Reader question: Deck shoes

Tom, Hong Kong: Simon, where do you stand on deck shoes? I’ve seen them around and think they’d be a nice compromise between scruffy converse and brogues when wearing jeans or casual trousers. I grew up detesting them for being too boaty but quite like the look of them now.

I know exactly why you have that inherent distrust of the deck shoe, Tom. I have it too.

I don’t know whether this caricature will be familiar to those in the US, but in the UK the deck shoe is synonymous with a certain floppy-haired, rugby-playing, scruffy bloke of wealth. Whether that wealth be inherited or due to “Daddy doing quite well in the city”, the uniform is the same: rugby/polo shirt, oversized sweater, worn jeans and deck shoes. Battered deck shoes. With the laces perpetually undone.

As I have little knowledge of how exactly the term ‘preppy’ is used in the US, I shy away from saying that this character is necessarily that. He certainly wears Ralph Lauren (polo shirt with collar turned up) but there is nothing forward-looking about the style – it is lazy and, essentially, a mimic of everything he sees his peers wearing (as well as his Dad).

This man has no interest in clothes, and this turns me off the idea of a scuffed, maltreated deck shoe.

That prejudice stated, I also dislike the shoe because it seems lazy in itself. The thickness of the rubber sole, the inelegance of its waist and – especially – that thick stitching around the toe. It looks as though someone has wrapped two pieces of leather around your foot and then roughly cobbled them together (no pun intended).

As a result, I tend to like a slip-on shoe more the smoother its toe. I have nothing against the humble penny loafer. It is smoother than some and has done a great many Americans a service. But it tends to be worn by men with little interest in shoes. Not all are, by any means. But most. Worn by men that just don’t like lace-ups, and probably don’t really like shoes.

Driving shoes have thicker stitching, but they can work well as house shoes, as casual shoes – to pop down the road in. I have a pair from Massimo Dutti that serve well in this regard. But the slip-on I favour is smoother – the Harrow shoe pictured is obviously a well-made shoe. The tan Gieves & Hawkes slip-on is even better. I’m not a big fan of tassles, but it is obviously a lovely shoe. Berluti ones are beautiful.

I have a blue suede pair of slip-ons of this type that I bought in Bologna. And they work best sockless, with summer trousers, as many men in Italy are apt to wear them.

As you can see, Tom, this is largely a personal opinion rather than a reasoned argument. But if you want something between Converse and a brogue I would recommend either a smooth slip-on of this type or a driving shoe – Tod’s does some lovely ones in bright colours for summer. And given the weather in Hong Kong you will probably have far more opportunities for wearing them like this than I do.

How not to relaunch a product: Belstaff

Belstaff famously makes motorcycle jackets. The brand has been reinvigorated in the past few years. This is good for awareness, but not necessarily good for integrity.

Steve McQueen famously stayed home one night rather than go out with his movie-star girlfriend in order to wax his Belstaff. This is not a euphemism. He was such a fan of the motorcycle jacket, traditionally constructed from waxed cotton, that he wore the Trialmaster series throughout his life, including at the Enduro off-road motorbike race in Europe, where he represented the US.

I knew part of this from reading of McQueen’s passion for the jacket in a magazine. I was also aware of seeing people wearing the occasional beaten up Belstaff jacket, its Union Jack proudly displayed under a front pocket. But I hadn’t really been aware of where these jackets were bought or what was so good about them.

Advertising changed that. More money pumped into marketing meant adverts in all the usual magazines, an upgrade of the London store on Conduit Street and the accompanying editorial that employing a good PR agency gets you.

So last month, with a little money to spare and searching for inspiration, I visited the Conduit Street store. It was slick – minimalist white decoration, industrial-chic storage at the back, smiling employees. But it was empty, and the staff showed an alarming ignorance of their product.

The men’s department is downstairs, which seems odd, given that I have yet to see a woman wearing a Belstaff jacket and nearly all the advertising features men. I’m aware that brands often put the women’s section on the ground floor, as they tend to be less prepared to walk flights and tend to spend more. But here it’s odd given the clientele.

