Tag: updated

I’ve got this mate, Charlie, who once turned up to a casual pub lunch in Chorlton wearing full-on shooting attire—tweed cap, tattersall shirt, plus-fours, and those weird sock garters that look like they’re strangling your calves. We weren’t going shooting. We weren’t even in the countryside. We were at a craft beer place where the bartenders all had those massive beards and tattoos of wheat on their forearms. The looks he got were… well, let’s just say the hipster crowd thought he was either deeply ironic or deeply lost. Turns out, he’d been to his cousin’s estate the day before for some posh birthday do and had genuinely convinced himself this was now “his look.” Poor sod spent three hours defending his outfit choices while sweating profusely because, Christ, have you ever worn tweed in August? It’s like wrapping yourself in carpet samples during a sauna session.

Country style is a minefield for the modern British bloke. Get it wrong, and you look like you’ve escaped from a Jilly Cooper novel or are about to announce the boxing day hunt. Get it right, though, and you’ve mastered one of the most enduring and practical style traditions this damp little island has ever produced. There’s a reason country clothing has stuck around—it actually works for our weather and lifestyle. You just need to ease off the aristocratic cosplay elements.

I grew up in a terraced house in Manchester, not a sprawling estate in the Cotswolds, so my first experiments with country style were… interesting. At uni, I went through a phase of wearing a waxed Barbour jacket with literally everything, including to nightclubs, where I’d end up a sweaty mess with what was essentially a sauna created by non-breathable waxed cotton. The security guards eventually knew me as “Barbour lad” and would just shake their heads as I approached, dripping with sweat before I’d even got inside. Not my finest hour.

The trouble with British country style is that it comes loaded with class associations that are hard to shake. Wear the full kit and you might as well be carrying a sign that says “I have opinions about inheritance tax” or “My family has owned the same bit of Hampshire since 1765.” But cherry-pick the practical, well-designed elements, and suddenly you’ve got pieces that work brilliantly for actual life in Britain—rainy, changeable, and requiring versatile clothes that don’t fall apart at the first sign of drizzle.

Take the waxed jacket, for example. Yes, there’s the classic Barbour, which has had a weird journey from aristocratic essential to hip-hop fashion statement and back again. But there are less obvious options. Private White V.C. in Manchester makes a brilliant waxed cotton ventile bomber that has all the weather resistance without screaming “I’m off to the estate.” Pair it with normal jeans and trainers rather than moleskin trousers and brogues, and suddenly you’re not cosplaying as Charles from the upper sixth who’s taking a gap yah.

I’ve found that the secret is to limit yourself to one country-inspired piece per outfit. The waxed jacket works with jeans and a plain sweatshirt. A Fair Isle knit can look brilliant with workwear chinos and boots rather than plus-fours and brogues. Even a tattersall shirt can be rescued from Young Farmers’ Association territory by wearing it open over a t-shirt with relaxed trousers.

The other week I was in this little pub in the Peak District after a walk (fine, it was a gentle stroll, but I’d worked up a thirst, alright?), and there was this bloke at the bar in a Barbour, moleskins, a checked shirt, and those green Hunter wellies. He looked like he was about to ask if anyone had seen which way the fox went. Next to him was another guy in jeans, a simple navy sweatshirt, and just a tweed flat cap. Same country inspiration, completely different effect. The second bloke looked like he’d thought about his outfit, not inherited it.

I’ve learned this the hard way, mind. About five years ago, I was invited to a launch for a new British heritage brand at Liberty. In my infinite wisdom, I decided this was the time to go “full country”—tweed blazer with leather elbow patches, checked shirt, corduroys, brogues, the works. I topped it off with a flat cap that I was convinced gave me a rakish, rural-but-make-it-fashion vibe. I caught sight of myself in the mirror at Liberty and realized with horror that I looked like I should be stood behind David Cameron with a shotgun. The PR girl who’d invited me actually asked, with complete sincerity, if I’d come straight from “the country.” I live in Ancoats. The most rural thing in my life is the basil plant dying on my windowsill.

There’s a strange thing happening with country style at the moment, where it’s simultaneously seen as deeply conservative and oddly progressive, particularly when it comes to environmental concerns. All those brands that have dressed the landed gentry for generations are now talking about sustainability, repair services, and buying fewer, better things—essentially the slow fashion mantra that’s usually associated with much more progressive fashion movements. It’s a weird convergence that means you can wear a Barbour jacket and be making a statement about sustainable consumption rather than just signaling membership in the green welly brigade.

Materials are where the magic happens in country style. British wool is brilliant—warm, water-resistant, and breathable. You don’t need to go full tweed (unless you want to—no judgment here, just prepare for some assumptions about your voting habits). A simple Shetland jumper from brands like Jamieson’s of Shetland gives you all the benefits without the baggage. I’ve got one in this burnt orange color that works with jeans and trainers but has that country texture and warmth.

Footwear is the other big one. Country shoes are built to last—proper welted construction, thick soles, quality leather. But you don’t need proper brogues to get the benefit. Brands like Tricker’s and Cheaney make boots that have the quality and weather-resistance of country footwear but with cleaner, more contemporary designs. I’ve had the same pair of Tricker’s Stow boots for about eight years now. They’ve been resoled twice and look better now than when I bought them. They work with jeans, chinos, even certain suits if you’re feeling a bit Italian about things.

