for an intergalactic troubadour; think Boba Fett playing the Clavicord.
Japanese menswear via rose-tinted American symbolism
The semiotics are impossible to ignore. This is cowpoke country. This is the wild west people. Of course, what makes those guys most wild these days is the idea of two dudes kissing. But this shirt is more focused on the romantic idea of America past. Wrangling steers, rickety stagecoaches, six-shooters, and the rape and murder of the indigenous population.
As with so much on this site however, it doesn’t originate in the land of thick cacti and idiotic abortion legislation. It’s Japanese. It’s just another eastern rose-tinted repurposing of American symbolism. The brand is Digawel. And contrary to my laboured US bashing, they do actually make some proper grails.
Adolescent politicising aside…
Japanese imprint Black Weirdos are finally getting noticed in the UK. Back in November 2016 I was banging on about their psychedelic streetwear and quietly, without any noticeable fanfare, a few pieces have turned up over at London’s Goodhood. The obsession with 60’s counter-culture remains, as does the brand’s predilection for loose workwear shapes and condensed-font sloganeering. This is my pick from the Godhood drop. The front of this sweat features a badge that says, “Five levels of conscious expansion.” The back, as you can see shouts out to “Legalize acid.” Profound it may not be. But if getting noticed is your prime directive, this slab of orange text will probably do it for you.
Putting the fun in refund
I’m always suspicious when a pair of trousers is advertised as having a ‘cropped length’. I mean, what length is cropped? After all, cropped for some might be clownish for others. I’d rather just have them longer and if I want to give the hem a couple of rolls or set a tailor on them I can. Too much to play with is easy, too little is a mouth full of dicks.
Re-evaluate your mortgage commitments
Feeling impatient? Do you want to feel impatient? Do you want to feel anxious, restless and double-thirsty? It’s an easy fix. Check out Nepenthes Japan, or the Instagram pages for the Tokyo, Hakata and Osaka stores. Just look at the shit they’ve got that we haven’t. This is the time of the year when that happens. Digital shelves, so close and yet so far, dangling the promise of garms we won’t see on these shores for time. Come on Nepenthes London. Why aren’t you stocking this insane Engineered Garments parka yet?
Maybe, perhaps, possibly
There’s one problem with this Dr. Martins x Nanamica collaboration and it’s not Nanamica. From Comme des Garçons to the Nepenthes family, brands too frequently lean on Dr. Martins to create a (relatively) affordable gateway into their worlds. The thing is (perhaps unsurprisingly) they all end up looking like DMs.
I bought two pairs of the recent Dr. Martins x Engineered Garments offering: one olive pair with an asymmetrical lacing system, the other in ‘milkshake’ with a Velcro strap over the laces. I don’t wear them much. I’m an idiot, but doubtless it’s the snob in me. Whatever you do to them, DMs can’t help but look like DMs. And that look, that cushiony, round-toed familiarity, it’s just loaded with poverty-stricken studenty resonance; snakebite and black, The Cure, student discos, sweetcorn on toast. I should probably try and ditch my ancient prejudices. Because looking at these shoes objectively, maybe, perhaps, possibly, they’re just a little bit cool.
Gurgle yourself to sleep
T-shirts with rude words. A long standing tradition. A staple of so many counter-cultural movements. Who did it first? Who knows? Who cares? The rude t-shirt is a historical constant, regularly popping up to scream its passion and attempt to shock. Dotted throughout punk, acid house, rock ‘n’ roll and the rest, you’ll spot these wearable billboards. Today, it’s difficult to imagine how they once seemed powerful, anarchic, daring.
What are rude t-shirts now? What are they for? With a digital youth more clued up than the ruling generation (busy working to effect political and environmental change) what’s the point of a t-shirt that says ‘ass hole’?
A permanent Mardi Gras
There’s a lot of tie-dye about at the moment. These tops from the professional subversives over at SASQUATCHfabrix move things on a bit. No amateur-hour, done-in-a-bucket-with-elastic-bands job here. These pieces haven’t even heard of Glastonbury. And they’re bold, right. The colours strike you directly on the forehead, quickly followed by an erratic swing at your snout. Camouflage for the Instagram generation. These have defo got a like from me.
