Tag: updated

“Right, you’re not wearing that.” Four words that transported me straight back to being fourteen, trying to leave the house in what I thought was a perfectly acceptable outfit for the school disco. Except I wasn’t fourteen anymore—I was thirty-nine, standing in my parents’ front room in Manchester, watching my dad eyeball my carefully selected ensemble with the kind of withering disdain usually reserved for people who put milk in before tea.

“What’s wrong with it?” I asked, looking down at my outfit—a navy knitted polo, Japanese selvedge denim, and what I knew for a fact were extremely tasteful Belgian loafers. Dad snorted. Actually snorted.

“You look like you’re trying too hard,” he said, in that matter-of-fact Northern way that brokers no argument. “All that money you spend on clothes and you still look like you’re playing dress-up.” And then, the kicker: “Let me sort you out for the week. Proper clothes. Man’s clothes.”

Which is how I—a professional style journalist who literally gets paid to have opinions about menswear—ended up agreeing to let my 72-year-old father from Stockport, a man whose idea of “dressing up” is putting on a shirt with actual buttons, dictate my wardrobe for an entire week. Including, God help me, for a meeting with the editor of GQ.

For context, my dad worked as an accountant for forty years. His style philosophy can be summarized as “if it’s not broken, why would you replace it?” He owns exactly three suits (funeral, wedding, interview), five shirts (all white or blue), and an impressive collection of jumpers that have survived longer than most of my relationships. He still has shoes older than me, which he proudly takes to the same cobbler twice a year for “maintenance.” His concessions to modern style begin and end with owning a pair of what he calls “those funny Japanese jeans” that I gave him four Christmases ago.

Day one of the experiment dawned with Dad presenting me with my first outfit: dark Levi’s 501s (straight leg, definitely not slim), a crisp white shirt (“top button undone, I’m not a monster”), a navy lambswool V-neck jumper, and brown brogues that he assured me were “proper leather, none of that glued rubbish.” The finishing touch was his pride and joy—a Barbour waxed jacket that’s been with him since the early 90s, re-waxed and patched so many times it’s practically a family heirloom.

“This,” he announced with absolute certainty, “is how a man dresses.”

I felt like I’d stepped into a time machine set to 1985. The jeans were roomier than anything I’d worn in a decade. The jumper was actually quite nice (Marks & Spencer’s finest) but at least two sizes larger than I’d normally choose. And the Barbour—a classic, sure, but about as far from my usual tailored aesthetic as you could get.

“You look dead smart,” Mum chimed in, before adding what might be the most Northern compliment ever: “Very sensible.”

I had a breakfast meeting with a PR contact at a trendy spot in the Northern Quarter. Ellie, who’s used to seeing me in everything from obscure Japanese designers to vintage Americana, did a double-take as I approached the table.

“Wow, you look…” she paused, clearly searching for the right word, “…practical!” She wasn’t wrong. I looked like I could happily fix a fence and then pop to the pub without changing. The weird thing was, I felt strangely comfortable. Those 501s had more freedom of movement than my usual Japanese selvedge skinny jeans. The Barbour, once I got over the country squire associations, was genuinely perfect for Manchester’s perpetually drizzly weather.

My usual uniform involves at least some kind of statement piece—an unusual fabric, an interesting cut, something that signals fashion literacy. Dad’s outfit signaled nothing except “I am a man who does not want to be cold or wet, and might need to change a tire later.” There was something weirdly liberating about that.

Day two brought what Dad called his “smart casual” option: checked button-down shirt from Charles Tyrwhitt (“bought in the sale, four for £100, absolute bargain”), corduroy trousers in dark green, and those same brown brogues. For outerwear, a waxed cotton Harrington jacket that he’d had since I was in primary school.

“The check adds personality,” he told me seriously, as if imparting great wisdom. “But nothing too daft.”

I had an afternoon of writing at home followed by drinks with mates. Jamie, who knows me well enough to spot something amiss, texted me when I was twenty minutes late to the pub: “Are you actually coming or what?” When I walked in, he stared at me like I’d grown a second head.

“What the actual fuck are you wearing? You look like someone’s uncle at a christening.”

“It’s an experiment,” I explained, ordering a pint with as much dignity as I could muster. “Dad’s styling me for a week.”

“Ah,” he nodded sagely. “That explains the cords. They’re actually not bad, you know.”

The bartender, who usually completely ignores me, actually made eye contact and asked how my day was going. A woman at the end of the bar struck up a conversation about whether it might rain later. It was like I’d suddenly become approachable. Visible in a completely different way.

By day three, I was actually curious to see what Dad would produce. The answer: an oatmeal lambswool jumper (“not beige, oatmeal”), the same 501s, and—plot twist—desert boots. “I’m not totally stuck in the past,” he said, almost offended at my surprise. “These are timeless. Steve McQueen wore them.”

I recognized the desert boots immediately as the pair I’d bought him three birthdays ago, barely worn. When I pointed this out, he shrugged. “Saving them for good. Today’s good.”

I had to meet with a designer about a potential collaboration—a meeting where I’d normally dress to display my fashion credentials. Instead, I looked like I might be about to help someone move house. The designer, an avant-garde type who typically wears architectural black layers, looked at me with genuine confusion.

“Are you okay?” she asked, concern in her voice. “Has something happened?”

I explained the experiment, which she found absolutely hilarious. “Your dad’s a genius,” she declared. “This is normcore taken to authentic extremes. It’s actually quite refreshing.”

I wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or offended on Dad’s behalf. He wasn’t trying to be normcore—he was just being normal. But she was right about one thing—there was something refreshing about the complete lack of fashion anxiety in his choices. Every item was selected purely on merit: Will it keep you warm? Will it last? Is it comfortable? Does it do the job it’s meant to do? No concerns about trends, statements, or what message it might be sending.

Day four coincided with a meeting at GQ that couldn’t be rescheduled. I was genuinely nervous about what Dad might select for this fashion crucible. To my surprise, he produced the most on-trend outfit of the week: a denim shirt (“proper thick one, not that thin rubbish”), dark jeans, and a tweed sports jacket that wouldn’t have looked out of place at Pitti Uomo.

“This is…actually quite fashionable,” I admitted, impressed despite myself.

Dad looked horrified. “It’s not fashionable,” he corrected me sternly. “It’s classic. Different thing entirely.”

The jacket, it turned out, was older than me—purchased in 1982 from a proper tailor in Manchester city center. It had the kind of patina and character that fashion brands spend fortunes trying to replicate. The denim shirt was Levi’s, possibly from around the same era. None of it was trying to be trendy, yet somehow it all felt current.

My editor actually complimented the jacket, asking if it was vintage RRL or possibly a new Drake’s piece. When I explained it was my dad’s from the early 80s, he nodded appreciatively. “That’s the real deal. You couldn’t buy that authenticity.”

Day five brought the most surprising outfit: black jeans, a plain black t-shirt, cherry-red Dr. Martens that I recognized as mine from university (how did they end up in his wardrobe?), and a black leather jacket.

“Dad,” I said slowly, “you own a leather jacket?”

He looked almost embarrassed. “Your mum bought it for me in 1978. Used to wear it to the pub.” He paused, a faraway look in his eyes. “I was pretty cool once, you know.”

The jacket was perfect—not the expensive designer versions I’d bought and sold over the years, but an actual, honest-to-god biker jacket worn by an actual person over actual decades. It had stories in every scuff. Mum appeared in the doorway, smiling fondly.

“He wore that when we first met,” she said. “Thought he was the business.”

I had dinner plans with an ex who I’m still friendly with. Sophie did a literal double-take when I walked into the restaurant.

“Bloody hell,” she said, “you look hot. Like, actually hot, not fashion-hot.”

I wasn’t entirely sure what “fashion-hot” meant or whether I should be insulted, but the leather jacket got more compliments that evening than anything I’d worn in months. When I explained it was my dad’s from his youth, Sophie’s eyes actually softened. “That’s lovely,” she said. “Much better than those weird Japanese jackets you used to drop three months’ rent on.”

The weekend brought casual wear. Saturday was what Dad called “jobs around the house clothes” — a faded blue sweatshirt from Marks & Spencer, cargo shorts (“all those pockets are useful”), and desert boots again. Sunday was what he deemed appropriate for a family lunch: chinos, a polo shirt, and a quarter-zip lightweight jumper that he insisted was “smart enough for Sunday lunch but not stuffy.”

I felt like I’d stepped into an alternative universe where I’d never discovered fashion at all—one where practicality trumped style points every time. And yet, looking in the mirror, I didn’t hate what I saw. There was a certain unforced quality to these outfits, a lack of overthinking that felt oddly refreshing after years of calibrating every wardrobe choice.

The final day of the experiment brought what Dad called his “special occasion” outfit: a well-cut navy blazer (Anderson & Sheppard, I noted with shock, a seriously good Savile Row tailor), grey flannel trousers, a light blue button-down, and brown suede loafers.

“Where did you get this blazer?” I asked, genuinely impressed by the cut and quality.

“Your grandfather’s,” he said simply. “Had it altered to fit me in ’95. Good things last if you look after them.”

Here was the most surprising discovery of the week: beneath Dad’s practical, no-nonsense approach lay an appreciation for genuine quality and craftsmanship that aligned perfectly with my own values, just expressed differently. He didn’t care about labels or trends, but he understood instinctively the value of materials, construction, and fit.

The experiment officially over, Dad asked what I’d learned. I thought about it carefully.

“That clothes don’t have to be complicated,” I said finally. “That maybe I’ve been overthinking it.”

He nodded, satisfied. “Clothes are just clothes,” he said with Northern pragmatism. “They keep you warm and stop you getting arrested for indecent exposure. Everything else is just showing off.”

But then he paused, looking at his Anderson & Sheppard blazer hanging back in the wardrobe. “Though there’s nothing wrong with a bit of quality,” he added with a wink.

That night, packing my own clothes back into my suitcase ready to return to London, I found myself setting aside the most experimental pieces and reaching instead for the simpler items—the well-made basics, the quality classics. I even folded up Dad’s lambswool jumper, which he’d insisted I keep.

“It suits you,” he’d said gruffly, in a tone that suggested this was the highest compliment possible.

The following week, at a fashion week event in London, a street style photographer stopped me outside the venue. I was wearing 501s (albeit my own, slightly more fitted pair), a white oxford shirt, and a navy jumper—essentially Dad’s uniform, just with my own slight adjustments.

“Great look,” the photographer said. “Really authentic normcore vibe.”

I nearly told him it wasn’t normcore—it was just normal. But instead, I thought of Dad and smiled. “Thanks,” I said. “My styling consultant has very strong opinions about quality basics.”

Later that day, I sent Dad a text with a photo of my outfit. His reply came back an hour later: “Jumper looks a bit thin. You’ll catch your death.”

Some lessons never stick. But others—about quality, longevity, and not overthinking every wardrobe choice—might just be transforming my approach to style. Don’t tell Dad, but he might have been right all along. Not about the jumper thickness—I stand by my fine-gauge merino—but about the essence of good dressing: Find what works, stick with it, buy the best you can afford, and keep it forever.

Turns out you can go home again—and sometimes, your dad really does know best. Even if I’ll never admit that to his face.

I made a cardinal festival fashion error at Glastonbury in 2008. It wasn’t the obvious one—I didn’t wear white trainers or suede desert boots like some optimistic festival first-timer who doesn’t understand the concept of mud. No, my mistake was more subtle and, frankly, more embarrassing: I tried too hard.

I turned up in what I thought was the perfect calculated-casual festival look: vintage military jacket with precisely the right amount of distressing, limited edition band t-shirt (obviously not the band I was actually there to see—that would be gauche), selvage jeans with artful mud stains that I’d actually pre-distressed myself, and desert boots that I’d carefully weathered by dragging them behind my bike through the park. I topped it all off with a flat cap tilted at what I believed was a rakish angle but probably just made me look like an extra from Peaky Blinders who’d wandered onto the wrong set.

I looked, in short, like a colossal try-hard. The kind of bloke who spends more time planning his festival outfits than actually listening to the bands. The worst part? I wasn’t even twenty-five yet—the age when this kind of fashion over-calculation might be forgivable. I was approaching thirty, old enough to know better.