If you’re really committed, you can go deep on the accessories, but again—one at a time, for the love of God. A waxed canvas messenger bag or backpack gives you the practicality without looking like you’ve got dead pheasants in your pockets. A simple wool scarf from somewhere like Johnstons of Elgin provides proper warmth without making you look like you’re about to commentate on horse trials.

There’s a brilliant secondhand shop in Manchester that specializes in country clothing, and I’m constantly amazed by the quality of vintage pieces they get in. Old Barbour jackets that have been worn in perfectly, Harris tweed blazers for thirty quid, proper moleskin trousers that would cost a fortune new. If you’re curious about country style but don’t want to commit financially (or socially), the vintage route is worth exploring. You get the build quality without the “just purchased my identity” vibe.

So here’s my hard-won advice for incorporating country style without looking like you’ve wandered off a grouse moor: one country piece per outfit, mix with contemporary basics, avoid the full costume, and focus on quality materials and construction. Think of it as cherry-picking the good bits of an aristocratic tradition without having to adopt the politics or lifestyle. Because despite all the class baggage, British country clothing was fundamentally designed for life in Britain—wet, windy, changeable Britain—and that’s something we can all relate to, whether we live in a castle or a flat above a Tesco Express.

Oh, and a final note—if anyone compliments an item of country clothing you’re wearing by asking if it’s “from the family estate,” the only acceptable answer is a slightly embarrassed laugh and “God no, I found it on eBay.” Trust me on this one. I’ve made that mistake so you don’t have to.

There’s a special kind of desperation that grips Britain when the temperature hits 21 degrees. It happened last Tuesday, actually—I was walking through Manchester and witnessed the full spectrum of summer clothing panic. Blokes in those cargo shorts that haven’t seen daylight since the 2018 heatwave, with legs so pale they were practically luminous. Women in sundresses shivering stubbornly outside bars. The one guy who’s always massively overdressed for the weather, sweating profusely in a full suit but refusing to remove his jacket because his shirt is probably soaked through. And of course, the classic British summer outfit—flip flops, shorts, and a hoodie, because no one trusts the weather enough to commit to a full summer look.

I get it, I really do. British summer is less a season and more a brief, tantalizing glimpse of what other countries consider normal weather. It’s the meteorological equivalent of a celebrity sighting—”Did you feel how warm it was yesterday? No? You missed it? Oh mate, it was glorious for about 45 minutes around lunchtime.” Our summers are like trying to have a meaningful relationship with someone who keeps ghosting you—just when you think it’s going well, suddenly it’s 14 degrees and raining sideways in July.

My own summer wardrobe has evolved through bitter experience. There was the phase in my early twenties when I simply refused to acknowledge the reality of British weather, dressing as if I lived in the Mediterranean—linen shirts unbuttoned to dangerous levels, the lightest possible trousers, espadrilles with no socks. I’d leave the house in full Talented Mr. Ripley attire only to return looking like I’d been caught in a car wash, the linen shirt clinging to my body like a second skin, the espadrilles squelching with each step.

Then there was the overcorrection period—being so traumatized by the “summer of the unexpected deluge” (2016, never forget) that I basically dressed for autumn year-round. Sure, I was prepared for the inevitable weather collapse, but I also spent those precious few genuinely hot days looking like a man experiencing a personal climate crisis, sweating through layers that could have seen me through a Highland winter.

Now I’ve reached what I’d like to think is summer dressing enlightenment. It’s all about strategic layering, fabrics that perform in multiple conditions, and having a few key pieces that can be deployed the moment the sun decides to make an appearance. Also, keeping an emergency mac in the office, car, and possibly surgically attached to my person at all times.

The foundation of any sensible British summer wardrobe has to be the overshirt. Not quite a jacket, not just a shirt, it’s the perfect middle ground for our “is it summer or is it just slightly less cold spring” weather patterns. I’ve got this beautiful navy linen-cotton blend one from Universal Works that’s seen me through three summers now. When the sun’s out, it works open over a t-shirt; when the clouds roll in, button it up and suddenly you’ve got an extra layer without looking like you’ve misread the season entirely.

Trousers are the real battleground though, aren’t they? Shorts represent a level of commitment to summer that feels almost reckless in Britain. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve boldly gone bare-legged only to find myself in a beer garden during an unexpected downpour, my legs turning a shade of blue that would make a Smurf concerned. The answer, I’ve found, is lightweight chinos or drawstring trousers in fabrics that dry quickly. Albam do these brilliant garment-dyed twill trousers that work rolled up when it’s warm but don’t look ridiculous rolled down if the temperature suddenly plummets twenty degrees, which, let’s be honest, it absolutely might.

Footwear is perhaps the biggest challenge. Summer shoes need to work with both shorts and trousers, handle unexpected rain, and ideally not create that horrific sweaty foot situation that can occur when the temperature rises above “mild.” I’ve become evangelical about Paraboot’s Michael shoes—they’re chunky enough to not look ridiculous in the rain but work with shorts, and the rubber sole means you’re not precious about them getting wet. Yes, they’re expensive, but I’ve had mine resoled twice and they’re still going strong eight years later. Cost-per-wear, they’re practically giving them away.

The truly British approach to summer, of course, is to basically have two complete outfits with you at all times. I’ve gotten used to carrying a tote with a lightweight knit, a packable rain jacket, and sometimes even a change of footwear if I’m feeling particularly neurotic about the forecast. My girlfriend finds this hilarious—she’s from Melbourne, where they apparently can experience all four seasons in a day, so she thinks she’s prepared for British weather. She’s not. No one is. British summer demands a level of preparedness that would impress a survivalist.