Poke it with a garden cane
The t-shirt/shirt combo is my go-to as the world beings to broil. Fucking stupid sun. Sharding through windows obscuring my laptop screen. Rendering 80% of my wardrobe unwearable. Making late afternoon drinks parties an ordeal of steaming perspiration, warm beer and fidgety, undercooked conversation. The t-shirt/shirt combo is my only respite. On nodding terms with formality (that’d be the shirt collar) yet relaxed, and if loosely buttoned, suitably airy.
I bore myself with my own cynicism
I’m finding this guy’s facial expression rather difficult to read. On the one hand it’s probably just the appropriately imperious gaze of a man chosen to represent Garbstore. It’s one of London’s more progressive men’s retailers after all, so an austere, no-nonsense demeanour is probably called for. On the other hand, I wonder if, deep down, he’s just a little perplexed; maybe he’s trying to figure out how he ended up in front of a camera wearing a long shirt featuring a cartoon Mariachi band.
Subverting expectations around what workwear should be
I own a corduroy parka by Engineered Garments. It’s a few years old. The corduroy fabric is embroidered with a floral pattern. It’s more subtle than it sounds; navy embroidery on navy cord. It won’t take an eye out. Nevertheless, every time I wear it, people tell me how much they like it, often complete strangers.
I’m a friend to floral. But of course, it’s got to be deployed in the right way and at the right time. The only appropriate occasion to wear flowery braces is if you’re an expert on Flog It! While a flowery lining in your business suit just means you once went to a Paul Smith sample sale in the late 90s.
A warning to those ignorant of this garment’s macabre potency
Check this witch doctor get-up from Kapital. I’m pretty sure that anyone wearing this would immediately be able to access some low-level spells and hexes. I’m not saying you’d be able to turn base metals into gold, but I reckon you could curse someone, and their web server would go down for an hour. At the very least this fucking thing is haunted.
Seven mojitos and 30 Marlboro lights
Tarvas are a Finnish shoe brand with a focus on practicality and weather resistance. Apparently Tarvas are now a thing. At least it seems Daiki Suzuki of Engineered Garments thinks so. He apparently likes them so much he’s produced the above Tarvas x EG colab.
Up until now I’ve never heard of Tarvas. However an EG co-sign has a habit of making me sit up and re-evaluate my shortcomings. It was the same story a couple of seasons back with the Hoka One One Tor Ultra Low. But now I’m looking at what are ostensibly grandad walking shoes, trying to fathom whether the EG stamp of approval elevates them to some kind of grail status.
Looking like I’ve shamed myself
Vintage American workwear and military uniform are well mined inspirations for many Japanese and Korean brands. While it frequently results in beautiful, inspiring and meticulous clothing (of the kind we examine regularly here) it does present something of a challenge. How to continuously reinvent? How do you remain true to your inspirations, while also creating products that stand out from the crowd?
Tokyo’s Bru Na Boinne have answered the question by dipping their jeans in a slanted puddle of bleach.
Lank greasy hair and unwashed cups
Due to the seemingly erratic nature of indie brand drops, it’s not uncommon to see new(ish) pieces pop up in UK stores even this late in the season. I say ‘newish’ because frequently these pieces have been available in Japan or the US for months and it’s only now we have them on our relative doorstep. The only problem is, these pieces are frequently full-price. They’re from the same season as the stuff in the sale, we just got them late.
This Needles jacket is in the ‘New Arrivals’ section over at Kafka. Stylistically it’s an appealing proposition. The current price is another matter.
Making a living drumming on dustbins and old margarine tubs
These washed-out jeans could be a move for the summer. It’s pleasing to see this tone of denim made into something other than muscle-strangling Love Island-wear. Feel the girth. These are chunky cut, in fact they’re appropriately called, “vast wide-leg jeans.” I dunno whether I’d go so far as ‘vast’; they’re hardly in the same universe as a pair of Needles H.D pants. But for Swedish jeans, I guess they’re pretty radical.
It’s the combination of wash and cut that get these over the line. Wide-cut jeans tend to be darker, frequently pristine unwashed raw denim. While these have evidently lived amongst San Francisco’s Tenderloin district, battled with substance abuse and currently make a living drumming on dustbins and old margarine tubs.