This fashion crime was brought into sharp relief when I bumped into my old university mate Dave at the Stone Roses set. Dave, who had never shown the slightest interest in clothes during our three years of studying together, was wearing faded jeans, battered Converse, and a plain navy t-shirt under a standard-issue navy waterproof. He looked completely unremarkable and yet, somehow, completely right. While I was sweating in my military jacket (both literally and metaphorically), he was comfortable, appropriate, and not giving his outfit a second thought.

“Mate,” he said when he saw me, not unkindly, “you look like you’re dressed for the festival in someone’s Instagram post, not an actual festival.”

It was a brutal but necessary reality check. As we stood there in the drizzle watching Ian Brown mumble his way through “I Wanna Be Adored,” I had a proper sartorial epiphany: British festival dressing for men isn’t about looking good. It’s about looking like you haven’t spent more than four minutes thinking about how you look.

This is, of course, a very British paradox. The appearance of effortlessness often requires considerable effort. But the cardinal rule remains: that effort must never, ever be visible. Especially not at a music festival, where the unspoken dress code dictates that your passion for the music should visibly outweigh your interest in your outfit.

Since that humbling Glastonbury experience, I’ve developed a more authentic approach to festival dressing that I call the “functional with personality” method. It acknowledges the quintessentially British factors that make our festival experience unique (namely: mud, rain, mud, unexpected heat, more mud, and the peculiar British male fear of appearing to care too much), while still allowing for personal style.

The foundation of any British festival outfit has to be practicality. Our festivals are not Coachella. The weather will not be consistently kind. You will encounter mud with the consistency of quicksand. You may experience all four seasons in a single afternoon. Your outfit needs to acknowledge these realities while pretending it hasn’t given them much thought.

Footwear is where most festival disasters begin and end. White trainers are obviously suicidal. Box-fresh anything is asking for immediate destruction. The sweet spot is what I call “considered weatherproofing”—footwear that can handle the elements but doesn’t scream “I’M WEARING TECHNICAL GEAR!” like you’re summiting Everest rather than watching Coldplay in a field.

Classic options include well-worn boots from brands with authentic heritage (think Blundstones, Dr. Martens, or Red Wings), trainers that improve with abuse (Converse, Vans, or New Balance 574s), or if the forecast is particularly apocalyptic, Hunter wellies—but only if they look like they’ve seen at least one previous festival. Nothing screams “festival virgin” like pristine green wellies.

Jamie, a music journalist friend who’s been to more festivals than hot dinners, swears by his ancient Blundstones. “They’ve seen fifteen Glastonburys and counting,” he told me recently. “They’ve transcended being boots and are now basically portable terrain vehicles for my feet.” That’s exactly the level of practical nonchalance you’re aiming for—gear that works hard while looking like it’s not trying at all.

Next: outerwear. Again, the British climate forces certain practical considerations, but there’s a fine line between “prepared for rain” and “dressed for a North Sea oil rig emergency.” The classic British festival jacket remains the humble Barbour, particularly if it’s old enough to have developed a patina of previous outdoor adventures. Waxed cotton provides excellent rain protection without looking like you’re overly concerned about staying dry.

For a more contemporary option, the basic mountain parka from brands like Patagonia, The North Face, or even Uniqlo offers practicality without screaming “I’ve overthought this.” The key is choosing subdued colors (navy, olive, black) rather than the high-visibility hues that suggest you’re worried about being rescued by helicopter.

The technical-but-not-too-technical jacket works because it sends the right message: “I’m sensible enough to check the weather forecast, but I’m not precious about getting a bit wet.” That balance of preparation without preciousness is the sweet spot of British festival style.

The mid-layer is where you can introduce some personality without crossing into try-hard territory. A well-worn flannel shirt, a faded band t-shirt (ideally from a previous gig or tour, not freshly purchased for the occasion), or a plain but quality sweatshirt all work perfectly. The common theme? They should look lived-in, not box-fresh.

My favorite festival mid-layer is a navy cotton overshirt I’ve had for nearly a decade. It’s sturdy enough for chilly evenings, casual enough to tie around my waist when the sun comes out, and has enough pockets to be genuinely useful. Most importantly, it looks completely unremarkable—which, paradoxically, is exactly what you want.

For legwear, the humble jean still reigns supreme, but with caveats. Ultra-skinny styles have fallen from favor (thankfully—try using a festival toilet while wearing spray-on denim and you’ll understand why), replaced by more relaxed straight or slightly tapered cuts. The key is choosing denim sturdy enough to handle multiple days of wear while being comfortable enough for long periods of standing, sitting on grass, and navigating crowded spaces.

Color-wise, stick to classic indigo or black, which show less dirt than lighter washes. And for god’s sake, make sure they’ve been worn in. Nothing says “I bought these specially” like rigid denim with pristine creases.

If the forecast suggests biblical heat (increasingly common with climate change making British summers more extreme), shorts become acceptable. But not just any shorts. Board shorts scream “I’m treating this like a beach holiday,” cargo shorts suggest you’re confusing the festival with an archaeological dig, and anything too tailored looks like you’ve wandered in from Henley Regatta.

The safe bet is simple cotton or denim shorts that hit just above the knee, ideally in navy, khaki, or black. They should look casual without veering into slovenly territory. As my stylish friend Marcus puts it: “You want shorts that look like you grabbed them from your drawer, not shorts that look like you had them professionally pressed for the occasion.”

Accessories present the greatest opportunity for catastrophic try-hard errors. Flower crowns on men were never acceptable. Bandanas should be approached with extreme caution unless you’re actually in a motorcycle gang. Novelty sunglasses, festival wristbands from 2014, and excessive jewelry all scream “I’m dressing for the Instagram post, not the experience.”

The Britishly appropriate approach to festival accessories is ruthless minimalism with tiny touches of personality. A decent pair of sunglasses (classic Ray-Ban Wayfarers remain undefeated for festival appropriateness), a simple watch that can handle abuse, and perhaps one subtle piece of personal significance—a well-worn leather bracelet, a ring with meaning, or a cap from a brand you actually have some connection to.

My festival kit now includes exactly one accessory with personality: a vintage Swiss Army watch on a NATO strap that’s been with me through multiple muddy fields and has the battle scars to prove it. It tells the time (crucial for not missing bands), can handle being submerged in puddles, and looks like it was chosen for function rather than fashion. Perfect.

A note on bags: the crossbody or small backpack is your friend. Festival veterans know that keeping your hands free is essential, and constantly patting your pockets to check for your phone/wallet/keys is the fastest way to ruin your enjoyment of the music. A simple canvas tote, battered leather satchel, or basic backpack in a dark color hits the sweet spot of practical without precious.

What about the much-maligned bum bag (or fanny pack, if you’re reading this in America)? They’ve undergone a remarkable rehabilitation in recent years, moving from tourist embarrassment to acceptable festival gear. Just keep it simple and understated—the technical-looking ones from brands like Patagonia or The North Face work because they prioritize function over fashion.

The final and perhaps most important element of British festival style for men is how you wear it all. The outfit should look like it was assembled with minimal thought, even if considerable strategic planning went into it. Nothing should appear too pristine or precious. If you’re worried about getting mud on something, you shouldn’t be wearing it.

This apparent carelessness is, of course, its own form of calculation. My most effortlessly stylish friend Tom spends more time considering his “thrown-together” festival looks than most people spend planning their wedding outfits. But crucially, the end result never betrays the thought process. His festival uniform—slightly faded black jeans, plain white or gray t-shirt, navy overshirt, and battered leather boots—looks completely unremarkable until you realize he hasn’t had to adjust, fidget with, or worry about any element of it through three days of music, mud, and mayhem.

“The goal,” as Tom explains it, “is to look like you got dressed in the dark after sleeping through your alarm, but somehow still look decent. It’s the festival equivalent of bedhead hair—obviously you want it to look good, but it can’t look like you want it to look good.”

This approach extends to maintenance during the festival itself. A certain level of dishevelment is expected by day two. In fact, being too well-turned-out on the final day suggests you’ve brought an excessive amount of clean clothes or, worse, are actually leaving the site to shower and change somewhere civilized. Both are cardinal sins of festival authenticity.

There’s a sweet spot of festival grubbiness—not so pristine that you look like a day-tripper, but not so filthy that you’re a walking health hazard. Think of it as strategic dishevelment: the mud on your boots was earned, not applied pre-festival like my embarrassing 2008 self.

The evolution of British festival fashion has been interesting to observe over the past decade. The late 2000s and early 2010s saw peak “festival as fashion show” energy, with Glastonbury in particular becoming a celebrity style showcase. This trickled down to regular attendees feeling pressure to curate perfect festival looks.

The backlash was inevitable and welcome. There’s been a clear shift back toward authenticity, functionality, and a certain studied casualness. Even celebrities have toned down their festival peacocking, perhaps realizing that looking like you’ve employed a stylist to dress you for standing in a field is inherently ridiculous.

That said, there are still tribal elements to festival dressing that signal your music affiliations. Download Festival looks very different from Wilderness. Creamfields has its own aesthetic distinct from Green Man. But across all of them, the British male approach remains consistent: you should look appropriate for the festival you’re attending while appearing not to have given it too much thought.

Perhaps the best festival style advice I ever received came from a veteran sound engineer I met at End of the Road Festival. After I complimented his perfectly weathered vintage Carhartt jacket, he shrugged and said: “Dress for comfort, pack for catastrophe, and focus on the music. Nobody remembers what you wore, they remember if you were a good laugh or a miserable bastard.”

He’s right, of course. The best-dressed man at any festival isn’t the one in the perfectly curated outfit—it’s the one who’s comfortable, prepared for the elements, and completely present in the experience rather than fretting about how he looks in it.

So as festival season approaches, remember the golden rules of British festival dressing for men: function first, subtle personality second, and visible effort never. Your outfit should be able to handle mud, rain, sunshine, and the inevitable spilled pint without causing you distress. It should include elements of practical weatherproofing without making you look like you’re dressed for an Arctic expedition. And most importantly, it should allow you to focus entirely on enjoying the music and the experience, rather than protecting your precious garments or posing for Instagram.

Oh, and one final tip from a man who learned the hard way: no matter how tempting it might be, never, ever pre-distress your jeans for a festival. The mud will find you on its own terms, I promise.

The first proper jumper I ever owned—not counting the scratchy school uniform ones that felt like wearing a hedgehog—was a navy blue lambswool crew neck that my grandmother gave me for Christmas when I was sixteen. “Every man needs a decent jumper,” she announced, as I unwrapped it with the barely disguised disappointment of a teenager hoping for literally anything else. It wasn’t cool. It wasn’t fashionable. It was just… a jumper. Plain, practical, impossibly soft. I wore it exactly once that winter, for a family dinner where escape was impossible, then stuffed it in the back of my wardrobe where unfashionable gifts go to die.

I rediscovered it three years later, during my first winter at university in Manchester. My student flat had the kind of heating system that seemed to operate on spite rather than thermodynamics—either Saharan heat that dried your eyeballs or, more commonly, a penetrating chill that had us all wearing coats indoors. Desperate times call for desperate measures. I pulled out that navy jumper, now slightly dusty but otherwise intact, and grudgingly put it on.

Christ, it was glorious. Like being hugged by a particularly affectionate cloud. I wore it constantly for the next two months, much to the amusement of my more fashion-conscious housemates. “Nice grandad jumper,” Vijay would snicker, before asking if he could borrow it when his parents came to visit. That jumper saw me through three brutal northern winters, countless essays written in unheated libraries, and at least two significant breakups (there’s something undeniably comforting about sobbing into quality lambswool).

Twenty-odd years later, I still have it. The cuffs are slightly frayed, there’s a tiny hole near one elbow that I’ve darned with embarrassing inexpertise, and it’s lost some of its original heft—but it’s still in rotation every winter. When I finally got around to checking the label properly, I discovered it was made in Scotland by a heritage brand that’s still producing virtually the same design today, only now charging about four times what my grandmother likely paid.

This isn’t just nostalgic rambling (well, not entirely). That jumper taught me something fundamental about clothing that’s served me well throughout my career: true quality often announces itself quietly, improves with age, and doesn’t always command the highest price tag. It’s a lesson particularly relevant when it comes to knitwear, where the relationship between price and quality can be maddeningly opaque.