The real art is in finding clothes that don’t obviously look like you’re hedging your bets against meteorological disaster. No one wants to be obviously carrying half their wardrobe “just in case.” The perfect British summer piece appears lightweight and seasonal but secretly performs like technical gear. Uniqlo’s knitwear is brilliant for this—their fine merino sweaters look like a light summer layer but actually provide shocking amounts of warmth when that beer garden suddenly becomes wind tunnel at 8pm.

I’ve also developed a possibly unhealthy obsession with clothes that adapt. Trousers that can be rolled convincingly, shirts with sleeves that work both rolled and down, jackets that pack into themselves. My wardrobe looks like it’s preparing for some kind of style emergency at all times, which, given our weather, it absolutely is.

Color is another consideration. British summer calls for optimism tempered with realism. Those brilliant whites and pale blues look fantastic on the three genuinely sunny days but spend the rest of the summer season showing every raindrop and coffee splash. I’ve found that slightly muted versions of summer colors—sage rather than mint green, burnt orange rather than bright, navy rather than royal blue—give the summer vibe without highlighting every meteorological insult the British climate throws at you.

There was a week in July last year—a genuine, actual week of proper summer weather—when I threw caution to the wind and fully committed to summer dressing. Linen shirts, tailored shorts, proper summer footwear, the works. It felt revolutionary. I strode around Manchester like I was in Nice, aperitivo in hand, wondering why we all didn’t dress like this all the time. Then on day eight, the temperature dropped fifteen degrees overnight, and I found myself shivering at a work meeting, dressed for a climate that had apparently moved to Spain overnight. The woman opposite me was in a sensible light wool blazer and looked both comfortable and vaguely disapproving of my optimism. “Did you not check the forecast?” she asked, in the tone of someone who never leaves the house without consulting at least three weather apps.

Which brings me to the most important aspect of British summer dressing—the psychology of it. We want so desperately to enjoy the summer, to embrace those brief moments of warmth and sunshine, that we’re willing to suffer for it. I’ve sat outside pubs in what can only be described as light drizzle, insisting “It’s lovely out here!” through chattering teeth, because dammit, it’s summer and we’re going to enjoy it even if it kills us. British summer dressing isn’t just about managing the physical realities of our climate; it’s about maintaining the illusion that we have a proper summer at all.

So here’s my hard-won advice for dressing for the mythical British summer: Layers that don’t look like layers. Clothes that dry quickly. Colors that don’t show rain marks. Always, always have a backup plan within reach. And perhaps most importantly, develop the particular British skill of being able to quickly adapt both your outfit and your expectations at a moment’s notice.

Oh, and socks. Always carry spare socks. Trust me on this one. There’s nothing worse than spending the day with wet feet because you optimistically wore loafers without socks and got caught in one of those sudden summer downpours that seem designed specifically to remind us that we live on a damp island in the North Atlantic, not the Côte d’Azur, no matter what that one glorious Tuesday in June might have briefly suggested.

I once spent an excruciating evening at a friend’s wedding watching a bloke in an expensive suit fidget miserably throughout the entire reception. The suit was clearly top-drawer—lovely cloth, decent make—but the poor sod couldn’t raise his arms above chest height without the jacket collaring him like an angry bouncer. Every time he tried to have a dance, his trousers rode up to reveal socks that didn’t quite match either his trousers or each other. When I eventually got chatting to him at the bar (where he looked visibly relieved to have an excuse to stop attempting to dance), he told me he’d spent “a bloody fortune” on the suit the week before. “Feels like I’m wearing a straitjacket,” he confessed, tugging uncomfortably at his collar. “But the guy in the shop said this is how a proper suit should fit.”

And there, in a nutshell, is what I’ve observed over fifteen years writing about menswear: British men have a complex, often tortured relationship with tailoring. We want to look good in suits, but we’re often guided by outdated rules, misguided shop assistants, or the panic-inducing prospect of a formal event that sends us reaching for whatever’s available in our size two days before the big occasion.

It’s not that British blokes can’t do tailoring—we invented the bloody stuff, after all. But somewhere along the way, we’ve lost the plot a bit. The tailoring mistakes I see aren’t just about budget (though that’s certainly a factor); they’re about fundamental misunderstandings of what tailoring should actually do for you. So let me save you from the most common disasters I’ve witnessed, including plenty I’ve committed myself.

First up is the cardinal sin: incorrect sizing. I can’t tell you how many men I see swimming in jackets that could double as small tents, or squeezed into trousers that suggest they’re being slowly bisected. Years ago, at my first magazine job, I turned up in what I thought was a properly professional suit. My editor took one look and said, “Did you mug a much larger journalist for that?” The jacket shoulders extended a good inch beyond my actual shoulders, making me look like I was wearing shoulder pads. I’d bought it because the shop assistant had assured me this was how a “power suit” should fit. Complete bollocks, obviously, but I didn’t know any better.

The right size is about proportion, not numbers on a label. Your jacket shoulders should end where your shoulders end—not halfway down your bicep, not cutting into your actual shoulder. The sleeve should show about half an inch of shirt cuff when your arm is straight. Trousers should sit at your natural waist (which for many men is higher than where they usually wear their jeans) and break just slightly on your shoe. Get these fundamentals right, and you’re already ahead of 90% of British men in tailoring.