Dunno why I bother
“Just because there’s a wedding, you don’t have to buy new stuff”, my girl says. Logically, I know she has a point. But as soon as we receive an invite to someone’s nuptials, my thoughts, during the following weeks and months, are regularly hijacked by concerns about what I’m going to wear. I keep a rarely worn, 98% prisine, pair of navy Engineered Garments trousers on stand-by for just such occasions. But even with those as a foundation, it still leaves questions around what blazer, tie, shoes, shirt…?
Just to be clear, I am more than aware what a preening, narcissistic bell-piece I sound like. If this comes as a surprise, I can only assume it’s your first time here.
Sunnei delight
Italian brand Sunnei leans further towards fashion than many of the brands we usually spotlight. They don’t use vintage looms, or reproduce 1940s railroad boiler-suits in high-density, low-sheen nylon; you’re not going to find Sunnei in The Bureau or Kafka. But in amongst the brand’s more outré experiments there are rich seams of wearable, timeless and interesting clothing. Specifically the super-powered shirting.
At price Y it starts to make sense
Let’s have some more sale shenanigans. There are certain pieces that over the course of a season begin to grow on you. Maybe you overlooked them on initial release, maybe you were distracted by more edgy, game-changing pieces. But when the sale kicks in it’s easy to begin a process of re-evaluation. At price X it’s a frivolity, but at price Y it starts to make sense.
This Pertex t-shirt by And Wander is a perfect example. A non-essential at it’s orginal price. But after the swing ticket’s been savagely snipped, well… things start to feel a bit different.
I’m thinking what I’ll say…
The avid e-shopper can feel it – almost physical, almost tangible. The sales are on, but the most significant discounts are yet to materialise. Many retailers are holding at 25% off. Sales stalkers are holding their nerve, waiting, refreshing, hoping their size will survive to the 40% round. Of course, there are anomalies. West London’s Garbstore went to sale pretty early and in some cases pretty hard. This top from Mountain Research for example, was £220, now it’s £110. A quick consultation with the abacus confirms that that’s a full 50% saving.
Not everyone can pull this off
The hum of flies in the kitchen. The tropical flare of the sun. The air, swollen and stubborn. British summertime: a giddy utopia for some, a torment of perspiration and wheezy exhaustion for others. Whichever camp you’re in, dressing stylishly in ravaging heat is no simple task.
Typically our indigenous menfolk are panicked by a roasting day. A confusion that leads to a nauseating bargain bin of faded tees and skin-tight shorts. Footwear is typically threadbare Toms or pointy suede loafers. Mandatory accessories include ashen limbs, an angry crimson forehead and 15 tins of Fosters. Not everyone can pull this off mind you, only around 98% of the male population.
If you’re part of the 2%, you might want to consider instead ordering this expensive, Japanese short-sleeved bandana shirt.
Twitching with silent fury
The rigours of geometry and the florid concerns of fashion are not natural bedfellows. Yet here we find New York based imprint Bode combining the two into what can reasonably be referred to as a denim spreadsheet. Superficially they’re a pair of trousers. Yet simultaneously a wearable board game. Quite an achievement for a thing of cloth and thread.
The wearable equivalent of a found footage horror film
If you thought yesterday’s trouser proposal a little too debonair, you certainly find today’s more down-to-earth. Constructed from military-issue sleeping bags and apparently, “one year damaged” these cargo trousers from Japan’s Kapital are the wearable equivalent of a found footage horror film. They look like they’ve been electrocuted and submerged in a bamboo cage full of leeches. They’ve been to hell and back, with a toilet break in Afghanistan. The tales these poor fuckers could tell.
In SE15 you can’t move for youths in multi-pattern bongo pants
“Relax on an evening out in this luxury pure silk lounge set.” That’s the pitch for this matching Haversack shirt and trousers over at retailer Mohawk General Store. And I like that pitch. “Luxury”, “pure silk”, “relax”; that’s some top-drawer vibing. We’re talking neon, potted palm trees, maître ds offering free Caipirinhas and synthesiser music 24/7. This ridiculous pure silk lounge set is offering me a lifestyle I don’t have and I’m eager to accept it.