More disturbing were the sales staff. Looking at two jackets, the Redford and the Belford, I asked one (female) member of staff what the difference was between the two. All I could see was one extra pocket on the Redford, for £50 more. When I asked, she picked up the jacket and had a look at it. This is never a good sign. Then she told me, that, as far as she could work out, the difference was one extra pocket and £50.

This ignorance, the distinct lack of stock, the refusal to do any refunds and the fact that so much money had obviously been spent on marketing (which is warning to anyone looking to get value for money – oh, and they obviously paid Ewan McGregor to wear one while he rode around Africa, which is not money well spent) did not stop me buying one – the Belford.

It didn’t stop me because the quality of the jacket was fantastic. From the suede lining that almost made you want to wear nothing underneath, to the durable and high quality fastenings; from the instructions on how to look after it over decades, to the odd-school paisley sleeve lining; it was impossible to resist.

The product is faultless and will find a great audience, if only they learnt a little more about pitching this to the right market with the right people. This is an old-fashioned, high quality British product. It should be sold to older, slightly style-conscious men who will appreciate it. And it should be sold by people who know what they’re selling.

How to dress at the Foreign Office

Continuing the theme of dressing as costume, the constraints of one’s job can often make one into a stereotype, especially if one works in the more traditional industries or political offices of older institutions.

A lovely example is found in the autobiography by Donald Hawley, a long-standing member of the British Foreign Office who was Head of Chancery in Cairo during the Nasser epoch and in Lagos when Nigeria fell apart following the coup in 1966.

While discussing the messengers that channelled information from one department to another, (one character called Archie was “not only a wholesale purveyor of unsolicited information on when Chelsea would play at home but also apt to reduce girls momentarily to tears by a bizarre proposal of marriage”) he lays out the requirements of dress in the Foreign Office:

“Dress was formal and the majority of men wore pinstripe trousers and black jackets rather than dark suits, though both were permissible. Everyone wore a stiff collar and outdoors a bowler or Homburg hat and rolled umbrella were de rigueur.” It’s easy to see how the foreigner’s stereotype of the smart, conservative Englishman was built up isn’t it? In fact, the impact of that stereotype is explained in the next sentence:

“I always wore a bowler until 1975 when an American in St James’s Park asked me as a ‘real Englishman’ [as if there were lots of impostors walking around trying to fool tourists!] to pose for a photograph. Balking at becoming a tourist attraction I gave it up.”

The same paragraph gives some correction to the style historians that claim differing parts of the same outfit would never be worn together:

“Half the staff of every department worked on Saturday mornings but everyone wore a country suit on that day of the week. Wearing this and a bowler hat we looked like Army officers and were often saluted smartly by confused sentries if we happened to walk through the Horse Guards Arch [being the entrance to the Horse Guards building close to Buckingham Palace, where the Household Cavalry amongst other are housed].”

So while you might be mistaken for an officer by parading around in your tweed suit and bowler hat, it certainly wasn’t considered bad form to accompany it with a bowler hat, even in the tradition-riddled Foreign Office. Style isn’t ever as constricted as students of it believe. The rules are never quite as simple as one thinks.

When style becomes costume

Dressing in the full traditions of men’s clothing can make one a caricature. It must be combined with a touch of originality.

There are blogs on men’s style that are fascinating for the depth of knowledge they demonstrate – over the role of a split yoke on a man’s shirt, over the line of a shoe’s waist. They inform many things about what I buy and what I wear. But I am often a little disappointed when I see images of the authors.

This is because they seem to want to be an embodiment of what is – necessarily – historical dress, and become an illustration from an old copy of Esquire. They take every aspect of, for example, early twentieth century English country wear, and they copy it. They wear the cord trousers, the tweed jacket, the checked shirt and the wool tie. They add the flat cap, the brogues and the bright socks. They may add a hunting jacket with leather padding on the shoulder to protect from the impact of a gun’s recoil, or a waxed Barbour jacket with bellow pockets to accommodate shells.