Next up: the budget misconception. There’s this persistent myth that good tailoring has to cost the earth. Absolute rubbish. I’ve seen £3,000 suits that fit like cheap fancy dress costumes and £300 suits that look magnificent because they’ve been adjusted properly. My colleague Jamie turned up to our Christmas party two years ago in a Marks & Spencer suit that he’d had tailored to fit him correctly, and he looked sharper than guys wearing designer labels. The secret? He’d spent £30 having the trousers and jacket adjusted by a local alterations place.

This is the hidden truth of menswear that not enough British blokes understand: alterations are everything. Almost no suit will fit you perfectly off the rack, regardless of price. Budget for alterations—taking in a waist, adjusting sleeve length, tapering trousers—and suddenly that reasonably priced high street suit can look semi-bespoke. It’s like the difference between buying a house and making it a home; the purchase is just the beginning.

The fabric fixation is another pitfall. I’ve watched countless men bypass perfectly good suits in sensible, versatile fabrics because they’re chasing some notion of what a “luxury” suit should feel like. They end up with super-fine wools that wrinkle if you look at them funny, or flashy linings that nobody but their dry cleaner will ever see. It’s style over substance, and it usually ends in an unwearable wardrobe disaster.

For your first few suits, stick to the classics: a mid-weight wool in navy or charcoal will serve you infinitely better than something more exotic. My most-worn suit is a plain navy number in a fairly robust cloth that I’ve had for nearly seven years. It’s been to weddings, funerals, job interviews, and fancy restaurants. It’s not the most exciting item in my wardrobe, but it might be the most valuable in terms of cost-per-wear.

Then there’s the curse of the mismatched formality, something British men seem particularly prone to. Dark suit with casual tan brogues. Formal shoes with casual suits. The classic shirt that’s slightly too casual for the formal suit, or vice versa. It all speaks to a fundamental confusion about how tailoring is supposed to work as a system. I’ve been there myself—the photo evidence from my cousin’s wedding in 2011 shows me in a decent suit completely undermined by shoes that look like they were borrowed from a provincial estate agent. Not my finest hour.

The formality scale isn’t some mysterious code—it’s fairly straightforward once you understand the basics. Darker colors and smoother fabrics are more formal. Lighter colors and more textured fabrics are less formal. Your shoes, shirt, and accessories should broadly align with the formality of your suit. A charcoal worsted wool suit calls for a proper formal shirt and dark oxford shoes. A light grey textured suit can work with a more casual shirt and brown brogues. Simple, right? Yet I see men getting this wrong every day.

Button stance is another subtle but critical error zone. British men seem determined to either button every button on their jacket (wrong) or leave them all undone (also wrong). The basic rule is simple: on a two-button jacket, fasten only the top button. On a three-button, either just the middle or the middle and top, never the bottom. The sometimes-always-never rule (from top to bottom button) is there for a reason—jackets are cut to look best this way. I once watched in horror as a friend went for a job interview with all three buttons of his suit fastened, looking like he’d been vacuum-packed into his jacket. He didn’t get the job. Correlation isn’t causation, but still.

The shirt and tie relationship deserves its own therapy session. The number of men I see with ties that are either comically wide or impossibly skinny for their shirt collar and lapel width is staggering. It’s about proportion, lads. Your tie width should broadly match your lapel width, and both should be in proportion to your build and shirt collar. A skinny bloke in a slim-cut suit with narrow lapels will look daft with a wide tie, just as a broader man looks off-balance in a skinny tie. It’s not rocket science, but it matters enormously to the overall effect.

I had a painful lesson in this myself about eight years ago. I’d invested in what I thought was a very modern, fashion-forward suit with quite narrow lapels. Then I wore it with one of my dad’s vintage ties from the 1970s, which was about as wide as a small motorway. Looking back at the photos, I resembled a child playing dress-up in clothes scavenged from different decades. Learn from my mistakes, please.

Perhaps the most insidious myth is that tailoring has to be uncomfortable. That wedding guest I mentioned at the start had clearly been sold on the idea that if it doesn’t feel like mild torture, it’s not a proper suit. Nonsense. Well-fitted tailoring should feel comfortable. You should be able to raise your arms, sit down, eat a meal, even dance if the unfortunate need arises. If you can’t, something’s wrong with the fit, not with you.

This discomfort fallacy has pushed countless British men away from tailoring altogether. “I hate suits,” they declare, when what they really mean is “I hate uncomfortable, poorly fitted suits that make me feel like I’m being slowly suffocated while simultaneously restricting blood flow to my lower extremities.” Fair enough, mate. I’d hate those too.

So how do we fix all this? Education, basically. Understanding that tailoring is ultimately about making you look good and feel comfortable, not about adhering to arcane rules or spending three months’ salary. Here’s my practical advice, refined through years of personal disasters and professional observation:

Find a good alterations tailor. Not Savile Row, just someone competent with a needle and thread who can adjust off-the-peg suits to fit you properly. They’re worth their weight in gold.

Buy the best you can reasonably afford, but prioritize fit over brand or fabric fineness. A £300 suit that fits beautifully will always look better than a £3,000 suit that doesn’t.

Understand your body shape and what works for it. Not all cuts suit all builds. I’ve made peace with the fact that very slim-cut Italian suits make me look like a sausage that’s about to burst its casing.