Taken to extremes
This is a bandana patchwork jacket from Japanese imprint Kapital. It’s available in six different colours: green, yellow, pink, navy, black and white. It’s cut in a traditional western style, short and boxy with a single breast pocket. It is, depending on your perspective, a jolly summer throw on, or the quickest possible route to social ostracism.
The future of clothing slapping you firmly around the jaw?
Here’s a weird one. A brand you’ve almost certainly never heard of: LAUGH & BE. Stocked at a store you’ve almost certainly never visited: Raycoal. And freaky hybrid garment/luggage product, the style of which you almost certainly don’t already own. And that sensation you feel? It’s either the future of clothing slapping you firmly around the jaw, or the sharp realization that a waistcoat that turns into a rucksack is not high on your priorities right now.
As you were
I’m almost put off writing about stuff like this because of all the technical hocus-pocus I have to cut, paste and then re-word to make it look like I know what I’m talking about. Apparently these feature a “VIBRAM® RollinGait System sole”. They’ve also got an, “easy adjust magnetic FIDLOCK® buckle.” (Look how lazy I am, I even left the ®s in.)
Still, I do get it, if I was going to drop over £350 on a pair of Hender Scheme shoey-trainers I’d probably want to know the whys, wheres and whatchamacallits. I just sometimes wonder what impact all this trademarked abstruseness will actually have on my day-to-day?
Positive exposure
I can’t hear you, I can’t hear you
How’s it going for you in the Divided Kingdom? I had a discussion with a Leaver last week. I say ‘discussion’, but that suggests an exchange of ideas. What actually happened was I attempted, as diplomatically as I could, to explain why I thought it was a little unclear what positives might come from leaving the EU. My fellow discussee responded by clamping his hands over his ears, making a noise like the war cry of a Comanche chieftain, while sporadically shouting, “I can’t hear you”. Quite the spectacle from a man in his 80s.
Of course, such things are now commonplace. There’s a liar in the White House. There’ll soon be one at Number 10. Truth is on sale. Facts are now like fashion, 50%-70% off for the foreseeable.
If menswear is a broad church, then tight shorts belong in the Book of Revelation
At this time of year, like many of you, I start scoping out the shorts landscape. What’s out there? What’s going on? What are this year’s options in a truncated trouser? How can a man who finds no dignity in the wearing of shorts, expose his nether limbs without wanting to curl up and pray for a flash flood? What can you do when you’re under the kind of duress only a 29C heatwave and a girl who insists on a, “day down the park” can provide?
The challenge is real. Because the fundamental problem with the shorts landscape is that they’re too slim. All of them. All shorts.
This is not a garden office
I’m on a self-imposed spending lock. Every item of clothing I don’t buy, takes me that bit closer to being able to afford a garden office. Yep, I know, first world problems, what a cock, more money than sense etc… Well sorry and all that, but still. I want a modernist, glassy edifice. It’s been on my wants list for a long time Yet each month there’s a couple of shirts, a new pair of shoes and a jacket that irritatingly demand ownership, oblivious to the financial hooliganism it reaps on my current account. I need to stop buying stuff I don’t need. I should just enjoy the stuff I have. But for a committed menswearman, it’s tough. Particularly during sale time. Especially when there’s a shirt like this calling to me.
The most interesting about industrial parks are the yellow walls
A face-full of splash damage
If you had to pick a shirt that captured the restless and excitable ethos of east London’s Goodhood store, this would be it. Just look at this thing. It’s a wearable Mardi Gras; check, leopard, stripe and plain all tooting their kazoos, elbowing their way to the head of the procession. Whether a single garment can responsibly modge together four different patterns without risking personal injury is unclear. Only irresponsible wearers need apply.
Useful for the extruded corn snack enthusiast
Sales are incoming in the UK. So the prudent individual will be keeping their wallet on lock until the 30% offs begin flooding inboxes. This site, however, is rarely prudent. With an apparently straight face, I’m about to suggest you invest £142, plus postage, plus proxy service, plus import duty, in a pair of trousers that look like pyjama bottoms. If you’re new visitor, I hope this effectively clarifies why this site is not for everyone.