These items are all correct, historically. And the chances are they will be of the highest quality, complement the wearer’s skin tones and fit him perfectly – as he takes great care over these elements as well. But it is just mimicry. He is in costume.

Even Prince Charles, on a hunt around Balmoral, doesn’t follow the traditions of hunt clothing this fastidiously. And he has an excuse for wearing something similar – he is actually hunting, he is actually English and all his forbears wore similar pieces throughout their history.

The style aficionado who copies it is just dressing up. He has none of the creative element that can make dressing so enjoyable, and so personal.

Let me give an officewear example. I like wearing pinstripe suits. I’m a fan of red socks, as well as double-breasted jackets and patterned handkerchiefs. But I know that if I wore all of these pieces in one combination I would look like a caricature. I might as well top it off with a bowler hat, grow a moustache and wander down Fleet Street twirling my umbrella.

So I wear red socks with more understated suits. Perhaps a plain grey flannel and open-necked white shirt. I rarely wear a handkerchief and a tie at the same time, as for me it is probably a little too much. And my double-breasted suits are not navy-blue pinstripe.

It is also fun to add touches of individuality – to experiment with odd waistcoats in formal suits, though there is no tradition of this that I am aware of; to combine smart clean Converse with wool suits, as I like the contrast of smart and casual; to wear darker coloured, wool handkerchiefs in odd jackets when worn casually. This is individuality and creativity. It is what makes dressing fun, rather than study.

I think that men who are very interested in their clothes are part geeky, petty academic and part creative, artistic aesthete. Everyone needs the former to drive them into reading and investigation, to be interested by the history and traditions of men’s attire. But everyone also needs the latter, to have the kind of mind that created these traditions in the first place. (Beau Brummel and the Duke of Windsor are heroes for being precisely the opposite of these geeky facsimiles.)

Unfortunately, when men have too much of the first influence and not enough of the second, they end up looking like an extra in a costume drama.

The Great Bottom Button Mystery

Ooo, there’s another one! A perfectly respectable businessman with only the bottom button of his three-button jacket done up. Just the one. Leaving the rest of the jacket flapping open.

It looks so bizarre. It creates an artificial, rippling belly of negative space, and as result is surely the least flattering way to possibly do up the buttons of a suit. Why on earth do they do it?

At first, I thought it was an aberration. One man walking towards me, his pinstripe ruined by a frankly odd buttoning. I briefly wondered why he had decided to do up just that button, and not the natural waist button, the middle button. Briefly I considered it, and then dismissed it – a mistake, an accident, certainly an exception.

Then a few days later it happened again. Someone else striding purposefully along Fleet Street, briefcase in hand, importantly talking into his mobile phone. With only the bottom button done up. This time the buttoning was so low that his tie had flapped over the fastening, like a bright dead fish.

Why? Don’t you see it when you look in the mirror? Doesn’t it strike you as odd, like doing up the top button of your shirt, and no others? Doesn’t the oddity of the effect suggest that the suit was not designed to do that?

As more examples popped up, I began to give the phenomenon serious thought. Why did you never see men with just the top button fastened? There were always a few with the top and the middle, or the middle and the bottom, but the waist button was always firmly secured.

Did the bottom-fasteners somehow feel that this arrangement gave them a deeper V, a plunging, masculine chest? They could be forgiven for thinking that (though still wrong) if the suit had a natural, soft roll. But modern, worsted business suits are true three buttons – the fastening is stiff and, unlike the flannels of old, there is little natural roll. So the artificial belly is the result.

Finally, a combination of curiosity and anger got the better of me and I asked someone. Embarassing, I know. But it was beginning to dominate every waking thought.

The gentleman in question was puzzled, then a little miffed, perhaps a tad embarrassed. He said he did it because it felt like a natural fit for the jacket, it felt snug. And there’s the rub: the jacket was too big for him, so it didn’t feel like it fitted with the waist button done up. The bottom button on its own felt better.

I’ve since found that some men go for the same odd buttoning if the jacket is too small for their belly – the cut of a jacket can mean that the bottom button fits when the middle doesn’t. It all depends on cut and on physique.