Focus on versatility for your first few suits. Navy or charcoal in a year-round weight will serve you far better than something more fashion-forward that you’ll hate in six months.

Don’t panic-buy for events. That’s how you end up with the wrong size, wrong style, or wrong everything. Plan ahead, even if just by a few weeks.

Learn basic maintenance. Proper hanging, brushing, occasional pressing, and not dry cleaning too often will extend the life of your tailoring enormously.

The final, crucial piece of advice: wear the bloody thing. Tailoring that sits in wardrobes unworn is the saddest sight in menswear. The more you wear good tailoring, the more comfortable you become in it, both physically and psychologically. It stops feeling like costume and starts feeling like clothes.

I was in a pub in Soho last month and spotted a bloke about my age wearing a nicely fitted suit with a casual shirt, no tie. Nothing flashy, but he looked sharp, comfortable, and appropriate. When he caught me looking, he grinned and said, “Job interview earlier. Decided to keep the suit on for drinks—paid enough for the bloody thing, might as well get some use out of it.” That, right there, is the healthy British relationship with tailoring I want to see more of. Practical, unpretentious, but still making the effort.

Because that’s what good tailoring should be—effort that doesn’t look like effort. Not suffering, not showing off, not anxiety-inducing, but simply the easiest way to look put-together that mankind has yet devised. We invented the suit, lads. The least we can do is wear it properly.

I still have nightmarish flashbacks to a particular day five years ago when I stepped out of a menswear launch event in Soho wearing a pair of pristine white canvas trainers I’d been saving for the occasion. It was July, for Christ’s sake, so naturally within three minutes the heavens opened in that uniquely British way—not gentle drizzle, but a vindictive deluge seemingly aimed directly at my feet. By the time I’d dashed the fifty yards to Oxford Circus station, my beautiful new trainers had transformed into soggy, grey dish cloths. The PR who’d invited me actually winced when she glanced down. “Oh Alex,” she said with what sounded worryingly like pity, “you’ve not been in London long, have you?” The shoes never recovered. I attended their funeral in the bin outside my flat that evening.

The British climate presents a specific fashion challenge that our friends in Milan or Paris just don’t face with the same relentless consistency: how to keep your feet dry without looking like you’re about to tackle the Pennine Way. It’s a conundrum I’ve spent years trying to solve through bitter, damp experience. Because let’s be honest—proper hiking boots have their place (namely, on actual hikes), but they’re a tough sell with anything other than the most casual outfits. And the traditional alternative—those city-smart leather-soled shoes—turn treacherously slippery at the first hint of rain, transforming your commute into an impromptu ice skating routine.

This is where the rain-ready trainer comes in—that blessed hybrid that looks like normal, socially acceptable footwear but performs like something you could ford a stream in. Finding this holy grail isn’t easy, but after years of soggy-footed research, I’ve cracked the code.

The absolute game-changer for me was discovering that certain trainer brands have been quietly developing weatherproof versions of their classic styles. Imagine my joy when I found out that Nike had created Gore-Tex versions of the Air Force 1—the same silhouette I’d been wearing since uni, but suddenly equipped to handle Manchester’s microclimate. The first time I wore them through a downpour and emerged with dry socks felt like actual sorcery. They don’t look substantially different from the regular version, save for a discreet “Gore-Tex” tab and slightly different materials, but the difference in performance is night and day. I wore them to a winter wedding in the Lake District last year (with a suit, don’t judge me) and while others were squelching miserably between the church and reception venue, I remained smugly dry.

Adidas has been in on this magic too, with Gore-Tex versions of several classic silhouettes. Their Stan Smith Gore-Tex maintains all the clean, minimalist appeal of the original but with the crucial ability to repel water. I have a black pair that have become my default “it’s raining but I still have a meeting with someone whose opinion of me matters” shoe. They’ve developed a slightly worn patina now that actually makes them look better—like a leather jacket that’s been properly broken in.

It’s not just the big sportswear giants who’ve cottoned on to the British need for precipitation-proof trainers. Veja—that sustainable brand beloved by the eco-conscious fashion crowd—does a fantastic winter version of their popular V-10 model with a water-resistant coating and more substantial sole. They’re not fully waterproof in the “stand in a puddle for an hour” sense, but they’ll see you through a typical British downpour without complaint. I wore mine throughout last winter with everything from jeans to more formal trousers, and they maintained that sweet spot of looking considered without appearing try-hard.

For those willing to venture slightly further from the mainstream, the Scandinavians (who know a thing or two about inclement weather) offer some brilliant options. Norwegian brand Tretorn makes canvas sneakers with their EcoOrtholite waterproof system that somehow still look like the kind of understated trainers a Parisian might wear with jeans and an unstructured blazer. My friend Marcus has a white pair that he’s worn almost daily through two British winters, and they still look crisp enough to wear to the kind of restaurant where the staff judge your footwear.

The most surprising find in my quest for rain-ready trainers came from an unexpected source—Clarks. Yes, that Clarks, purveyor of sensible school shoes and desert boots. They’ve quietly been producing some genuinely great Gore-Tex trainers in their Clarks Originals line that look like the kind of thing you’d see in a cool East London vintage store rather than on the high street. I picked up a pair in a navy nubuck that at first glance could pass for a classic tennis shoe, but with a subtle ruggedness that’s proved invaluable during Britain’s eight-month-long rainy season (also known as “the year”).