A boorish phalanx
The appeal of a casual, loose cut navy blazer is eternal. At least from the perspective of the committed wearer. If you’re a EG or Eastlogue head, you won’t need any convincing. Sportswearers, on the other hand, may eye-roll till their skulls splinter. After all, blazers are still very much in rotation amongst the ‘H&M bros’. And be of no doubt, this co-sign from the least evolved menswearists on the food chain has damaged the blazer’s pedigree. A Saturday night in a ‘fun’ pub is no longer complete without a boorish phalanx of ripped ’n’ skinny jeans, tattoos, thin-leather loafers, low-cut tees and emaciated jersey blazers. It goes without saying, this manifestation of the blazer should be drowned at birth.
What we’re looking at here is a different creature entirely.
Toffee-brained, toddling narcissists
You should need a licence to wear a backpack on the London transport system. Ostensibly for carrying your junk, a backpack’s primary function these days is to inconvenience others. Backpack wearers on the Tube are, to an individual, toffee-brained, toddling narcissists. Banging into things, forcing themselves through, whirling around, barging, slapping, thumping and thwacking. Fuck you and your idiot bag. How can you not see the space your nylon-Quasimodo is taking up? How can you not be aware that every time you turn to giggle at your girlfriend, you twat three people in the face?
Irresponsible backpackers should be required by law to burn their spine-cases and wear one of these. Read More
Finding some common ground
Sophnet and Nonnative have collaborated on a capsule collection, available now over at Coverchord. A couple of shirts, some trousers, a number of tees, that’s the extent of it. What I find mildly interesting is the idea of Nonnative (familiar for their clean, elevated simplicity) and Sophnet (who along with their sub-brand Uniform Experiment, seem to trade pretty heavily in logo-splashed, pattern-clashing, youth-wear) finding some common ground. To my mind this shirt is the pick of the result.
Are you ready to be pelted with rotten fruit?
Roll up, roll up. Behold the bearded lady, the human cannonball, the bear boy and the monster hat. This offering from Japan’s Kapital imprint is certainly a grotesque. A creature only its mother could love. That it’s a hat in the first place is only really clear due to a peak jutting from beneath the lumps, bumps and folds. Truly we are gazing upon the most John Merrick of headwear. One size fits all. Are you ready to be pelted with rotten fruit?
Octopusing your kicks
Trying to stay ahead of the menswear pack is dangerous. With every step you can trigger an anti-personnel mine of bad decision making. Suddenly you’re the knob in the giant orange sunhat. Then you’re the guy trying to bring Farah’s back. When you find yourself at a barbecue wearing a Japanese radiation suit, you know something’s gone wrong.
On the other hand, grey New Balance, APC jeans and Carhartt work jackets aren’t gonna flame-up anyone’s feed. Far enough to be interesting? Not so far that you provoke secretive cackles? Where’s the line? It can be unclear. Either way, I suspect these leather kilties are on the wrong side of it.
Totally resolute, utterly fearless
Yesterday, my girl was doing some household chores while loudly singing Crazy For You by Madonna. After about 20 minutes, I pointed out that I was now thoroughly aware that ‘it’s all brand new’ and if I ‘touched her once I would know it’s true’. She smiled at me and continued singing. Under most circumstances I’d expect such dry asides to wither a target into submission. A further seven or so butchered verses later and I had to concede defeat. I have to admire her confidence. Totally resolute, utterly fearless. The audible equivalent of this jacket.
Keep a lid on your sartorial hysteria
So, I’ve basically clowned myself. I saw the above post on the Nepenthes New York Instagram last night. Edgy tee, giant hat, fantastic embroidered EG dungarees; all to be expected. But I immediately became obsessed with the white Malibus. Surely, I assumed, these all-white ones were a Nepenthes New York rarity? I Googled. Discovered that UK store Working Class Heroes had them. In my size. In the sale. For £80. WTF? I bought them immediately. If I’d only checked one Google result lower, I could have had them for £47.70 at Triads.
Turns out they’re easily available over here. I was Insta-gamed. Unthinkingly seduced by the stylistic preferences of a far away city.