Of course, they’re all wrong. It looks silly and it ignores how the jacket was designed to be worn. Any man who wears his jacket buttoned in this way should be told to have it altered.
Fortunately, I have so far resisted the urge to tell any of them this.

The double-breasted debate

I was always told that a double-breasted suit created breadth. Good for tall, narrow men. Not so good for the short and stout. This belief, though widely held by others, probably originates for me with the insistence of my mother that I would look lovely with a double breast, given that I am tall and could always be broader.

Funny how many opinions of oneself originate with such memories of youth. There’s probably a good case to be made that all one’s fundamental impressions of strength and weakness are formed at that age. When one is more insecure, more vulnerable. I’ve never liked my legs either.

But I digress. The traditional view is that double-breasted makes one broader. Alan Flusser disagrees: he contends that the swooping lapels of a double-breasted jacket, from the tip of a peaked lapel down to two crossed points at the waist, create the illusion of height. This illusion, he argues, more than compensates for the impression of breadth achieved elsewhere.

I can see the sense in his argument, but instinctively disagree. I knew he was wrong, but didn’t know why.

Now I do. Flusser is not wrong in his analysis, just in his conclusion. The answer is spelled out in The Suit by Nicholas Antongiavanni. His chapter Of Diminutive Men agrees that the sweeping lapel of a double-breasted jacket creates height. The double row of buttons and the extra flap of cloth, however, create breadth. Most would argue that the second set of features outweighs the first. But to a certain extent that is a subjective question.

More importantly, there is a solution for the diminutive man. If he wears a single-breasted suit with a low fastening (perhaps even a single button on the waist as preferred by some Savile Row tailors) and peaked lapels, he can achieve some of the slimming effects of a double-breasted jacket. This look, Antongiavanni argues, is rakish. It is unusual and slimming without the conservative or perhaps boxy appearance of the normal double-breasted.

The other solution is to go for a double-breasted suit with just two buttons, as was the model I had made in Hong Kong recently. While I have seen this design around occasionally over the years, it was most recently in the spotlight in Dunhill’s spring/summer campaign. Here a two-button double-breasted suit was used as a separate jacket with dark jeans and dark-brown derbys (not sure I quite agree with this look – a double-breasted looking rather out of place as an odd jacket – but it did seem to work on the fellow in the advert) and as a modern twist on a white linen suit worn by Jude Law.

Getting rid of the double row of buttons helps avoid the boxy look wonderfully. There is, obviously, now a single horizontal line across one’s waist, but it is at least a slim line. It all helps accentuate my breadth and ease those youthful insecurities.

Fashion rolls in its own muck

Apparently, there’s a war on. It’s a war of attrition, as designers from both sides throw model after model down the runway. They are battling for our wallets. The two entrenched sides are – again, apparently – narrow trousers and baggy trousers.

According to a feature in the Financial Times, on one side are Dolce & Gabbana, Dries Van Noten, Galliano, Antonio Marras, Vivienne Westwood and Giorgio Armanni. These apparently favour the baggy trouser, though I’m sure I’ve seen narrow suit trousers on D&G models just as frequently as wide ones. On the opposing side are Burberry, Roberto Cavalli, Daks, Costume National, Fendi, Prada and Marni. Though I’ve yet to try on a Daks suit that has narrow or cropped trousers.

Whatever the truth of it, this war feels like the fashion world rolling in its own muck. Having created a world that obsesses over people and brands, and insists on changing the hot new item every few weeks, fashion can now create its own little battles and stories, its own tiffs, face-offs and fights, all played out in an entirely artificial world.

The situation isn’t helped by fashion journalists. You can see them all crowding around the catwalks, all desperately looking for “this season’s trends”. They all have to go home and write exactly the same feature: what the runway shows mean you will be wearing (or should be wearing) next season. Because there are so many designers, with so many different ideas, a trend is hard to find. So journalists frantically cobble together examples from different shows, shoehorning one look into a trend. Sometimes journalists just give up – GQ’s coverage of the spring/summer shows went with theme of celebrating diversity.