I’ve since owned jumpers ranging from £30 high street purchases to eye-watering designer pieces that required serious budget recalibration (and once, memorably, eating nothing but beans on toast for a fortnight after an ill-advised splurge on a hand-knitted cashmere cable knit that I still maintain was worth every painful penny). I’ve made catastrophic errors—the acrylic blend that literally melted near a campfire, the supposedly luxury cashmere that pilled beyond recognition after two gentle wears, the trendy oversized mohair that shed so prolifically my flatmate accused me of secretly housing a fluorescent pink cat.

But I’ve also found genuine treasures at every price point. Which brings me to the heart of this somewhat rambling jumper manifesto: you absolutely can find excellent knitwear without remortgaging your flat, but you need to know what you’re looking for. Consider this your no-nonsense guide to the Great British Jumper—because in our climate, few garments will serve you better or longer than a properly chosen knit.

First, let’s talk materials, because this is where most jumper disasters begin. That suspiciously cheap cashmere on the high street? There’s usually a reason it’s suspiciously cheap. Cashmere quality varies wildly depending on the length and fineness of the fibers used. Shorter fibers might feel soft initially but will pill faster than a teenager’s first relationship. Budget cashmere often uses these shorter fibers, resulting in that devastating second-wear disappointment when your lovely new jumper suddenly develops those infuriating little bobbles all over.

This doesn’t mean you should automatically dismiss more affordable cashmere—just adjust your expectations and inspect carefully. Run your hand inside the jumper; better quality cashmere feels almost as soft on the inside as the outside. Check the weight too—lighter isn’t necessarily worse (some excellent summer cashmere is deliberately lightweight), but it should feel substantial for its weight class. If it already looks slightly fuzzy on the shelf, walk away—it’s only going to get worse with wear.

But here’s my most controversial knitwear opinion: for everyday British life, cashmere shouldn’t always be your first choice anyway. Heresy, I know. While I treasure my few good cashmere pieces, the true workhorses of my jumper collection are made from more robust materials. Lambswool deserves particular recognition—warm, reasonably soft (especially when blended with a touch of nylon for strength), and significantly more durable than cashmere at a fraction of the price.

Merino occupies the sweet spot between luxury and practicality—softer than regular wool, less prone to pilling than cashmere, and versatile enough for year-round wear. A good merino jumper will serve you from autumn through spring, and even on cooler summer evenings. It also takes dye beautifully, offering richer colors than many other fibers.

For pure value-to-quality ratio, it’s hard to beat Shetland wool. Yes, the traditional stuff can be rougher than a pub carpet (though modern versions are often softer), but it’s nearly indestructible. I have a Shetland jumper that’s survived fifteen years of regular wear and still looks essentially new. It’s the Land Rover Defender of knitwear—not the most refined, but you’ll be passing it down to your grandchildren.

Then there’s the dark horse of affordable quality: the lambswool/nylon blend. Purists will scoff, but a small percentage of nylon (around 10-15%) can significantly improve durability without compromising warmth or comfort. Some of my most reliable jumpers use this blend, and they’ve outlasted purer but more fragile alternatives.

Now, where to find these woolen wonders without devastating your bank account? I’m going to commit what some might consider style journalism sacrilege and direct you straight to Marks & Spencer’s lambswool range. Stop rolling your eyes—their basic crew necks and v-necks hover around the £30-40 mark and deliver astonishing quality for the price. Yes, the styling is conservative, but a plain navy or charcoal crew neck jumper will never not be useful. I’ve sent fashion snobs into existential crises by revealing that the “vintage find” they’ve just complimented is actually M&S.

Uniqlo deserves mention for their merino offerings, which provide remarkable value, particularly in their extra fine range. The fit is more contemporary than M&S, and while they won’t last decades, three or four years of regular wear from a £30-40 jumper represents solid value.

For those with slightly more budget, John Lewis’s own-brand cashmere hits a sweet spot around the £100 mark. It’s not heirloom quality, but with proper care, it’ll serve you well for several years. Their lambswool options hover around £40-50 and offer excellent durability.

If you can stretch to £60-80, Community Clothing deserves your attention. Founded by Patrick Grant (of E. Tautz and Great British Sewing Bee fame), they produce no-nonsense, well-made basics in Northern factories that once supplied much pricier brands. Their geelong lambswool jumpers are genuinely comparable to pieces costing twice as much.

For those willing to invest a bit more for significant quality improvement, Finisterre’s £95 geelong wool jumpers offer remarkable value. Founded as a surfwear company, they understand creating garments that stand up to proper weather. Their commitment to sustainability is genuine rather than greenwashing, and the quality-to-price ratio is outstanding.

At the £100-150 range, you start entering heritage territory. Brands like Harley of Scotland, William Lockie, and Johnston’s of Elgin (on sale or outlet) produce jumpers that genuinely will last decades with proper care. Their standard models haven’t changed much in generations because they haven’t needed to—they nailed the formula long ago.

The secondhand market offers perhaps the best value of all. Quality knitwear from heritage brands frequently turns up in charity shops, particularly in affluent areas where people are more likely to donate rather than resell. I’ve found Scottish cashmere for under £20 and barely-worn merino for less than a tenner. Online, eBay remains a treasure trove if you know which brands to search for.

A note on vintage knitwear: older jumpers were often made to significantly sturdier standards than their modern equivalents. That slightly austere 100% wool jumper from the 1980s might not have the buttery softness of modern luxury knitwear, but it will likely outlive anything produced today. Just be prepared to deal with slightly more traditional fits—nothing a good tailor can’t address if necessary.

Regardless of budget, certain universal rules apply when evaluating knitwear quality. Check the seams—they should be flat and neat, with no obvious bulging or puckering. Examine the ribbing at cuffs and hem, which should be tight and springy. For cashmere, check for pilling by gently rubbing the surface with your palm—quality pieces won’t immediately fluff up. Weight often correlates with quality—a heavier jumper generally contains more fiber, though this varies by design and material.

The care you give your jumpers matters almost as much as initial quality. I dedicated an entire weekend last year to teaching my godson proper knitwear maintenance after finding him tumble-drying a cashmere jumper I’d given him (a moment that aged me ten years instantly). Hand washing is ideal but realistically impractical for many. A mesh bag and gentle wool cycle set to cold will serve most jumpers well enough. Always dry flat on a towel—hanging wet knitwear is a crime against both nature and your future self, who will wonder why your jumper now has orangutan arms. Invest in a decent fabric shaver for dealing with inevitable pilling, and for god’s sake, give your knitwear a day’s rest between wears to recover its shape.

Storage might seem trivial, but it’s crucial for longevity. Fold, don’t hang, to avoid shoulder stretching. Cedar blocks or lavender sachets will deter moths, those airborne terrorists that have reduced more than one of my precious knits to lace doilies. I learned this lesson the hard way after finding an entire colony of the little bastards had turned my favorite camel hair cardigan into their all-inclusive resort.

As for style—well, that’s more subjective, but if you’re looking to maximize versatility and longevity, certain jumper types have proven their staying power. The crew neck in navy, grey, or camel will never let you down. It works under a blazer, over a t-shirt, with jeans, with trousers, for work, for weekends, for essentially everything short of black-tie events (though I did once see a well-known artist pair a pristine black cashmere crew neck with his dinner suit, and frankly, he looked better than most of the traditionally attired guests).

The v-neck has suffered somewhat from unfortunate associations with Simon Cowell’s chest-plunging examples, but a properly proportioned one that hits just at or slightly below the collarbone remains an elegant option, particularly for wearing with ties or under blazers.

The roll-neck (or turtleneck, if you prefer) continues its renaissance, having shed the pretentious intellectual or 1970s associations that once limited its appeal. A black merino roll-neck under a suit remains one of the sharpest, most timeless looks a man can wear.

The cardigan deserves special mention for its versatility. Whether chunky and casual or fine gauge and elegant, it functions as both jumper and light jacket. The button front makes it adaptable to temperature fluctuations, and it layers more easily than pullovers. My oldest surviving piece of knitwear is actually a navy cardigan inherited from my grandfather—approaching seventy years old and still worn regularly.

Cable knits offer texture and visual interest without resorting to potentially regrettable patterns or colors. A cream cable knit jumper is practically a British heritage uniform, though be warned that the chunkier versions can add visual bulk—not always ideal if you’re already solidly built (a lesson I learned after an unfortunate Christmas photo where I appeared to have doubled in width).

While I’ve focused on classic styles, I’m not suggesting your jumper collection should be entirely conservative. Some of my most treasured knits feature distinctive patterns or unusual colors. The key is considering their staying power—both physically and stylistically. That lime green mohair might seem irresistible today, but ask yourself if you’ll still reach for it in five years.

Perhaps the most important quality metric is simply this: does wearing it make you happy? My grandmother’s navy lambswool jumper wasn’t revolutionary in design or made from rare Himalayan mountain goat fur, but it’s given me more comfort and joy than far more expensive pieces. There’s something deeply satisfying about a garment that improves with age and carries memories within its fibers.

So before you spend three figures on cashmere of questionable provenance, consider whether a well-chosen £40 lambswool might actually serve you better. The Great British Jumper isn’t about flashy logos or stratospheric price tags—it’s about finding pieces that quietly, competently keep you warm year after year, gradually conforming to your body and life until they feel less like garments and more like old friends.

My grandmother was right after all—every man does need a decent jumper. Preferably several. Just don’t wait until you’re shivering in an underheated student flat to appreciate them.

I bought my first proper overcoat when I was twenty-three, fresh out of university and heading to my first job interview at a magazine. It was a navy wool and cashmere blend from a department store sale rack – reduced from “eye-watering” to merely “painful” – and I remember standing in front of the mirror in the fitting room having one of those moments. You know the ones, where you catch sight of yourself and think, “Oh, there I am.” Not the student version of me in hoodies and vintage military jackets, but some future self who apparently knew how to iron a shirt properly and might one day understand mortgage payments.

I didn’t get that job, as it happens, but I got the coat. Seventeen years later, it’s still hanging in my wardrobe. The lining has been replaced twice, there’s a barely noticeable repair on one sleeve where I caught it on a metal fence, and it’s been slightly adjusted as my body has shifted from “skipped too many meals to afford beer” thinness to “writes about food as well as clothes” solidity. But the coat itself is essentially unchanged – if anything, it looks better now than when I bought it, the fabric having softened and settled over nearly two decades of British winters.

That coat cost me £280 in 2008, roughly equivalent to about £450 today. At the time, it felt like financial madness. I ate beans on toast for weeks afterward. But if I calculate the cost-per-wear over seventeen years of regular winter use, we’re talking pennies per outing. Compare that to the disposable fast fashion many of us buy without blinking – the £60 jackets replaced every season, the trend-chasing purchases worn a handful of times – and suddenly that painful investment doesn’t seem so painful after all.

But here’s the thing about overcoats: unlike that avocado-shaped bag or those aggressively square-toed shoes you’ll cringe at in photos five years from now (don’t pretend you don’t have fashion regrets – we all do), a well-chosen overcoat is genuinely timeless. It’s possibly the only garment where what looked good on your grandfather still looks good today, and will likely still look good on your grandchildren. When you’re spending serious money on clothes, that kind of longevity matters.

Of course, “serious money” is relative, especially in today’s economy where the price of eggs makes me wonder if I should be investing in chickens rather than clothes. The overcoat market spans from budget high street options under £100 to bespoke tailored pieces that could fund a decent used car. So the question becomes: where along this spectrum should you be aiming? Is the investment piece worth it, or can you find genuine quality on the high street?

I’ve spent the last few months conducting a somewhat excessive investigation into this question, which has involved everything from lurking in designer department stores pretending I might actually purchase something, to convincing various friends to let me thoroughly examine (and occasionally steal for test drives) their coats across different price points. My long-suffering tailor has been subjected to lengthy interrogations about canvassing and shoulder construction. I’ve even tracked down the factories that produce coats for both luxury labels and high street brands to understand where the real differences lie.

Let’s start with the investment end, which I’m defining as £500 and up. What exactly are you paying for at this level? First and most importantly: material. A high-quality wool overcoat will typically use lambswool or cashmere blends with a higher percentage of natural fibers and longer staple length, resulting in greater warmth, better drape, and significantly improved longevity.

Take my friend Marcus’s Crombie coat, purchased seven years ago for just over £800. The fabric is a 90% wool, 10% cashmere blend that’s substantial without being suffocating. After regular winter wear, it shows virtually no pilling or surface wear. Compare this to my assistant Tom’s £120 high street version, which began developing those annoying little bobbles after half a season and now looks noticeably tired despite careful maintenance.