Italian brand Diemme deserves a special mention for creating genuinely waterproof trainers that still maintain that distinctly European sense of style. Their Veneto Low model looks like a premium fashion trainer but performs like serious outdoor gear. The catch? They cost about the same as a weekend break to somewhere with better weather. I’ve had my pair for three years now, and they’ve stood up to everything from summer festival downpours to that weird sleety rain that seems designed specifically to ruin your day. Cost-per-wear, they’ve actually worked out cheaper than replacing destroyed standard trainers every season.

The technology behind these weather-resistant wonders has come on leaps and bounds. It’s not just about slapping a waterproof coating on the outside (though that’s part of it). The best ones use membranes like Gore-Tex that allow your feet to breathe while keeping water out—essential for avoiding that clammy, miniature-sauna feeling that older waterproof footwear was infamous for. Some brands are using innovative treatments on regular materials that cause water to bead and roll off rather than soak in, meaning they can maintain the look and feel of normal trainers.

There are some clever hybrid options emerging too. Several brands now make trainers with knitted uppers that have been treated to repel water—giving you the comfort and look of a modern knit trainer with practical weather resistance. They’re not fully waterproof in the “puddle-proof” sense, but they’ll handle rain and keep your feet significantly drier than untreated versions. New Balance has some particularly good examples that maintain the dad-shoe cool they’re known for while adding practical weather protection.

A word of warning, though—not all “water-resistant” claims are created equal. I learned this the hard way with a pair that proudly proclaimed their wet-weather credentials on the box but surrendered to a light drizzle faster than England exits an international tournament. Look for specific technology names (Gore-Tex being the gold standard, but there are other good systems like OutDry and eVent), and ideally sealed seams rather than just treated uppers. The difference between “water-resistant” and “waterproof” is roughly equivalent to the difference between “shower-proof” and “will survive Glastonbury”—significant, in other words.

Maintenance is crucial too. Even the most technically advanced rain-ready trainers need some care to maintain their superpowers. Most benefit from occasional reapplication of water-repellent spray, and salt stains from winter streets need addressing before they compromise the materials. I keep a spray bottle of Jason Markk repellent by my front door and give vulnerable pairs a quick spritz if the forecast looks threatening. It’s become such a habit that my girlfriend now rolls her eyes when the weather app comes out alongside the trainer spray.

The styling of these practical marvels requires some consideration. The more technical-looking options work brilliantly with casual gear but can create a jarring contrast with tailoring. The sleeker, more minimal designs—like the weatherproof Stan Smiths or certain New Balance models—have more versatility across your wardrobe. I’ve found that darker colors generally work better for properly wet weather; not just because they show dirt less, but because the water-repellent technologies can sometimes give materials a slightly different finish that’s more noticeable on lighter shades.

Perhaps the greatest achievement of the modern rain-ready trainer is that it doesn’t scream “I’ve dressed for bad weather.” There’s none of that glaringly obvious, function-over-form aesthetic that characterized older waterproof footwear. You no longer have to choose between dry feet and style credibility—a particularly British dilemma that has plagued us since trainers became acceptable everyday footwear.

I was at a fashion week event in London last season, watching attendees arrive during a particularly vengeful September downpour. Among the fashion crowd desperately tip-toeing around puddles in inappropriate footwear, I spotted a well-known stylist confidently striding through the rain in what looked like regular vintage Nikes but were actually a Gore-Tex collaboration released the previous winter. He caught me eyeing his permanently dry feet and gave a knowing nod that spoke volumes: “Yes, I’ve solved the equation. My feet are dry, my style credentials intact.”

That’s the dream, isn’t it? To navigate our perpetually damp islands without sacrificing either comfort or style. To arrive at your destination looking intentional rather than bedraggled. To experience the unique smugness that comes from having appropriate footwear while everyone else is creating small puddles under the pub table. These rain-ready trainers that don’t scream “hiking gear” are perhaps the perfect British fashion solution—practical without being practical-looking, stylish without being stupid, and absolutely essential for anyone who’s ever experienced the unique misery of wet socks at 9am with a full day still ahead. Trust me on this one. Your feet will thank you.

I’ve long maintained that autumn is when British men come into their own, stylistically speaking. After the confusion of summer (Is it hot enough for shorts? Will I be the only idiot in sandals? Is this the day the temperature randomly drops fifteen degrees?), there’s something comforting about the reliable chill that settles over the country come September. Suddenly, we’re back in our sartorial comfort zone—a place of layers, textures, and clothes designed for a climate that hovers perpetually between “bit nippy” and “probably should have brought a scarf.”

The evidence for autumn being our aesthetic sweet spot is everywhere. Our traditional fabrics—tweed, waxed cotton, heavy wool—were literally designed for this weather. Our color palette—forest greens, burgundies, mustards, and navy blues—mirrors the seasonal changes happening around us. Even our cultural obsession with a “good walk” makes more sense when the temperature is cool enough that you’re not immediately drenched in sweat after the first mile. Let’s face it—British autumn is the sartorial equivalent of home advantage.

I discovered this truth about eight years ago. I’d spent the summer struggling with linen shirts that creased if you so much as thought about sitting down and lightweight trousers that somehow managed to be simultaneously too hot and too cold. Then September arrived, and suddenly everything in my wardrobe started making sense again. That first morning when I pulled on a light knit over an Oxford shirt, comfortable jeans, and proper boots felt like reuniting with old friends. I remember walking to the train station feeling properly put-together for the first time in months.