Men’s suit trousers are the pinnacle of this self-involvement. Granted, trousers change over time. Jeans are narrower than they were three years ago. But suit trousers rarely change that much. Perhaps they lose or gain pleats, or cuffs. The rise has certainly lowered in the past ten years. But the idea that they are that affected by fashion is ridiculous.

Suit jackets are complicated. The number of buttons, width of lapels and padding of shoulders does change significantly. Ten years ago it was cutting edge to have four buttons. Today that figure is one. It’s not hard to work out what the man interested in permanent style should do: go for two or three. Equally with shoulders, lapels or vents – pick something that suits you (don’t go for a very natural shoulder if you already have rounded shoulders, like me) and stick with it through fashion changes.

But trousers aren’t complicated. They should be straight, not wide or skinny, and pleats/rise depends more on your figure than anything else. This (apparent) war just doesn’t affect men and their formal dressing at all. Ignore it and move on.

Hong Kong trend: Winter cardigan

It isn’t very cold in Hong Kong, or at least not for long. Even in January the temperature ranges between 13 and 18 degrees Celsius (55 to 64 Fahrenheit). Right now, it’s a spring-like 20 degrees, and feels decidedly balmy to the Brit abroad.

But as far as the locals are concerned, it’s cold. When your summer regularly climbs above 30 degrees, accompanied by high humidity, 20 is cold.

The formal cardigan

The businessman in Hong Kong, young or old, typically resorts to a cardigan in this climate. The cardigan is dark, a blue or a black, occasionally a grey, is buttoned up and for the large part remains beneath the jacket. In this combination it looks smart, the rough wool of the cardigan contrasting nicely with the smooth worsted suit.

(A decent rule of thumb here as regards texture – a silk tie was traditionally smart as it contrasted with the heavy flannels worn by most men. As today’s suits tend to be worsted and ever-smoother, a woollen or knitted silk tie may achieve the same function.)

The cardigan has become such an object of fashion in the past few years that seeing men wear it as an everyday, smart item of clothing is a revelation. This cardigan is not brightly coloured, striped or ill-fitting. Unlike a fashion cardigan it is not too tight, as it is when worn by the punkish and presumably trendy. Nor is it loose and slouched, done up by one button if at all.

It is like a waistcoat, only a little more relaxed; a little less tailored, a little less formal. More apt, perhaps, for wearing with an odd jacket. And like a waistcoat, the cardigan in this ensemble is best when it is not fancy. Dark and buttoned, with the bottom button possibly undone, depending on the cut. Like the waistcoat it can also work well to keep a tie in order, though again this item should be conservative – what you add in number of pieces, take away in colour and pattern.

Until you are jacketless

The only disadvantage to a cardigan is that it inevitably looks scruffier when you take your jacket off. This is true of waistcoats to a certain extent – they are obviously designed to be worn with a jacket, avoiding the exposure of one’s shirtsleeves – but even more so of a cardigan, which can rumple and bunch more easily.

If you tend to take your jacket off as soon as you get into the office and rarely wear it again, I recommend you avoid a tie with such cardigans and opt for the slightly tighter fit to keep them close to the body.

The Hong Kong man, being a traditionalist, has none of these problems. And it’s bloody freezing – 20 degrees! So they wouldn’t want to go jacketless anyway.

Hong Kong: The final suit

As I walk along Queen’s Road Central, I have an odd feeling. There appears to be a constant pressure across my back, from shoulder to shoulder. Something is resting on each part of it equally.

It is, of course, my new suit, and such is the feeling of having something that is actually made for you that it is odd to feel consistency of pressure; to feel that this stretch of cloth has been made to fit across this stretch of skin.

It’s quite a pleasurable feeling, as is glancing down and seeing my trouser cuffs rest just so on the top of my shoes, or checking the time and finding exactly an inch of cuff between my suit sleeve and watch.