The second major difference is construction. Better overcoats use canvassing – layers of horsehair or synthetic material between the outer fabric and lining – which creates structure and allows the coat to mold to your body over time. Cheaper coats use glued interfacing (known as fusing), which is initially effective but tends to delaminate with wear and cleaning, creating bubbling or rippling on the surface. It’s why budget coats often develop that peculiar rumpled appearance that no amount of pressing can fix.

You’re also paying for details: real horn buttons instead of plastic, functional buttonholes, hand-stitched elements, superior linings. None of these make an immediately obvious visual difference, but collectively they contribute to a coat that ages gracefully rather than simply getting old.

But here’s something the luxury brands don’t advertise: diminishing returns kick in hard at the upper end of the market. There’s a substantial quality difference between a £150 coat and a £600 coat. The difference between a £600 coat and a £2,000 coat? Often surprisingly minimal, particularly if you’re looking at larger brands rather than specialist tailoring houses.

I discovered this when comparing my editor’s Private White V.C. overcoat (around £750) with a major designer label version owned by a rather smug banker friend (approximately £2,300). Examining them side by side, the materials and construction were remarkably comparable. The designer coat had fancier buttons and a more elaborate lining, but in terms of the elements that affect longevity and performance, they were essentially matched.

This brings us to the sweet spot for investment overcoats: the £500-£900 range, where you’ll find brands like Private White V.C., SEH Kelly, Crombie, and some of the better department store own-labels like Jaeger. At this price point, you’re getting quality materials, proper construction, and attention to detail without paying the premium that comes with designer branding.

But what if your budget doesn’t stretch to the investment category? Is it possible to find a genuinely good overcoat on the high street?

The short answer is yes, with caveats. High street overcoats typically compromise in three areas: fabric composition (more synthetic fibers), construction (fused rather than canvassed), and detailing (plastic buttons, simplified tailoring). But some brands handle these compromises better than others.

The biggest problem with high street coats isn’t actually how they look when new – many look quite impressive on the rack – but how quickly they deteriorate with wear. That smart wool-blend coat can start to look shabby after just one season if the fabric quality isn’t there. This is where the cost-per-wear calculation becomes important. A £150 coat replaced every two years ultimately costs more than a £600 coat that lasts a decade or more.

If you’re shopping at the high street level, fabric composition becomes your most critical consideration. Look for the highest possible percentage of wool – anything over 60% is reasonable, over 80% is excellent for this price point. Be especially wary of coats with more than 10% polyester, which tends to pill and lose shape faster than other synthetics like viscose.

Marks & Spencer deserves particular mention for offering some of the best quality-to-price ratios on the high street. Their pure wool overcoats hover around the £150-£200 mark and, while not competing with investment pieces in terms of refinement, offer genuine warmth and respectable longevity. Their tailoring is conservative but that’s actually an advantage in an overcoat, where trendy cuts tend to date quickly.

Uniqlo’s wool-blend overcoats (around £130) offer remarkable value, though they’re typically lighter weight than traditional British overcoats – better suited to autumn or milder winter days. What they lack in heft they make up for in clean design that belies their price point.

COS occasionally produces overcoats that punch well above their weight class, with better-than-average materials and construction in the £225-£300 range. Their minimalist aesthetic works particularly well for outerwear, avoiding details that might reveal corners cut.

Among the mid-market high street brands, Reiss deserves recognition for overcoats that bridge the gap between high street and investment pieces. At £300-£400, they’re not cheap, but the quality of both materials and construction often rivals coats costing significantly more.

Where the high street genuinely struggles is in the very classic, formal overcoat styles – the Chesterfields and Covert coats that require precise tailoring and substantial fabrics to look right. If you’re after these more traditional styles, it’s generally worth saving up for the investment version or exploring the vintage market.

Ah yes, vintage – potentially the best value in quality outerwear if you’re willing to put in the legwork. Men’s overcoats from the 1960s through the 1980s were often made to standards that meet or exceed today’s investment pieces, at a fraction of the price. My most complimented coat is actually a 1970s camel hair number purchased from a vintage shop in Manchester for £140, which would likely cost close to £1,000 new today.

The vintage route does require more effort – finding the right size, ensuring there’s no moth damage, potentially budgeting for alterations or repairs. But for pure quality-to-price ratio, it’s unbeatable. Older coats were frequently made with heavier, more substantial fabrics than their modern equivalents, even at luxury price points. They don’t make them like they used to is a cliché, but in this case, it’s often literally true.

If you’re considering the vintage option, focus on classic styles and neutral colors that won’t betray their age. Navy, charcoal, camel, and black in simple single-breasted or double-breasted cuts will look contemporary despite their years. Avoid anything with exaggerated features – massive lapels, too-bold patterns, unusual details – unless you’re specifically aiming for a statement piece.

Regardless of whether you’re buying new or vintage, investment or high street, certain principles apply across the board. Fit is paramount – an inexpensive coat that fits perfectly will always look better than a luxury coat that doesn’t. Shoulders should be neither too snug nor too roomy, length should hit somewhere between mid-thigh and just above the knee, and the chest should allow for a jacket or heavy jumper underneath without straining.

Color is another critical consideration. If this is your only overcoat, or your first serious purchase, stick with the most versatile options: navy first, followed by charcoal grey, camel, or black. These will work across virtually any situation, from business to casual, and won’t date as trends shift. Save the bolder colors or patterns for your second or third overcoat.

Weight matters more than many realize. A proper British winter coat needs genuine heft – around 20-24oz fabric weight is ideal for our climate, providing warmth without requiring multiple layers underneath. Many high street coats use lighter weight fabrics (14-18oz) to save costs, which might be fine for milder days but won’t provide adequate protection during a proper cold snap.

One final consideration: alterations. A good overcoat is worth tailoring to your specific proportions, even if it means adding to the initial cost. Sleeve length, overall length, and sometimes waist suppression can all be adjusted by a competent tailor, turning a good coat into a great one. This is especially relevant when buying vintage, where cuts tend to be more generous, or when your body shape doesn’t align with standard sizing.

So what’s the verdict? Is the investment piece worth it, or can high street options deliver?

The honest answer is that it depends on your personal equation of budget, expected longevity, and how much you value the finer details. A £700 investment coat is objectively better than a £150 high street version in almost every measurable way. But is it almost five times better? Probably not.

What I can say with certainty is that a quality overcoat is one of the few genuine investment pieces in a man’s wardrobe. Unlike much of fashion, which is designed for planned obsolescence, a well-chosen overcoat can serve you faithfully for decades, potentially becoming the most enduring and cost-effective garment you’ll ever own.

My own navy overcoat, now approaching its eighteenth winter, has accompanied me through job interviews, first dates, funerals, celebrations, and countless ordinary days. It’s softened with my body’s movements, developed a patina that no new coat can replicate, and somehow still looks relevant despite nearly two decades of shifting trends. I can’t say the same for anything else I bought in my early twenties.

Whether you splash out on the investment piece or opt for the best the high street can offer, choose with longevity in mind. In an age of disposable fashion, there’s something profoundly satisfying about owning a garment designed to last longer than your current haircut, job, or relationship status. The overcoat is one of the last bastions of genuine permanence in a wardrobe landscape increasingly defined by transience. Choose accordingly.

I made a cardinal festival fashion error at Glastonbury in 2008. It wasn’t the obvious one—I didn’t wear white trainers or suede desert boots like some optimistic festival first-timer who doesn’t understand the concept of mud. No, my mistake was more subtle and, frankly, more embarrassing: I tried too hard.

I turned up in what I thought was the perfect calculated-casual festival look: vintage military jacket with precisely the right amount of distressing, limited edition band t-shirt (obviously not the band I was actually there to see—that would be gauche), selvage jeans with artful mud stains that I’d actually pre-distressed myself, and desert boots that I’d carefully weathered by dragging them behind my bike through the park. I topped it all off with a flat cap tilted at what I believed was a rakish angle but probably just made me look like an extra from Peaky Blinders who’d wandered onto the wrong set.

I looked, in short, like a colossal try-hard. The kind of bloke who spends more time planning his festival outfits than actually listening to the bands. The worst part? I wasn’t even twenty-five yet—the age when this kind of fashion over-calculation might be forgivable. I was approaching thirty, old enough to know better.

This fashion crime was brought into sharp relief when I bumped into my old university mate Dave at the Stone Roses set. Dave, who had never shown the slightest interest in clothes during our three years of studying together, was wearing faded jeans, battered Converse, and a plain navy t-shirt under a standard-issue navy waterproof. He looked completely unremarkable and yet, somehow, completely right. While I was sweating in my military jacket (both literally and metaphorically), he was comfortable, appropriate, and not giving his outfit a second thought.

“Mate,” he said when he saw me, not unkindly, “you look like you’re dressed for the festival in someone’s Instagram post, not an actual festival.”

It was a brutal but necessary reality check. As we stood there in the drizzle watching Ian Brown mumble his way through “I Wanna Be Adored,” I had a proper sartorial epiphany: British festival dressing for men isn’t about looking good. It’s about looking like you haven’t spent more than four minutes thinking about how you look.

This is, of course, a very British paradox. The appearance of effortlessness often requires considerable effort. But the cardinal rule remains: that effort must never, ever be visible. Especially not at a music festival, where the unspoken dress code dictates that your passion for the music should visibly outweigh your interest in your outfit.

Since that humbling Glastonbury experience, I’ve developed a more authentic approach to festival dressing that I call the “functional with personality” method. It acknowledges the quintessentially British factors that make our festival experience unique (namely: mud, rain, mud, unexpected heat, more mud, and the peculiar British male fear of appearing to care too much), while still allowing for personal style.

The foundation of any British festival outfit has to be practicality. Our festivals are not Coachella. The weather will not be consistently kind. You will encounter mud with the consistency of quicksand. You may experience all four seasons in a single afternoon. Your outfit needs to acknowledge these realities while pretending it hasn’t given them much thought.

Footwear is where most festival disasters begin and end. White trainers are obviously suicidal. Box-fresh anything is asking for immediate destruction. The sweet spot is what I call “considered weatherproofing”—footwear that can handle the elements but doesn’t scream “I’M WEARING TECHNICAL GEAR!” like you’re summiting Everest rather than watching Coldplay in a field.

Classic options include well-worn boots from brands with authentic heritage (think Blundstones, Dr. Martens, or Red Wings), trainers that improve with abuse (Converse, Vans, or New Balance 574s), or if the forecast is particularly apocalyptic, Hunter wellies—but only if they look like they’ve seen at least one previous festival. Nothing screams “festival virgin” like pristine green wellies.

Jamie, a music journalist friend who’s been to more festivals than hot dinners, swears by his ancient Blundstones. “They’ve seen fifteen Glastonburys and counting,” he told me recently. “They’ve transcended being boots and are now basically portable terrain vehicles for my feet.” That’s exactly the level of practical nonchalance you’re aiming for—gear that works hard while looking like it’s not trying at all.

Next: outerwear. Again, the British climate forces certain practical considerations, but there’s a fine line between “prepared for rain” and “dressed for a North Sea oil rig emergency.” The classic British festival jacket remains the humble Barbour, particularly if it’s old enough to have developed a patina of previous outdoor adventures. Waxed cotton provides excellent rain protection without looking like you’re overly concerned about staying dry.

For a more contemporary option, the basic mountain parka from brands like Patagonia, The North Face, or even Uniqlo offers practicality without screaming “I’ve overthought this.” The key is choosing subdued colors (navy, olive, black) rather than the high-visibility hues that suggest you’re worried about being rescued by helicopter.

The technical-but-not-too-technical jacket works because it sends the right message: “I’m sensible enough to check the weather forecast, but I’m not precious about getting a bit wet.” That balance of preparation without preciousness is the sweet spot of British festival style.

The mid-layer is where you can introduce some personality without crossing into try-hard territory. A well-worn flannel shirt, a faded band t-shirt (ideally from a previous gig or tour, not freshly purchased for the occasion), or a plain but quality sweatshirt all work perfectly. The common theme? They should look lived-in, not box-fresh.

My favorite festival mid-layer is a navy cotton overshirt I’ve had for nearly a decade. It’s sturdy enough for chilly evenings, casual enough to tie around my waist when the sun comes out, and has enough pockets to be genuinely useful. Most importantly, it looks completely unremarkable—which, paradoxically, is exactly what you want.