Weather-appropriate and demented
Sun’s out – guns have no place in the equation. If you want to stick a vest on and lope about in your no socks, your thin-leather loafers and your calf-hugging denim, fake-baked, with your big fucking arms swinging about like a zoo creature, then all power to you. Just do me a favour and don’t leave the stench of your generic airport-lounge aftershave all over this site. Yes, the weather is warmer. But there’s no need to squash your dignity beneath a mouldy pair of TOMS. Don’t let the sun barbecue your taste. Keep your focus brothermen, when the temperature’s high, interesting, airy shirting is a power move.
Glacial punctuation
The white tennis shoe never goes away. A constant for most right (and some wrong) thinking menswearists. They’re just so damn useful, providing a glacial punctuation to pretty much any fit.
Come the warmer weather, you can yawn your way through any number of mainstream fashion articles (yes, we know John Lennon used to wear Spring Courts) featuring the same brands (Superga – seriously?) and the same breathless pronouncements (OMG you can even wear them with a suit.) However it’s rare for a decent looking new brand to come along. One that isn’t just a blatant Common Projects clone.
An over the head engagement
This boldly striped hooded anorak from Living Concept is available in three colour-ways: olive, navy and beige. The jacket remains the same, but each colour represents an entirely different vibe. Go navy and you’re a six berth yachtsman, with a charter to party and a buoy in every port. Olive is the urban creative; one hand on After Effects, the other buried in a Peri Peri bucket. And beige? You’re shackled for all eternity to the lead weight of your own immaculate good taste; afeared of Ribena spills and cake crumbs, a handheld vacuum holstered and ready.
A direct punch in the eyes
Okay, so this is all a bit what the fuck? Where do you draw the line with utilitarian experimentation? Could it be when the bottom half of your jacket is connected to the top half by a pair of braces?
Let’s face it, they’re probably not for you
I own a pair of these in tan. I can vouch for their superbness. I can also vouch for the fact that, over the last three or four years, Yuketen shoes have steadily risen in price here in the UK. What used to clock in around the high threes, have risen well into the fours. The low fours have comfortably broken the five ceiling. So while I paid around four for these a few years back, you’re now looking at a non-trivial £535. That’s over half a grand for a pair of casual shoes.
I mention this not because they’re not worth it, on the contrary, they’re some of my most loved and well worn shoes. I just mention it in the hope that maybe just one corpse-witted Brexit-liker will read this, momentarily stop pawing at their Weatherspoons breakfast and wonder if dragging the UK out of the EU has any downside. Admittedly, fans of the Weatherspoons’ ‘Miner’s Benedict’ (black pudding, toasted English muffin, Hollandaise sauce, if you’re interested) are not really this site’s target demographic. But in the country’s current intellectual stagnancy, you can’t rule anything out.
Neither the means nor the purpose
There are rarely any major upheavals in the wallet game. Simple, plain, slim: that appears to the the mandate. I’m currently rolling with a grain leather, tan number from Master-Piece. The use of cash might be on the slide, but you’ve got to have somewhere to store cards, and business receipts at the very least.
I’d argue that a bro’s wallet should be up to the same level as his garb. If your narrative includes anything from Engineered Garments to Wacko Maria you really don’t want to be addressing the bar with an over-stuffed velcro Billabong.
Is the inevitable dirtiness desirable?
I frequently struggle with VISVIM. Yes, I know, it’s cool because it costs every last fuck in your wallet. I get that it’s all made from Pegasus’ tail and Valyrian Vibranium. I understand that when a crafts-person begins making a pair of VISVIM boots, they’re entitled to a free bus pass by the time they’re finished.
It’s just to me, the brand mostly makes clothes that look like you found them in a wheelie bin. And not a good wheelie bin. A wheelie bin outside a bungalow belonging to an old man who wears tight jeans covered in motor oil badges and has shoulder length hair around the sides and back but a massive bald circle on the top of his head. A man who still listens to Springsteen and does that fucking ‘horn fingers’ bullshit if he sees you across the street.
For me, most VISVIM is a bit too plaid, a bit too weathered, a bit too tatty. These shoes however, are not.