(An additional benefit of bespoke clothing here – the shirt I had made has a left cuff ever-so-slightly bigger than its right, as I tend to wear a large watch. This was a suggestion of my own – again, research is the key, these tailors will only change something you tell them to change.)

Overall, a very satisfactory outcome. I find it hard to see why I would ever buy a suit or shirt off the rack again. Of course, there are little things that you immediately want to change. I spotted one when I went to pick up the suit: the jacket waist was a little wider than I like. This was changed for the next day (useful to have the time to do this if you can manage it). But even when I picked it up finally there were little things I noticed within an hour of wearing it.

The trousers, though flat-fronted, had the deep pockets and roominess of pleats – so there was perhaps a little more material around the trouser front than I would have liked. And though the waist of the trousers fitted perfectly, I regretted asking for no belt loops or any other adjustment mechanisms – side pulls of the type I have on other trousers might have been more practical in case I lose or gain a little weight over the coming months.

But these are small things. Things that can be changed and things that were largely my fault for not mentioning. For every one of these niggles in a bespoke suit there are 10 off the rack.

Over time, as I plan to go back when I return to Hong Kong in November (the mind already plays over the possibilities – overcoat, tweed suit, Prince-of-Wales check?) these additional adjustments will become second nature. I haven’t had suits made for me for very long. And, importantly, as Mr Tam now has my paper patterns in his files I don’t have to remember anything I previously specified, just the little improvements.

My thanks to Edward for his efforts. If anyone would like his contact details they are more than welcome. I’m sure he is not the best tailor in Hong Kong, but he comes recommended by me in a city where they are 10 a penny.

Hong Kong: The unmade suit

If I stand side-on to the mirror, it almost looks like a real suit. Of course, it only has one arm and the front and back panels are covered in stitching. But you can’t see that from the side.

I can’t stand like that for long, as Edward Tam is hovering with intent. I’m having my first fitting for a double-breasted suit in Hong Kong, and he thinks there is a little too much give up the back. Quick as a flash, he pins up a half inch, pinching it in a long dorsal fin.

I’m trying to remember all the fit points I should mention. And writing them down in advance is my top tip to you. I was arrogant and thought I wouldn’t forget any. I did. Most of the important ones came to mind, however – the break of the trousers (to my taste, so there is no break in the back line, just the front), the length of the jacket (my taste is a little shorter than normal, about in line with the middle of my thumb when my hands are at my sides) and the length of the sleeves (again, I like it a little shorter, with half and inch of shirt showing with my arms at my sides, over an inch when the arm is at my chest).

Interestingly, Mr Tam and his colleague were sceptical about the sleeve length. In Asia they tend to be rather longer, apparently. But they were happy with my demands and didn’t seem too unimpressed with the result. It is probably as important to be confident in your demands as it is to know they are correct.

Aside from not quibbling over sleeves, the best way Mr Tam showed his quality to me as a tailor was picking up on aspects of my body shape that I was already aware of. For example, I have wide but sloping shoulders. In many off-the-peg suits this has the annoying effect of letting the shoulders of the jacket droop a little, creating folds under the arm. Edward picked up on this when we discussed the “natural” curve of the unmade suit I had on – if the shoulder were any more unpadded, he pointed out, it would reveal my sloping figure and be uncomplimentary.

Edward got a mental tick in my head for picking up on that. And it is probably worth you bearing something similar in mind were you to go through this experience. Go into any high-end suit shop and ask the oldest member of staff for his advice on how a jacket fits. If he knows his stuff he will list all your pluses and minuses, making you fully equipped to rate your tailor.

The suit should be ready this afternoon. I’m rather nervous about it – particularly as the half-made suit I tried on didn’t have its deep purple lining. It might look awful.

Hello from Hong Kong: tailor report

When you leave the underground at Tsim Sha Tsui, it’s not immediately obvious where the Regal Kowloon Hotel might be. Street signs are infrequent and not always translated into English, and the sheer profusion of Chinese symbols, hoardings and tower blocks is apt to confuse.