For legwear, the humble jean still reigns supreme, but with caveats. Ultra-skinny styles have fallen from favor (thankfully—try using a festival toilet while wearing spray-on denim and you’ll understand why), replaced by more relaxed straight or slightly tapered cuts. The key is choosing denim sturdy enough to handle multiple days of wear while being comfortable enough for long periods of standing, sitting on grass, and navigating crowded spaces.

Color-wise, stick to classic indigo or black, which show less dirt than lighter washes. And for god’s sake, make sure they’ve been worn in. Nothing says “I bought these specially” like rigid denim with pristine creases.

If the forecast suggests biblical heat (increasingly common with climate change making British summers more extreme), shorts become acceptable. But not just any shorts. Board shorts scream “I’m treating this like a beach holiday,” cargo shorts suggest you’re confusing the festival with an archaeological dig, and anything too tailored looks like you’ve wandered in from Henley Regatta.

The safe bet is simple cotton or denim shorts that hit just above the knee, ideally in navy, khaki, or black. They should look casual without veering into slovenly territory. As my stylish friend Marcus puts it: “You want shorts that look like you grabbed them from your drawer, not shorts that look like you had them professionally pressed for the occasion.”

Accessories present the greatest opportunity for catastrophic try-hard errors. Flower crowns on men were never acceptable. Bandanas should be approached with extreme caution unless you’re actually in a motorcycle gang. Novelty sunglasses, festival wristbands from 2014, and excessive jewelry all scream “I’m dressing for the Instagram post, not the experience.”

The Britishly appropriate approach to festival accessories is ruthless minimalism with tiny touches of personality. A decent pair of sunglasses (classic Ray-Ban Wayfarers remain undefeated for festival appropriateness), a simple watch that can handle abuse, and perhaps one subtle piece of personal significance—a well-worn leather bracelet, a ring with meaning, or a cap from a brand you actually have some connection to.

My festival kit now includes exactly one accessory with personality: a vintage Swiss Army watch on a NATO strap that’s been with me through multiple muddy fields and has the battle scars to prove it. It tells the time (crucial for not missing bands), can handle being submerged in puddles, and looks like it was chosen for function rather than fashion. Perfect.

A note on bags: the crossbody or small backpack is your friend. Festival veterans know that keeping your hands free is essential, and constantly patting your pockets to check for your phone/wallet/keys is the fastest way to ruin your enjoyment of the music. A simple canvas tote, battered leather satchel, or basic backpack in a dark color hits the sweet spot of practical without precious.

What about the much-maligned bum bag (or fanny pack, if you’re reading this in America)? They’ve undergone a remarkable rehabilitation in recent years, moving from tourist embarrassment to acceptable festival gear. Just keep it simple and understated—the technical-looking ones from brands like Patagonia or The North Face work because they prioritize function over fashion.

The final and perhaps most important element of British festival style for men is how you wear it all. The outfit should look like it was assembled with minimal thought, even if considerable strategic planning went into it. Nothing should appear too pristine or precious. If you’re worried about getting mud on something, you shouldn’t be wearing it.

This apparent carelessness is, of course, its own form of calculation. My most effortlessly stylish friend Tom spends more time considering his “thrown-together” festival looks than most people spend planning their wedding outfits. But crucially, the end result never betrays the thought process. His festival uniform—slightly faded black jeans, plain white or gray t-shirt, navy overshirt, and battered leather boots—looks completely unremarkable until you realize he hasn’t had to adjust, fidget with, or worry about any element of it through three days of music, mud, and mayhem.

“The goal,” as Tom explains it, “is to look like you got dressed in the dark after sleeping through your alarm, but somehow still look decent. It’s the festival equivalent of bedhead hair—obviously you want it to look good, but it can’t look like you want it to look good.”

This approach extends to maintenance during the festival itself. A certain level of dishevelment is expected by day two. In fact, being too well-turned-out on the final day suggests you’ve brought an excessive amount of clean clothes or, worse, are actually leaving the site to shower and change somewhere civilized. Both are cardinal sins of festival authenticity.

There’s a sweet spot of festival grubbiness—not so pristine that you look like a day-tripper, but not so filthy that you’re a walking health hazard. Think of it as strategic dishevelment: the mud on your boots was earned, not applied pre-festival like my embarrassing 2008 self.

The evolution of British festival fashion has been interesting to observe over the past decade. The late 2000s and early 2010s saw peak “festival as fashion show” energy, with Glastonbury in particular becoming a celebrity style showcase. This trickled down to regular attendees feeling pressure to curate perfect festival looks.

The backlash was inevitable and welcome. There’s been a clear shift back toward authenticity, functionality, and a certain studied casualness. Even celebrities have toned down their festival peacocking, perhaps realizing that looking like you’ve employed a stylist to dress you for standing in a field is inherently ridiculous.

That said, there are still tribal elements to festival dressing that signal your music affiliations. Download Festival looks very different from Wilderness. Creamfields has its own aesthetic distinct from Green Man. But across all of them, the British male approach remains consistent: you should look appropriate for the festival you’re attending while appearing not to have given it too much thought.

Perhaps the best festival style advice I ever received came from a veteran sound engineer I met at End of the Road Festival. After I complimented his perfectly weathered vintage Carhartt jacket, he shrugged and said: “Dress for comfort, pack for catastrophe, and focus on the music. Nobody remembers what you wore, they remember if you were a good laugh or a miserable bastard.”

He’s right, of course. The best-dressed man at any festival isn’t the one in the perfectly curated outfit—it’s the one who’s comfortable, prepared for the elements, and completely present in the experience rather than fretting about how he looks in it.

So as festival season approaches, remember the golden rules of British festival dressing for men: function first, subtle personality second, and visible effort never. Your outfit should be able to handle mud, rain, sunshine, and the inevitable spilled pint without causing you distress. It should include elements of practical weatherproofing without making you look like you’re dressed for an Arctic expedition. And most importantly, it should allow you to focus entirely on enjoying the music and the experience, rather than protecting your precious garments or posing for Instagram.

Oh, and one final tip from a man who learned the hard way: no matter how tempting it might be, never, ever pre-distress your jeans for a festival. The mud will find you on its own terms, I promise.

I was standing outside The Prince Albert in Notting Hill last Friday, waiting for Marcus (chronically late since uni, some things never change), when I spotted them – a group of blokes clearly headed for dinner somewhere with tablecloths and wine lists longer than a pamphlet. The giveaway? The subtle but unmistakable outfit upgrade. Three-quarter zip jumpers instead of hoodies. Actual leather shoes instead of trainers. One brave soul even sporting a blazer that definitely wasn’t part of an old suit. They had that slightly self-conscious air of men who’d made an effort but were trying desperately not to look like they’d made an effort.

Meanwhile, streaming past them into the pub were the Friday night regulars – jeans that had clearly been through the wars, well-worn trainers, those mid-layer jackets from outdoor brands that have somehow become the unofficial uniform of British men between the ages of 25 and 45. No one looking twice at each other’s outfits because frankly, there’s nothing to see here. Just the same comfortable, reliable kit that British men have been wearing to pubs since approximately 2005.

The distinction between pub clothes and restaurant clothes fascinates me. It’s this unwritten code that most British men instinctively understand but would struggle to articulate if you asked them directly. The nuances are subtle but crucial – push too far in either direction and you’re either the overdressed prat at the pub or the underdressed slob at the restaurant.

Let’s start with the pub gear, shall we? The backbone of British masculine casual dress. The unofficial national costume of blokes having a pint.

What are British men actually wearing down the local? First off, jeans. Almost universally. But not just any jeans – that very specific shade of lived-in indigo that suggests they’ve been washed just enough times to be comfortable but not so many that they’ve started to fade dramatically. Slim but not skinny, straight but not baggy. The Goldilocks zone of denim.

Footwear is where the first real distinctions start to emerge. Your classic pub trainer has evolved over the years, but the general principles remain the same – it needs to look decent enough to go out in, but you can’t be precious about it getting a bit sticky from spilled pints or scuffed when someone inevitably stands on your foot in a crowded bar. Your New Balance 574s, your Adidas Gazelles, your Nike Air Max 90s – these are the unsung heroes of British pub culture. Comfortable enough for standing around for hours, casual enough that you don’t look like you’re trying too hard, but still showing you’ve got at least some awareness of what’s current.

Up top, it’s all about the layers. British weather and British pubs both demand flexibility. That middle ground between “freezing outside” and “surprisingly warm once 50 people are crammed in and the heating’s been on for two hours.” T-shirt as a base layer, obviously. Probably plain, possibly with some faded band logo or the name of a place they went on holiday four years ago. Over that, we’ve got a couple of contenders. In winter, it’s the trusty sweatshirt – grey marl if you’re playing it safe, maybe some faded navy or burgundy if you’re feeling adventurous. When it’s slightly warmer, you’ll see a lot of those Oxford shirts I mentioned earlier, worn open over the t-shirt. And the outer layer? The North Face, Patagonia, or the budget-friendly Berghaus. That lightweight, water-resistant jacket that can be tied around the waist when it gets too warm or the rain stops.

Accessories are minimal to non-existent. Maybe a watch that’s either surprisingly expensive (the secret indulgence) or the same Casio he’s had since college. The wedding ring if applicable. That’s pretty much it. British men at the pub are not peacocking with statement pieces. God forbid.

Now, the fascinating bit is watching what happens when these same men dress for a restaurant. Not your local Nando’s or the curry house where they know your order before you sit down – I mean somewhere with a booking, somewhere where you might want to impress your date or not embarrass yourself in front of your partner’s work colleagues.

The shift is subtle but meaningful. It’s like watching a slightly hesitant metamorphosis.

The jeans might stay (though they’ll be the newer, darker pair reserved for “proper going out”), but they’re now joined by the chino contingent. Navy, charcoal, or that specific shade of muted green that somehow British men have collectively decided is acceptable. The fit is slightly more considered – no baggy seats or knees with the life worn out of them.

Shoes are where the most obvious upgrade happens. Those trainers are suddenly replaced by what I affectionately call “the reluctant smart shoe.” Chelsea boots are massive here – they’re the perfect compromise shoe for British men. Smart enough to get you through the door of somewhere with a dress code, but not so formal that you look like you’ve come straight from the office. Desert boots play a similar role, especially in the slightly more relaxed venues. And yes, there’s always that one mate who’s stuck with a pair of square-toed formal shoes from his first job interview in 2008 and brings them out for every restaurant occasion despite your gentle suggestions that perhaps it’s time for an update.

The top half sees the most dramatic transformation. That t-shirt is now either a much nicer plain one (possibly even – gasp – ironed) or it’s been abandoned completely for a button-down shirt. Not a formal business shirt, mind you – that would be trying too hard. No, we’re looking at Oxford cloth mostly, with the occasional chambray or subtle pattern for the more confident dressers. The fit is crucial here – it needs to look intentional rather than borrowed from a slightly larger sibling.

The humble sweatshirt has been upgraded to a proper jumper – possibly even the M&S merino number I wrote about last week. Crew necks dominate, though you’ll spot the occasional quarter-zip among the older crowd. And here’s where you start to see one of two approaches to the outer layer – either the casual blazer (unstructured, definitely not part of a suit) or the elevated jacket (Harrington, waxed cotton, maybe even a bomber if they’re under 40).

What fascinates me most is watching mates who I know for a fact own exactly the same clothes somehow intuitively understand which items to deploy in which setting. Take my friend Dan, who works in IT and owns precisely three jumpers to my 27. He’ll wear the plain navy crew neck to the pub without a second thought, but automatically reaches for the slightly nicer texture-weave one when we’re heading for dinner. Same bloke, same basic item of clothing, but an instinctive understanding of the subtle hierarchy.

The really interesting cases are those tricky middle-ground venues – the gastropub, the slightly nicer chain restaurant, the new place that’s opened that no one’s quite sure how fancy it is. This is where you’ll see the most varied interpretations of the unwritten dress code. Some will err on the side of pub casual, others will tip slightly more formal. There’s usually a moment of visible relief when everyone arrives and realizes they’re in roughly the same ballpark.