The key to nailing autumn dressing is understanding that it’s all about creating a personal microclimate that you can adjust as needed. The British autumn day has a temperature range that would give a meteorologist whiplash—chilly mornings, surprisingly warm middays, and evenings that remind you winter is lurking just around the corner. Your wardrobe needs to be as adaptable as a politician’s promises.

Let’s start with the outer layer, the first line of defense against our changeable climate. A good waxed jacket is practically a British birthright at this point. Yes, the Barbour has become something of a cliché, particularly in certain postcodes, but there’s a reason they’ve endured—they bloody work. Mine’s a Beaufort that I found in a vintage shop in Manchester for a fraction of the new price. It was already beautifully worn in, with that perfect patina that only comes from years of use. The previous owner had even rewaxed it recently, meaning I got all the character without the typical new-waxed-jacket stiffness that makes you move like a particularly awkward robot.

If you’re wary of the Barbour associations (or price tag), there are plenty of alternatives. Private White V.C. makes exceptional waxed cotton jackets in Manchester with a slightly more contemporary cut. Percival’s waxed coaches jacket is a more modern take that doesn’t scream “I’m off to the Badminton Horse Trials.” I’ve even seen decent versions on the high street, though you’ll want to rewax them more frequently as the coating tends to be thinner.

For days when the temperature hasn’t quite reached “full wax jacket” levels, the humble overshirt (or shacket, if you must) becomes the autumn MVP. Heavier than a regular shirt but lighter than a proper jacket, it’s the perfect middle-ground garment for those days when the temperature hovers around the low teens. I’ve got a heavy cotton twill one from Universal Works that’s served me for about five autumns now. It works over a t-shirt on milder days or over a light knit when there’s more chill in the air. Folk, YMC, and Oliver Spencer all do excellent versions, often in interesting textures that add another dimension to your outfit.

The mid-layer is where you can really start playing with texture and color. A good merino crew neck in forest green or burgundy is about as autumn as it gets, and pairs with practically everything. I’ve had one from John Smedley for years that still looks as good as new—yes, it was expensive, but it’s outlasted countless cheaper options. Uniqlo does surprisingly decent merino knits at a fraction of the price if you’re watching your budget.

For slightly colder days, a lambswool cable knit provides both warmth and visual interest. The traditional cream works with everything from jeans to more formal trousers, but don’t be afraid of color here—a mustard or burnt orange knit can lift your whole look. Margaret Howell makes the Rolls Royce version, but Albam and Community Clothing offer excellent alternatives at more approachable prices.

The cardigan, too, deserves special mention as a versatile autumn layer. No longer the exclusive domain of grandads and 1950s college professors, the modern cardigan—particularly in a chunky shawl collar style—adds texture and warmth while being easy to remove if the afternoon turns unexpectedly mild. Drake’s makes beautiful but pricey versions, while you can find perfectly decent options from Arket and even good old M&S.

Beneath these layers, the humble Oxford button-down shirt remains undefeated for autumn versatility. There’s something about that slightly heavier cotton cloth that just works for the season, and the texture plays well with autumn’s woolier outer layers. I’ve tried every price point from high street to hand-made, and honestly, the sweet spot for daily wear is probably around the £70-90 mark—brands like Asket, Uniqlo U, and Arket all do decent versions. If you’re splashing out, Drake’s and Anglo-Italian make beautiful ones with little details that elevate them above the basics.

For more casual days, a long-sleeve heavyweight t-shirt or Henley provides a perfect base layer. I’ve become slightly obsessed with the Portuguese brand La Paz, which makes incredibly soft cotton Henleys that somehow look better with age and washing. Community Clothing’s heavy interlock t-shirts are another autumn staple in my rotation—not the cheapest, but built like tanks and made in the UK.

On the bottom half, this is where heavyweight denim comes into its own. After months of worrying that your jeans might be too heavy, autumn gives you free rein to embrace proper indigo denim again. A dark blue pair in a straight or slightly tapered fit will work with everything from knitwear to tailoring. I’ve had a pair of Blackhorse Lane E8s for about four years now—they’re made in London, have developed a beautiful fade, and show no signs of giving up despite near-constant wear through the colder months.

Corduroy also makes its triumphant return, and there’s no fabric more autumnal. A pair of cords in burnt orange, bottle green or even a rich chocolate brown adds both texture and color to your wardrobe. I’m a fan of the wider wale (that’s the size of the ridges, for the uninitiated) for trousers—they look less like you’ve stolen them from a geography teacher. Drake’s and Albam both do excellent versions, as does Massimo Alba if you’re feeling flush.

For slightly sharper days, a pair of flannel trousers bridges the gap between casual and formal. I’ve recently become evangelical about the Anglo-Italian ones, which aren’t cheap but drape beautifully and work with everything from proper shirts to casual knitwear. For a more accessible option, Uniqlo’s wool-blend ones perform surprisingly well for the price, especially if you get them taken up properly by a tailor.

Footwear is where autumn really allows British brands to shine. The original Clarks Desert Boot might be most associated with the mod era, but there’s a reason they’ve endured—they’re comfortable, versatile, and just the right weight for autumn. I’ve got a pair in sand suede that work with everything from jeans to more tailored trousers.