Fortunately, the locals are friendly and a quick inquiry directs you down Mody Road. In the marble-floored mezzanine, hiding around a corner, is the office of Edward Tam, director of E.Italian tailors.

There are too many tailors in Hong Kong to tell which are of any quality. And even if you get a recommendation from a friend, his positive experience doesn’t guarantee one for you. Many of the staff in our office out here have had suits made on the recommendation of a colleague, only to be disappointed. Indeed, our resident journalist in Hong Kong had a suit made at Sam the Tailor, who comes recommended by Tony Blair and Jude Law. The suit had very square shoulders and too-wide trousers. The trousers, of course, could be altered, but the shoulders are harder to do.

But then Edward Tam has been making suits for my father for three years, and he has yet to be disappointed. The key is to know what you want, including getting the best materials.

As Mr Tam measured me for a suit this morning, a list of requirements and specifications ran through my head. These are important to remember, as a tailor won’t necessarily ask you for all of them.

For example, how wide do you like your trouser legs? Unless you specify this, the tailor is likely to give you what he considers to be the standard. In Asia, this is rather wider than in Europe. How about the width of your lapels? You may not think these are that important, but there’s always a chance a tailor will make them a little broader than you like. As with the trouser legs, I recommend measuring a suit you like at home, just so you know in advance.

So that’s fit. It’s also worth going for the best materials. The one thing you can guarantee with a luxury brand suit is that the material will be very good. It might not fit you, it might not be made by hand, and it may not even be canvassed, but the wool will be of decent quality.

At the tailor, the best way to identify the materials is if any of them are textures or names you know. If it looks like the worsted or flannel on something you already own, you’re halfway there. If it looks like an odd, slightly shiny weave, there’s a chance there will be some manmade material mixed in, which won’t last so well. And look out for the big names in wool – Ermenegildo Zegna and Loro Piana, as the biggest and best of Italian woolmakers, are a good sign.

Mr Tam had a selection of both, as well as some infuriatingly tempting cashmeres. All at once, I was considering a navy blue, cashmere overcoat. What an extravagance that would be.

First fitting for a double-breasted, grey flannel suit and mid-blue shirt is tomorrow. I will report back on whether either the fit or the material disappoint.

Fit, colour and style (in that order)

It has been a week of threes, so here’s another.

The first three was a way to compare high-street and designer purchases: analyse your feelings and rank the item for design, quality and branding. The order should help you make your decision. The last should probably be closely followed by one of the others to make it worth it, unless you feel like a guilty brand buy-in.

The second three was the aesthetic that unites casual and formalwear: the harmony of cut, colour and pattern is the same whatever an outfit’s intention. Both modern and traditional outfits have stand-out (“pop”) pieces, an intrinsic balance, and cuts that express personality.

The next tripartite analysis combines parts of both predecessors. It concerns shopping decisions, and ranks fit, colour and style.

It’s an old saying someone passed on to me years ago – when you’re buying a piece of clothing only buy it if it fits well. Then consider whether the colour suits you. And only then consider whether it is fashionable/stylish/inspiring.

This is a piece of advice that is hard to disagree with, but also hard to stick to.

A piece of clothing flatters you most when it fits you well. The classic silhouette of a suit is classic because it flatters a man more than almost anything else. Even women that eschew formal wear – and therefore suits – for their men, find they prefer t-shirts, jeans, sweaters that fit well. If a t-shirt is skin-tight, has no waist or has a collar that covers your Adam’s apple, it will look unattractive.

Conversely, if something fits you badly it is always the first thing anyone notices. Colour and style will be ignored, will be blinded if your suit jacket strains against your mid-riff, tell-tale lines radiating from the waist button.

Colour, next, can smother style. (It’s a little like paper-rock-scissors this, except that style doesn’t trump fit – you’d be an idiot to pick style.) No matter how stylish that orange shirt, anyone’s first reaction will be revulsion. Conversely, there’s a good chance they will notice if it fits you perfectly.

There are as many points of advice on colour as there are on fit – bright colours with black look cheap; brown rather than black with blue; reds and greens for those with ruddy complexions; stronger colours for those with darker skin; white makes you look tanned unless you are already too white. These are fairly instinctive but take some deliberate thought, after analysing the fit that is.