I saw this in action last month when our group of six met at a new place in Ancoats – sort of industrial-chic with sharing plates and craft beer but also a wine list with actual vintages and proper napkins. We all turned up in slight variations of the same outfit – dark jeans or chinos, button-down shirts or decent jumpers, Chelsea boots or the slightly smarter end of the trainer spectrum. Pure coincidence? Not at all. Just six British men independently solving the same sartorial equation and arriving at very similar answers.

There are regional variations, of course. London men generally skew slightly smarter across both settings – the result of a working culture that still leans more formal despite the post-pandemic loosening of dress codes. Newcastle lads will brave much colder temperatures without proper outerwear than their southern counterparts would consider sensible. Manchester has that specific indie influence that still lingers from the 90s – more likely to see a vintage Adidas tracksuit top in the pub there than you would in, say, Bath.

Age plays a factor too. The 20-somethings are more likely to push into streetwear for the pub – the Supreme hoodies, the chunky trainers, the cross-body bags that us older blokes secretly don’t understand but won’t admit it. The 50+ crowd often skip the middle ground entirely – either full casual with golf jumpers and comfortable jeans for the pub, or jumping straight to proper shirts and smart trousers for restaurants with very little in between.

The most telling detail, though, is watching what happens when plans change mid-evening. When “quick pint” turns into “actually, should we get dinner?” there’s that moment of outfit assessment – the mental calculation of whether what you’re wearing can make the transition. The relief when the chosen restaurant is casual enough that your pub attire will pass muster. Or the slight awkwardness when you realize you’re underdressed but it’s too late to do anything about it.

I’m not immune to this myself, by the way. Last week I had to do an emergency shirt purchase in Selfridges because post-work drinks suddenly evolved into dinner at a new place with a Michelin star and a velvet rope. My pub-appropriate merino jumper and jeans combo wasn’t going to cut it. Sixty quid later, I was wearing a still-creased Oxford shirt with the security tag cleverly hidden under my watch. We do what we must.

The beauty of these unwritten British men’s style codes is their persistence despite the general relaxing of formal dress requirements across the board. Even as offices have embraced more casual attire and restaurants have dialed back their formality, that subtle distinction between pub clothes and restaurant clothes endures. It’s like sartorial muscle memory – a quiet acknowledgment that different social spaces deserve different levels of effort, even if that effort is carefully disguised as effortlessness.

So next time you’re people-watching on a Friday night, take a moment to notice which direction groups of men are heading based solely on their outfits. I guarantee you’ll be able to spot the difference between the pub crowd and the restaurant reservation crowd with surprising accuracy. It’s a small detail in the grand tapestry of British social life, but one that speaks volumes about how we navigate our social spaces through what we choose to wear.

It started with a dare, if I’m being completely honest. Saturday night, third pint in, Marcus scrolling through his phone showing us all the Acne Studios overshirt he’d just dropped £220 on. “Could get that in a charity shop for a tenner,” I said, more to wind him up than anything else. Vijay snorted into his IPA. “No chance, Wright. Not with your champagne taste.” And there it was – the challenge. Jamie, ever the enabler, immediately made it official: “Do it then. One month, charity shops only. No new purchases.”

I’ve never been one to back down from a style challenge. Regular readers might remember the Summer of Shorts experiment from 2019 (verdict: surprisingly versatile for London life, less so for unexpected client meetings), or the infamous Week of Workwear that resulted in me being mistaken for a particularly well-dressed plumber on the Northern Line. But this was different. This was a whole month of commitment to the unknown, the pre-loved, the previously owned. Some might say the unwanted.

Now, I’m not exactly a stranger to charity shops. I’ve got a couple of decent vintage finds in my wardrobe – a cashmere overcoat that cost less than a round at my local, a surprisingly well-cut 70s blazer that gets more compliments than anything I’ve bought new this decade. But those were lucky strikes, the result of occasional browsing rather than deliberate hunting. This would be different. This would be intentional. This would require strategy.

The rules were simple: any clothing item I needed during February had to come from a charity shop. No exceptions. No supplementing with stuff I already owned was allowed apart from underwear (thank Christ) and socks. Shoes were in, accessories were in, outerwear was in. Everything visible was to be charity shop sourced. I gave myself a budget of £200 for the month – less than half what I’d normally spend on clothes in that time.

Day one found me standing outside Oxfam in Notting Hill at 10:58am, two minutes before opening, feeling like I was queuing for bloody concert tickets. Actually had butterflies, which is ridiculous when you think about it. Inside, the immediate overwhelm hit me – racks and racks of stuff with no organization beyond broad categories and sizes that could generously be described as “approximate.”

First lesson learned within minutes: charity shop shopping requires time. This isn’t nipping into Uniqlo for a replacement white t-shirt. This is archaeology. This is patience. This is being willing to sift through seventeen different versions of the same M&S blue button-down before finding the one Paul Smith gem hiding between them.

I spent three hours that first day and visited five different shops. Ended up with a Reiss navy merino jumper (£12, retail would be around £95), a pair of barely-worn selvedge jeans from a Japanese brand I didn’t recognize but which fit perfectly (£14, God knows what they’d cost new), and an absolutely pristine Charles Tyrwhitt shirt that looked like it had never actually been worn (£8, compared to £80 new). Day one total: £34. Day one savings, assuming I’d have bought similar quality new: approximately £175. Not a bad start.

The real revelation, though, wasn’t the money saved. It was the thought process it forced. When you can’t just pop to the shops for a specific item, you have to get creative. You have to think about what you actually need versus what you just fancy. You have to consider how new pieces will work with what you’ve already found, not what’s already in your wardrobe. It becomes this evolving puzzle that makes you question every impulse purchase you’ve ever made.

By the end of week one, I’d found enough basics to cobble together decent work outfits. The highlights included a gorgeous tweed jacket from some local tailor in Edinburgh that someone had clearly commissioned and then either died or developed a severe hatred for (£22), a pair of Cos wool trousers that needed just a slight hem adjustment (£11), and three decent plain t-shirts from various brands that showed almost no wear (£12 total).

Week two was when I hit the first real challenge – an unexpected dinner at a nice restaurant with Patrick, my old editor. The kind of place where you can’t just show up in whatever. The charity shop gods must have been smiling because I found a Richard James shirt in the Shelter shop in Hampstead that morning (£16, would be about £140 new). Paired it with the tweed jacket and the Cos trousers, and Patrick actually said – unprompted – “nice shirt.” If he only knew.

The most surprising find of the entire month was the shoes. I’d been dreading this part, because who wants to wear shoes someone else’s feet have already occupied? But I struck gold in the British Heart Foundation shop on Marylebone High Street – a pair of Crockett & Jones Oxford brogues, barely worn, just needed a clean and polish (£45, would be £395 new). The old bloke behind the counter told me they’d been donated that morning by a woman clearing out her late husband’s things. “He had good taste,” he said with a wink. “Always nice when they go to someone who’ll appreciate them.” Felt a bit emotional about that, if I’m honest.

By week three, I’d developed a proper system. Early mornings were best for the high-end neighborhoods – Kensington, Chelsea, Hampstead – where the rich people’s cast-offs landed. Mid-week was quieter than weekends. The shops near universities were great for barely-worn casual stuff that students had clearly bought on a whim. The ones in more affluent retirement areas had the best quality classic pieces. I’d become some sort of charity shop anthropologist, mapping the city by its second-hand clothing ecosystem.

Not everything was a success. There was the Paul Smith jacket that looked perfect on the hanger but made me look like I was auditioning for a provincial production of Guys and Dolls when I put it on. The Ralph Lauren shirt that seemed fine in the shop lighting but revealed a very suspicious stain under natural light. The cashmere jumper that turned out to have moth holes in places I hadn’t checked. Lessons learned the hard way.

The real test came in week four when I had to attend a friend’s wedding. Not as a guest – that would have been easy – but as an usher. The horror of potentially showing up in charity shop formal wear and letting down the wedding party was real. Spent an entire day hitting every shop in a ten-mile radius before striking gold in a hospice shop in Highgate – a full Hackett suit, charcoal grey, that fit like it was made for me (£60, would be about £650 new). The label inside suggested it was only about two years old. Paired it with a Thomas Pink shirt (£18) and a Drakes tie that I couldn’t believe someone had given away (£12), and I was good to go. The groom’s brother, who works for some fancy hedge fund and exclusively wears bespoke, asked me where I got my suit. Told him it was vintage. Technically not a lie.

By the end of the month, I’d completely re-outfitted my wardrobe for £187. The rough calculation of what the same items would have cost new came to just over £2,000. Even accounting for my usual sales shopping and mid-range rather than designer purchases, I’d saved at least £500, probably more.

But the financial side wasn’t actually the most interesting outcome. The most unexpected effect was how it changed my relationship with clothes. There’s something different about finding versus buying. When you find something great in a charity shop, it feels like you’ve rescued it somehow. Like you’ve seen the potential in something someone else discarded. It creates this weird emotional connection to the piece that I never get from regular shopping.

It also forced me to be more creative with styling. When you can’t just buy the exact thing you want, you have to work with what you find. This led to some combinations I’d never have tried otherwise – the tweed jacket with more casual jeans instead of expected wool trousers, the formal shoes dressed down with cords, the vintage cricket jumper that I’d never have looked twice at in a regular shop but which became a surprise favorite.

Have I kept it up since the challenge ended? Not exclusively, but I’d say about 60% of my clothes shopping is now second-hand. I’ve developed an actual addiction to the hunt. There’s a genuine thrill to finding something amazing for a fraction of its original price that buying new just can’t replicate. It’s like that feeling when you find a tenner in an old jacket pocket, but better because it’s also smug satisfaction at your own good taste and bargain-hunting skills.

The biggest revelation was quality. The nature of charity shops means you’re looking at clothes from across the decades, not just this season’s rapidly deteriorating fast fashion. You start to really see and feel the difference between clothes made to last and clothes made to fall apart after ten washes. I found a Sunspel t-shirt from what must have been the 90s based on the label, and it was still in better shape than the Uniqlo one I bought last summer.

There were downsides, of course. The time commitment is real. You can’t just decide you need a white shirt on Thursday and reliably find one in your size by Friday. You have to be patient, be willing to visit multiple shops, be ready to walk away empty-handed sometimes. It requires a completely different mindset from the convenience of modern shopping.

Would I recommend it? Absolutely. Maybe not as a complete lifestyle overhaul, but as an experiment to reset your relationship with clothes? One hundred percent. It makes you question every purchase, consider the true value of things, think about the lifecycle of clothing in a way most of us never do. Plus there’s the sustainability angle, which makes you feel slightly less guilty about your fashion habit. And honestly, the conversations that start when someone compliments your outfit and you get to say “Thanks, it cost me eight quid in a charity shop” are priceless.

So yeah, I wore only charity shop clothes for a month and saved over £500. But I also gained a new perspective, a few surprising favorite pieces, and the quiet confidence that comes from knowing exactly how much (or rather, how little) you need to spend to look good. Not bad for a drunken dare, eh?

I was standing at Piccadilly Circus last Tuesday, watching a group of tourists huddled miserably under the screens, absolutely drenched. It had gone from bright sunshine to biblical downpour in the space of about four minutes, catching them in their t-shirts and light jackets. Meanwhile, every Londoner in the vicinity had somehow, as if by magic, produced an additional layer from seemingly nowhere. Waterproof shells appeared from tote bags. Hidden hoods were deployed from collar compartments. Miniature umbrellas emerged from inside pockets. Not a single native caught unprepared.

This, friends, is the art of proper layering – a skill so fundamentally British that I believe it should be added to the citizenship test, right alongside knowing the correct strength of tea and understanding the unspoken rules of queuing. It’s not just about piling on clothes; it’s a complex system, honed through generations of living with weather that can’t make up its mind from one hour to the next.

I learned this skill early, as most British kids do. My first memory of proper layering technique came from my grandfather, a man who’d lived through rationing and consequently never threw anything away. He’d take me fishing on the Lancashire coast, and I’d watch in awe as he’d systematically add and remove layers throughout the day without ever returning to the car. “Always be prepared for four seasons in one day, lad,” he’d say, somehow producing yet another jumper from his seemingly magical waxed Barbour. The old man could have given Mary Poppins lessons in unexpected storage solutions.

The foundations of good layering are deceptively simple but fiendishly hard to master. It starts with understanding that the goal isn’t just warmth – it’s flexibility, adaptability, the capacity to regulate your temperature in a climate that seems personally invested in catching you out. A proper British layer system is effectively a wearable microclimate that you can adjust on the fly.