Completely impractical, but 3000% debonair
Crossing the streams between 007 villain and Thai restaurant manager, we have this number from Norbit by Hiroshi Nozawa. It’s perfectly reasonable to be afeared of the short-sleeved shirt. It’s a limiting piece. You can roll long-sleeves up. You can’t roll short-sleeves down. And for many, short-sleeves are a bit exposing. Unless you’re the kind of gym-bro who chants stuff like, “sun’s out, guns out” with no comprehension of how prickish it sounds, you’re probably on the fence here. That said, the inventive clothesman can still make this shirt work.
It’s just highly likely
Out the other day with my girl, while wearing my giant Needles H.D trousers, I experienced a spot of verbal abuse. Just as we boarded a train at Peckham Rye I heard it: “look at the size of his fucking trousers”. A group of lads (obviously) augmenting their courage with slurps of Amstel. My girl told me not to look at them. I did anyway. They turned away and continued their ‘bantz’, with a vocabulary as slender as their jeans.
You don’t encounter that kind of small-town thick-wittery too much in London; I’d put money on them not being local. The typical south east London response to vaguely outré clobber is a sideways glance, perhaps a smile, and the occasional request for a street style snap. All of which is nice and cuddly. But looking at the sheer joy exhibited in the jumbo-trousered shots above, I can’t help but think my H.Ds would be even more enthusiastically received in South Korea.
Fucking stupid geography
So we’ve got a Nepenthes in London. Which is great. What’s less great is that they don’t seem to stock the pieces I really want. Don’t get me wrong, I want most of the shop. But the pieces I really, really want, the game-changers; well, they seem to be only available elsewhere. Case in point. There’s this Engineered Garments embroidered Dayton Shirt from a few weeks back. Sadly a no from the London store; only available in one shop in Philadelphia. Now there are these Needles trousers. They look like something a late 1980s Robert Downey, Jr. would wear. Appropriate then, as my chances of getting them from the London store are less than zero.
From wanker-banker to Kubrick astronaut
If you look at the top-down silhouette, these loafers look treacherously like the kind of square-toed wazz worn by threadbare commuters. They bring to mind 90’s Patrick Cox shoes; a chisel-ended form that’s remarkably still championed by the accountancy community today. Perhaps the stubby look has come full circle? Could it a thing again? Swedish brand Acne appear to think so.
If I’m honest, the square-toe is a comparatively trivial element of these loafers. Yes, clearly, they’re white. But they’ve also got a sole unit that immediately teleports these from wanker-banker to Kubrick astronaut.
I’m ashamed
My girl’s been away for three days, at a hen do in Barcelona. Yesterday I got so bored I ate her Easter egg. It was a big Smarties one. I ate it all in one go. I’m ashamed. But it was nice.
Now I have two issues to face. I haven’t told my girl yet, so there’s her disappointment – much more painful than anger don’t you think. And my broadening waistline. Is it bad that I’m more concerned about the latter than the former?
Thanos may as well ‘dust’ you now
Being in turn indefensibly elitist and upsettingly superficial, this site rarely acknowledges modestly priced clothing. I am aware such things exist. I simply consider them irrelevant. As far as I’m concerned, you’re in the game or you’re not. I don’t care whether you have a perfectly serviceable, olive cotton blazer; if it was purchased from a high street chain you’re not in the game. If you’re wearing Ted Baker. You’re invisible. If you’re wearing Superdry, Thanos may as well ‘dust’ you now.
So, for this site to spotlight a sweatshirt that costs around £50, it’s either an extremely special garment, or I’m just being lazy. In truth, it’s probably a bit of both.
A passerby hands me some change
At first glance, the jacket above looks fairly standard. Rumpled linen, plain, loose fitting. And it’s certainly that. Unlined and easy to throw on. It’s a spring/summer staple for a dude somewhere in the stylistic hinterland between terrifyingly obscure Japanese brands, and dancing for pennies and pre-packet sandwiches outside Victoria tube station. It’s a couple of hundred quid that looks like you found it on the pavement, alongside a carrier bag full of garden string and a slightly burned children’s doll. Obviously it’s cool as balls.
But even in it’s apparent simplicity there’s something interesting to note here. It’s utilitarian but progressive; the cut of this jacket is signalling an alternative to the prevalent menswear norms.