A good maxim, but as one hard to stick by. I can’t count the clothes I have that were not bought with fit in mind. Or with fit ignored.

Colour is subtler but gnaws at you. Unsuitable shades create vague irritation rather than specific frustration.

So this triplet is certainly worth bearing in mind. And once you’ve decided it suits you, you can turn to design/quality/branding to decide whether it’s worth the money.

Casual and formal wear are closer than you think

A man called Adolfo started a conversation. About a man called Scott. I replied, he replied, and here is my reply to his.

The background: Scott Schuman (aka The Sartorialist) takes photos for his blog of people in both traditional/formal style and casual/streetwear style. Adolfo thinks this is a shame, as Scott is one of the few people that does. Every other blog seems obsessed with either the one or the other.

This may be true, but I think Adolfo is missing a deeper truth. A single aesthetic informs the whole of Scott’s output, one that perhaps leans towards formal style – an aesthetic that searches out fit, colour and pattern.

I would argue that this aesthetic is as key to casual wear as it is to formal wear. And this is the reason Scott appears to have greater range. Because he recognises this. Most casual/streetwear blogs are not interested in aesthetics. (They are often more concerned with brands and with transient trends.)

This aesthetic is very similar to my own, so I’ve tried to spell it out.

Fit
First, fit. Scott has a thing for cuffs that poke out of a jacket just so (about half an inch). Others on formal wear sites will spend many an hour discussing the merits of a natural shoulder or the new trend for shorter, narrower trousers.

But fit is just as crucial in casual wear. People define themselves by the fit of their jeans, whether baggy and low slung or tight and short. One evokes hip-hop, another punk. When I was a teenager they were all bootcut. Now even the least trendy teenager has them narrow and straight.

And men use fit to express themselves in formal wear just as much as in casual wear. A man consciously wearing high-waisted trousers, perhaps with braces, may be determined to evoke a bygone era in his tailoring ¬– one where no man exposed his shirtsleeves and the bottom, horizontal button on a shirt attached to your trousers.

Colour and pattern
Second and third, colour and pattern. I’ll demonstrate this parallel with a few of Scott’s photos.

Take the man with yellow gloves. Sometimes one wakes up in the morning and feels like putting a small twist on a normal outfit. In formal wear, this may be yellow gloves, or an orange belt. In casual wear it might be those radiation-bright Nike trainers. Which probably need to be balanced a little with dark jeans and an old sweater. Just like the man in this photo, dressed more formally, has balanced his gloves with a dark coat and sombre shoes.

That ‘pop’ of colour is the same in both outfits. They have the one idea, the one aesthetic, in common.

If you feel a little crazier, try more colour or more pattern – like the gentleman in Scott’s photo with the green scarf. More colour or more pattern also needs balance. Here that means strong but unpatterned purple behind patterned green, and a little jolt of handkerchief in harmonious colours.

The handkerchief is key; the handkerchief pulls it together. It’s not hard to think of similar accessories, whether they be scarf, cap or trainers, that would have the same role in a casual outfit.

As a final pièce de resistance, Scott’s photo from last week of the man in the hoodie. It is a beautiful image – beautiful because it is shot well but also because of the harmony of colour. The blue and red of the scarf is bright; the blue and red of his coat and sweater are dull. Both work well with his skin colour, and both accentuate each other.

This image is not about suits or brogues. It is about the aesthetic of dressing well with colour. It applies just as much to formal wear as to casual. Replace the coat with a suit, the sweater with a tie (on a pale blue shirt) and the scarf with a handkerchief. Still a great combination.

Adolfo, I’ll be interested to hear what you think. This is the reason I think The Sartorialist works; it might be why you do too.

Some casual wear blogs seem divorced from formal ones because they spend their time saying “ooo, look at these new trainers from Adidas, I want them”. Some formal wear ones are no less shallow.

The pleasure of dressing is an aesthetic pleasure.