Let’s break it down, shall we? The base layer is where most people go wrong. The uninitiated reach for cotton, that fair-weather fabric that seems innocent enough until it gets wet (from rain or sweat) and then clings to you like a cold, damp reminder of your poor choices. The British layering master knows better. Merino wool is your friend here – temperature regulating, moisture-wicking, and crucially, not smelly even after a full day of putting it through its paces. I’ve got a collection of merino t-shirts that have seen me through everything from unexpected heatwaves to surprise snow flurries, and they’ve never let me down. Uniqlo does decent affordable ones, though if you’re willing to invest, the Finisterre ones are proper good – designed by Cornish surfers who understand a thing or two about unpredictable weather.

The mid-layer is where the magic happens. This is the temperature regulation zone, the bit you’ll be adjusting most often throughout a typical British day. Light knits are essential here – not your chunky winter jumpers, but those versatile, relatively thin sweaters that provide warmth without bulk. Cardigans, despite their somewhat fusty reputation, are actually layering gold – you can unbutton them as needed, they’ve got pockets for small essentials, and they’re easy to remove entirely without having to take off anything else. The key is finding the right weight – substantial enough to make a difference, light enough to fit comfortably under an outer layer. Cashmere is the dream, of course, but a good lambswool or cotton-merino blend does the job nicely for those of us not blessed with unlimited funds.

I’ve got this navy cardigan from Community Clothing (Patrick Grant’s brilliant made-in-Britain label) that’s been my mid-layer MVP for three years running. It’s the perfect weight, has these horn buttons that give it a bit of character, and the sleeves are cut so they don’t bunch up when I add my outer layer. Cost me £65 and it’s probably the best price-per-wear item I own. I’ve literally kept it in my desk drawer at work for those days when the office heating goes haywire (which is every day, let’s be honest – it’s either Antarctic or Saharan, never anything reasonable in between).

Overshirts and shirt jackets deserve a special mention here. That in-between garment is particularly useful in the transitional seasons, which in Britain is basically eight months of the year. Too substantial to be just a shirt, not quite committed enough to be a proper jacket – they’re perfect for those days when you need something with a bit more structure than a cardigan but full outerwear would be overkill. The Portuguese flannel ones are brilliant, as are the heavier Oxford cloth options from brands like Universal Works or Folk. They function as an outer layer on milder days and a mid-layer when things turn properly chilly.

Then we have the outer layer – your armor against the elements. This is not the place to cut corners. A proper waterproof is non-negotiable in this country, but it needs to be breathable too, or you’ll end up just as wet from the inside as you would have been from the rain. The technical stuff from outdoor brands like Patagonia or Fjällräven is worth the investment – their waterproofing actually lasts through more than one downpour, unlike some of the fashion-first options I’ve regrettably experimented with over the years. There was an incident with a very handsome but utterly useless designer rain jacket that left me looking like I’d gone swimming fully clothed during an important client meeting. Lesson thoroughly learned.

What separates the amateur from the professional in the layering league is attention to the transitions between layers. Each component needs to work in harmony with the others. Necklines need to be considered – a crewneck over a crewneck creates unnecessary bulk, while a v-neck cardigan over a round-neck t-shirt creates a much cleaner line. Sleeve lengths should graduate slightly as you move outward, with each layer just a touch longer than the one beneath it.

The true master considers the practical implications of movement between environments. Will you be going from a cold street to an overheated tube train to a properly air-conditioned office? Each transition requires a strategy. Which layers can be removed quickly? Where will you store them when not needed? I have a mate who refuses to wear anything without considering whether it can be comfortably tied around his waist or stuffed in his bag without creasing. He’s an extreme case, but he hasn’t been caught out by weather in the fifteen years I’ve known him.

Color coordination across layers is another mark of the advanced practitioner. The goal is to look intentional rather than haphazard when you inevitably need to peel off or add on as the day progresses. My own approach leans towards keeping the base and mid-layers in complementary colors or tonal variations, with the outer layer either continuing that theme or providing a considered contrast. Navy, grey, and olive green form the backbone of my layering wardrobe – they play well together in almost any combination, meaning I can focus on functionality without worrying too much about looking like I got dressed in the dark.

British men of a certain age develop an almost supernatural sense for layering requirements. My dad can look out the window for approximately three seconds and somehow calculate precisely how many layers the day will require. It’s like watching a human barometer at work. “You’ll want the gilet over a shirt today, not the heavyweight jumper,” he’ll say, and damn it if he isn’t exactly right every time. When I pointed this out recently, he looked genuinely confused that I thought this was a special skill rather than just basic common sense.

The evolution of layering techniques says a lot about British masculinity and our relationship with practicality. There’s a certain understated pride in being appropriately dressed for multiple weather scenarios, in not being caught out. It’s a quiet competence that values function alongside form. You’ll notice that many British heritage brands – from Barbour to Belstaff, from Sunspel to Private White V.C. – build their entire ethos around this idea of adaptable, practical elegance.

I’ve learned most of my best layering tricks from people watching. That impeccably dressed older gentleman at the train station who somehow never appears to be sweating or shivering. The city workers who transition seamlessly from their morning commute to air-conditioned offices without looking disheveled. My friend Vijay, who once managed to produce no fewer than five distinct layers from what appeared to be a normal-sized messenger bag during a particularly temperamental April day in the Peak District.

The most counterintuitive layering lesson I’ve learned is that sometimes less is more – but only if the quality is there. Three thoughtfully chosen, well-made layers will serve you better than five cheaper ones. There’s a functionality to good design and good materials that can’t be replicated by simply adding more stuff. My grandfather’s old Shetland jumper provides more effective insulation than two poor-quality acrylic ones stacked on top of each other, and it takes up less space to boot.

The pinnacle of the art is achieving what looks like effortlessness – having exactly what you need for the conditions without appearing to have overthought it. It’s that Goldilocks balance of being prepared without looking like you’re dressed for an expedition when you’re just popping to Sainsbury’s. It takes years of practice, numerous drenched afternoons, and several overheated tube journeys to perfect.

There is real satisfaction in nailing it, though. That moment when you’re the only comfortable person in the room because you’ve got exactly the right combination for the conditions. Or when a sudden weather shift leaves others caught out while you simply deploy another layer from your seemingly bottomless bag. It borders on smug, I’ll admit, but it’s a smugness earned through experience and attention to detail.

I’ve encountered international variations on the layering theme, of course. The Scandinavians, with their “there’s no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing” philosophy, take a more technical approach. The Italians layer with an eye primarily to aesthetics rather than functionality, often sacrificing practicality for a silhouette. The Americans tend toward heavier, more substantial individual pieces rather than multiple lighter ones. But there’s something distinctly British about our particular approach – pragmatic but not without style, prepared but not overequipped, traditional but with room for innovation.

So next time you find yourself caught in one of those classic British days where you experience all four seasons before lunch, take a moment to observe the locals. Watch how they navigate the sartorial challenges of our peculiar climate. That slightly battered Barbour might contain multitudes. That simple-looking mac might conceal an entire temperature regulation system. The messenger bag might house an extra jumper, a packable waterproof, and a cap for good measure.

The art of proper layering truly is a distinctly British skill, passed down through generations, refined through experience, and absolutely essential for anyone who plans to spend more than about fifteen minutes outdoors on this temperamental island we call home. Master it, and you’ll never be caught out again – or at the very least, you’ll have the right clothes on when you are.

I’m standing in the staff room of Greenfields Academy in South London, watching Tom – English teacher, department head, and secret style aficionado – prepare for his Year 10 class. He’s wearing navy chinos from Dickies that could handle a paint spill but still look sharp enough for parent-teacher meetings. His oxford shirt isn’t from some high-end retailer but a carefully selected M&S number with a slightly higher thread count than their standard range. The brown suede desert boots have seen better days, but that’s rather the point – they’re comfortable enough for eight hours of standing while maintaining a hint of style that sets him apart from his colleagues in their sensible but uninspired footwear.

“You need clothes that can handle anything the kids throw at you – sometimes literally,” he tells me, rolling up his sleeves with practiced precision. “But I refuse to surrender completely to practicality. There’s a middle ground.”

Over the past month, I’ve been exploring that middle ground across different professions – meeting with teachers, doctors, and tradesmen who manage to maintain personal style while navigating the very real demands of their work environments. The challenge they all share? Finding clothes that function in often physically demanding, sometimes hazardous settings, while still expressing something of themselves. These aren’t the Instagram influencers or the Savile Row regulars – these are the real men balancing professional requirements with the very human desire to look good while doing their jobs.

Teachers, it turns out, might have some of the most complex sartorial challenges of all. They need to project authority while remaining approachable, show personality without being distracting, and survive the high-intensity physical demands of managing classrooms full of energy and chaos. All this while operating in often outdated buildings with heating systems that veer between tropical and arctic in the space of a single corridor.

“Layering is absolutely essential,” Tom explains, pulling a lightweight navy cardigan from the back of his chair as we head to his classroom. “You might be freezing in the staff room, boiling in one classroom because the radiators are stuck on maximum, then in another room where the windows don’t close properly. You need options.”

The stylish teacher’s wardrobe core tends toward natural fabrics that breathe and move – cotton chinos with a touch of stretch, merino or cotton knitwear that regulates temperature, and shirts that can survive being rolled up and down multiple times a day. Many have abandoned ties completely unless school policy strictly demands them, finding that open-collar shirts with a well-chosen knit offer a more comfortable alternative while maintaining professionalism.

Footwear is where most stylish teachers make their biggest investment. “You’re on your feet constantly,” says Daniel, an art teacher I meet at a secondary school in Manchester. He’s sporting a pair of Clarks Desert Treks that have developed a patina telling the story of six years of classroom adventures. “Cheap shoes destroy your back and feet. It’s the one area where I won’t compromise.” Other teacher footwear favorites include the more robust end of the Loake range, selected New Balance models that skew more heritage than sportswear, and for the younger crowd, carefully chosen Vans or Converse that add a hint of relatability with their students.

Color choices often reflect personality while staying within professional boundaries. History teachers seem to embrace earthier, more muted tones – Dan, who teaches at a comprehensive in Bristol, has an impressive collection of olive, rust, and tobacco pieces that wouldn’t look out of place in a 1940s documentary, a subtle nod to his subject matter. Science teachers often opt for darker colors (“the chemical stains are inevitable,” as one chemistry teacher put it), while Tom and his fellow English department colleagues seem to favor navy, burgundy, and forest green – “classic book jacket colors,” he jokes.

Crossing town to the Royal London Hospital, I meet Dr. Asif, a GP who somehow manages to look impeccably put together despite the pressures of an NHS practice. His trick? A uniform of sorts, but one with careful attention to fit and fabric.

“I have essentially five versions of the same outfit,” he admits, laughing. “White shirts with subtle texture differences, navy or grey trousers with the perfect amount of tapering, and good shoes that can be quickly wiped clean. The shirts are Thomas Pink – when they have a sale – because they’re the only ones I’ve found that stay crisp through a twelve-hour shift.”

The medical professionals I spoke with all emphasized the importance of clothes that communicate competence and cleanliness while allowing freedom of movement. White coats have largely disappeared from GP practices in Britain, replaced by clothes that can be washed at high temperatures and don’t harbor bacteria.

“I need to be able to move quickly if a patient collapses,” explains Dr. James, an A&E consultant whose tailored shirt has just enough stretch to allow for sudden physical interventions. “But I also need patients to trust me the moment they see me. Appearance matters in those first critical seconds of connection.”

For doctors, the challenge is finding clothes that hit that sweet spot between formal enough to convey authority and relaxed enough not to intimidate patients. Many have adopted what one cardiologist described as “smart casual with purpose” – well-cut trousers from brands like Spoke or Uniqlo that offer flexibility without looking sloppy, shirts with minimal patterns that won’t distract anxious patients, and shoes that prioritize comfort but still maintain professional lines.

Watches are often the one area where medical professionals allow themselves a touch of personality. Dr. Asif’s Seiko automatic is both practical – with a second hand for taking pulses – and a nod to his personal interest in horology. “It’s probably the only thing patients notice about what I wear, and surprisingly often becomes a conversation starter with the older men,” he tells me. “Anything that helps build rapport is worth its weight in gold.”

The biggest surprise came when I ventured into the world of British tradesmen. Here, where you might expect purely practical clothing to dominate, I found some of the most thoughtful approaches to balancing function with personal expression.

“There’s this stereotype of builders in paint-splattered clothes with their bum crack showing,” says Mike, an electrician whose workwear could best be described as meticulously chosen technical gear with subtle style flourishes. “Most of us take pride in how we present ourselves. We’re in people’s homes, after all.”

Mike’s daily uniform consists of Dickies or Carhartt work trousers – “expensive but they last years and the extra pockets are actually useful, not just for show” – paired with fitted base layers from outdoor brands rather than traditional t-shirts. “They wick away sweat better, and honestly, they look better too. No one wants a sweaty bloke in their kitchen.”

His outerwear choice – a Patagonia gilet over his base layer – might seem surprisingly high-end for someone crawling through attics, but as he explains, “It’s perfect for the job. Keeps my core warm, arms free, doesn’t catch on anything, and packs down small when I don’t need it. Plus it’s lasted four years of daily wear. Cheaper options would have fallen apart in months.”

For many of the tradesmen I spoke with, workwear has come full circle. Brands originally designed for manual labor became fashion statements, then adapted to meet style-conscious consumers’ preferences, and are now being reclaimed by actual working men who appreciate both the functionality and the improved aesthetics.

Pete, a carpenter whose family has been in the trade for three generations, showed me his father’s ancient work jacket alongside his own modern equivalent. “Dad’s gear was purely functional, and it looked it. Now I can get clothes that protect me properly but also look good when I’m meeting clients or grabbing a pint after work without changing.”

Footwear for tradesmen is where the most significant investments go. Rob, a plumber whose pristine Timberland Pro boots look incongruously clean given his profession, explains his approach: “I have van shoes and job shoes. The job ones take a beating, but these stay clean for client meetings. The right footwear prevents injuries, and in our game, an injury means no income. The style aspect is secondary, but it’s still nice they don’t look like something from a construction site from the 70s.”

The common thread across all three professions is the move away from traditional workwear toward more thoughtful, versatile pieces that meet professional requirements while allowing for personal expression. Technical fabrics that were once the domain of outdoor enthusiasts have made their way into everyday work settings. Construction-focused brands have upped their design game. And across the board, there’s a recognition that looking good and feeling good are not separate from doing good work – they’re part of the same package.

The other striking observation is how these men have developed personal uniform systems rather than chasing trends. They’ve found what works in their specific environment and refined it over time, investing in quality pieces that last rather than constantly replacing cheaper options. There’s a lesson in this for all of us, regardless of profession – understanding the actual demands of your life and building a wardrobe that addresses them specifically.

When I asked Tom what advice he’d give to new teachers struggling with what to wear, his answer applied equally well across all the professions I explored: “Buy less, but buy better. Find the pain points in your working day and solve them with your clothing choices. And remember that kids – like patients or clients – notice everything. They might not comment on the fact you look put together, but they absolutely register if you don’t.”

As our morning at Greenfields comes to an end, I watch Tom navigate a crowded corridor between classes. His cardigan’s been abandoned due to the overheated hallway, shirt sleeves efficiently rolled to a precise point above the elbow, desert boots moving quickly between groups of students. Nothing about his appearance screams high fashion, but there’s an intentionality to every element that sets him apart. In the most demanding of environments, he’s found that elusive middle ground between function and style.

And really, isn’t that what we’re all looking for?

I’m staring at my reflection in the changing room mirror of an M&S in Manchester city centre, trying on my seventh pair of jeans of the day. My legs are tired. My patience is fraying faster than the deliberately distressed hems on the pair I’ve just rejected. But I’m a man on a mission – to find out which British high street jeans are actually worth the money and which ones should be left on the rack.

This investigation wasn’t my idea, I should add. It started with Jamie texting me a photo of his crotch. Not as dodgy as it sounds – he was showing me the catastrophic blowout that had occurred in his six-month-old designer jeans during an important client meeting. “£185 down the drain,” he wrote. “Tell me there’s something decent on the high street that won’t bankrupt me or fall apart.”

And so began my denim odyssey. Twelve shops, thirty-four pairs of jeans, and more time spent in changing rooms than any grown man should have to endure. All to answer what should be a simple question: can you get decent jeans on the British high street in 2025? And if so, where?

First, let’s establish what “decent” actually means when it comes to denim. For me, it comes down to four key factors: fabric quality, construction, fit, and longevity. I’m not expecting £50 jeans to match up to Japanese selvedge hand-woven by denim monks, but they should at least hold their shape for more than three wears, maintain color after a few washes, and not fall apart at the seams the first time you crouch down to tie your shoelaces.

Let’s start with the surprise contender that most people walk straight past: good old Marks & Sparks. Their denim game has improved dramatically in recent years, particularly their Selvedge range. The 99% cotton, 1% elastane composition gives you just enough stretch for comfort without sacrificing structure. The indigo pair I’m currently wearing in the changing room has a decent weight to it – around 13oz, which is substantial enough to feel like proper denim but not so heavy it feels like wearing cardboard.

The construction details are where M&S really steps up – chain-stitched hems, reinforced pockets, and bartack stitching at stress points. These are things you normally find in jeans twice the price. At £65, they’re not the cheapest on the high street, but they’re built to last significantly longer than most competitors. The straight fit is particularly good – classic without being boxy, with enough room in the thigh for those of us who don’t skip leg day but not so baggy you look like you’re stuck in the 90s.

My colleague Sasha’s boyfriend James – who’s something of a denim obsessive with a collection that has its own insurance policy – reluctantly admitted that he owns and regularly wears a pair of these. “I wouldn’t tell the denim heads in my forum,” he confessed, “but they’re honestly better made than some £150 pairs I’ve had.”

Next up: Uniqlo. No surprises here for the initiated, but if you’ve been sleeping on their selvedge offerings, you’re missing out. The Japanese retailer brings their homeland’s denim expertise to a £49.90 price point that feels like daylight robbery – on our part, not theirs. Their regular fit selvedge is a straight-cut dream with none of the weird tapering issues you often find in high street denim.

The fabric has that coveted dry hand feel that breaks in beautifully over time, developing personality with each wear. I’ve had a pair for nearly three years that have faded naturally in all the right places – honeycomb patterns behind the knees, wallet outline on the back pocket, the subtle whiskers across the thighs that denim enthusiasts get unreasonably excited about. They’ve survived weekly wears and monthly washes with minimal color loss, which is impressive for jeans at any price point.

The only downside with Uniqlo is the limited range of fits. If you’re looking for something other than their regular or slim options, you’re out of luck. Their slim fit is also genuinely slim – great if you have the legs for it, potentially sausage-casing if you don’t.

The surprise package in my denim investigation was ARKET – H&M’s grown-up, slightly pretentious sibling that actually delivers on its promises. Their Regular Jeans in rigid denim (£77) are the closest thing I found to premium denim at a mid-range price. The 100% cotton construction means zero stretch, which is a blessing or a curse depending on your perspective. They require breaking in like proper raw denim, which means a week or two of slight discomfort before they mold to your body. It’s a small price to pay for jeans that will potentially last years rather than months.

The construction details are impressive – copper rivets, chain-stitched waistband, selvedge outseam, and a cut that somehow manages to be contemporary while avoiding any trendy flourishes that will look dated next season. I particularly appreciate the lack of contrast stitching and unnecessary detailing – these are grown-up jeans that let the fabric and fit do the talking.

Now for the most controversial entry: Zara. I know what the denim purists are thinking – fast fashion doesn’t belong in a conversation about quality. And generally, they’d be right. But Zara’s Premium Denim Collection is a genuine step up from their regular offerings and worthy of consideration if you’re on a tighter budget. At £45.99, their slim fit 100% cotton option offers reasonably good construction with decent weight fabric.

Are they going to last five years of regular wear? Probably not. But the price-to-quality ratio is surprisingly favorable, especially if you’re someone who likes to change styles more frequently. I’d put their expected lifespan at about 18 months of regular rotation before fading or structure issues become noticeable. Not amazing, but not terrible for the price point.

The fit is where Zara excels – their slim cut somehow flatters almost every body type I’ve seen it on. The slight taper from knee to ankle creates a silhouette that works as well with trainers as with boots, making them more versatile than many higher-priced options. Just be prepared for some color transfer in the early days – my white sofa still bears a faint blue reminder of the first time I wore a new pair.

On the disappointment front, let’s talk about Topman (or what remains of it under ASOS). Once the go-to for affordable denim with decent styling, the quality has taken a noticeable dive. The three pairs I tried had inconsistent sizing (I apparently range from a 32 to a 36 inch waist depending on the style, which is biologically impossible), thin fabric that already showed stress lines in the changing room, and construction that felt like it was one enthusiastic stride away from disaster. Save your money.

Similarly underwhelming was River Island, whose jeans looked promising on the hanger but revealed their shortcomings in the fitting room. The fabric felt insubstantial, the stitching was already showing stress points at the seams, and the fit was oddly proportioned – tight in the calf but baggy at the knee, creating a silhouette that flattered precisely no one. At £45, they’re not cheap enough to justify these compromises.

A dark horse worth considering is COS. Their straight-fit jeans (£75) offer a compelling middle ground between fast fashion and premium denim. The fabric has proper heft to it – I’d estimate around 14oz – and the construction details show attention to quality. The fit is more relaxed than most high street options, which makes a refreshing change from the skinny and slim cuts that still dominate despite the wider-leg trend supposedly taking over.

What sets COS apart is the finishing – the hems are properly chain-stitched, the hardware is substantial without being flashy, and the pockets are both practical and properly reinforced. They also offer a wider range of lengths than most, which is a godsend for anyone significantly taller or shorter than average. I’m 6’1″ and perpetually stuck between regular jeans that finish too short and long ones that need hemming, but their 34″ inseam option is spot on.

My most controversial opinion might be about Next. Yes, Next – purveyor of acceptable business casual to the masses and preferred shopping destination of dads nationwide. Their selvedge denim jeans (£45) are legitimately good, particularly the straight fit. The fabric has decent weight and ages well, the construction is solid if unspectacular, and the price point represents excellent value.

I’ll admit I was skeptical. My previous experience with Next denim involved a pair purchased in desperation for a last-minute camping trip in 2017 that developed a mysterious hole in an unspeakable location within 48 hours. But credit where it’s due – their denim offering has improved dramatically. I’d still opt for M&S or Uniqlo given the choice, but if you’re already in Next buying sensible knitwear, their jeans are worth a look.

After my exhaustive (and exhausting) research, I returned to Jamie with my findings. He was skeptical, particularly about M&S – “But that’s where my dad shops” – but agreed to try a pair. Three weeks later, I received another crotch shot, this time with a thumbs up in frame. “Converted,” read the caption. “Bought two more pairs and still spent less than on the designer ones.” Mission accomplished.

The truth about high street denim in 2025 is that there are genuine gems hidden among the polyester-heavy, paper-thin offerings that dominate the market. The sweet spot seems to be between £50-80, where corners aren’t being cut quite so aggressively and some actual thought has gone into construction and fabric sourcing.

My final hierarchy, if you’re looking for the TL;DR version: M&S Selvedge and Uniqlo Selvedge tie for first place as the best value-to-quality ratio. ARKET comes in a close second, offering the most “premium” experience at a still-reasonable price. COS takes third place for those seeking a more relaxed fit and willing to spend a bit more. Next and Zara round out the “worth considering” category, with everything else falling into the “approach with caution” territory.

The real revelation, though, is that the landscape has changed. Five years ago, this article would have been a series of warnings rather than recommendations. The gulf between high street and premium denim has narrowed significantly as retailers have recognized that men are increasingly knowledgeable about what constitutes quality and willing to spend a bit more for something that lasts.

Are any of these jeans going to develop the character and longevity of a pair of Iron Hearts or Blackhorses? Of course not. But they’re not trying to be. What they offer is a solid middle ground – jeans that won’t fall apart after three washes, that hold their shape reasonably well, and that won’t require you to eat instant noodles for a month to justify the purchase.

And in a world where clothing prices are rising faster than wages, finding that middle ground feels increasingly important. So next time your jeans give up the ghost in an important meeting (or anywhere else, for that matter), you’ll know where to go. Just prepare yourself for more time in changing rooms than any sane person would willingly endure. My legs may never forgive me.