For wetter days, the chelsea boot comes into its own. Once you’ve experienced the joy of being able to quickly pull on boots without faffing with laces on a rainy morning, it’s hard to go back. R.M. Williams makes the gold standard if your budget stretches that far, but Loake and Grenson offer solid options at a lower price point. Just make sure you treat the leather properly before the serious rain sets in—there’s nothing more miserable than the slow seep of water into an unprotected boot.

For something more substantial but not as visually heavy as a full-on walking boot, the derby boot hits the sweet spot. Tricker’s Stow is the classic (I’ve resoled mine twice and they’re still going strong), but Solovair and even Dr. Martens offer more accessible alternatives that will handle most weather autumn throws at you.

Accessories deserve consideration too. A good scarf becomes essential as the temperature drops, and here British brands excel. Johnstons of Elgin makes beautiful cashmere ones if you’re treating yourself, but you can find decent wool options from the likes of Albam and Universal Works too. I’ve got a simple lambswool one in dark green that goes with practically everything in my wardrobe.

A classic watch cap or beanie in a neutral color (navy, grey, dark green) is worth its weight in gold on colder mornings. The trick is finding one that doesn’t make your head look like a balloon or give you that weird horizontal dent halfway up your forehead. Drake’s makes a beautiful “watch cap” style beanie that somehow flatters most head shapes, while Community Clothing does a simple ribbed one at a more accessible price point.

There’s something uniquely satisfying about assembling these pieces on a crisp autumn morning. That ritual of adding just the right layers to create a personal ecosystem that will see you through the day’s meteorological mood swings. It’s why, despite our national obsession with complaining about the weather, I’ve come to believe that British men are at their sartorial best when the leaves start to turn.

I noticed this phenomenon most clearly last October. I was in a pub in the Peak District after a walk, and looking around, I realized almost every bloke in there looked… well, good. Not fashion-magazine good, but comfortable, appropriate, and considered. Waxed jackets hung on hooks, boots had that perfectly broken-in look, and knits in various autumn shades created a palette that somehow felt right against the backdrop of the season. It was as if everyone had collectively raised their game without really trying—the weather had simply guided them toward their better sartorial selves.

This autumn capsule I’ve described isn’t revolutionary, and that’s precisely the point. These are pieces that have endured because they work—functionally, aesthetically, and culturally. They’re the sartorial equivalent of a good pub with a real fire—perhaps not the most exciting option on a Friday night, but reliably satisfying and perfectly suited to the season.

So as the evenings draw in and there’s that first real nip in the air, embrace it. We might not have the guaranteed sunshine of the Mediterranean or the picture-perfect snow of Alpine winters, but we have autumn—British men’s true sartorial home season. Just make sure you’ve got the wax jacket, knits, and boots to make the most of it.

I’m staring at a photo that my mate Jamie just sent me. It’s us, Reading Festival 2004, caked in mud that had somehow invaded places mud has no business being, wearing what can only be described as a crime scene of fashion choices. I’m sporting those impossibly baggy jeans that could house a family of four, a band t-shirt so obscure I was definitely pretending to like them, and—Christ almighty—a bucket hat that makes me look like a rejected extra from a Stone Roses video. No waterproofs. Not a single practical item between us. Just pure, unadulterated youthful idiocy and the unshakable belief that pneumonia was something that happened to other people.

Fast forward to last summer’s Glastonbury, and there I was—comfortable camping chair in one hand, vacuum flask in the other, discussing the merits of Gore-Tex with a bloke called Martin who works in IT. We bonded over our shared trauma of previous festivals spent huddling under plastic ponchos that immediately disintegrated upon contact with actual rain. “Never again,” he nodded sagely, showing me his waterproof hiking boots with the excitement most men reserve for sports cars or power tools.

The truth is, festival dressing in your 30s and beyond is a completely different game. It’s less about peacocking for the Instagram photos you’ll immediately regret, and more about the revolutionary concept of, you know, actually enjoying yourself without suffering. You want to look good—of course you do—but you also want to sit down occasionally without requiring a tetanus shot. You want to make it through three days without developing trench foot. You want—and I cannot stress this enough—to stay bloody dry.

So here’s what I’ve figured out after graduating from festival idiot to festival pragmatist (with only mild fashion casualties along the way).

First up, let’s tackle outerwear, because British weather is about as reliable as my first boyfriend. A proper waterproof jacket is non-negotiable. Not a “shower resistant” one, not a “water repellent” one—a proper, technical, honest-to-god waterproof. After years of trial and error (and one particularly traumatic downpour at Isle of Wight that I’m still having therapy for), I’ve found that the sweet spot is something like the Rains Jacket—Scandinavian minimalism that doesn’t scream “I’ve given up on life” but will actually keep you dry. Pair it with literally anything and you’ve instantly got that “I understand meteorology” vibe going on. For something with a bit more personality, Folk and YMC do some cracking options that say “I read interesting books and probably make my own sourdough” without sacrificing functionality.

The alternative is the classic British country approach. A Barbour waxed jacket has gone from posh farmer territory to legitimate festival staple. They’re genuinely waterproof if you maintain them properly, they age beautifully, and they’ve got enough pockets to smuggle in half the corner shop. The Bedale or Ashby cuts are slim enough to not swamp you but roomy enough for layers when the temperature drops faster than the headline act’s latest album.

Underneath, the key is layers that can be added or subtracted as required. A decent merino t-shirt—yes, I said merino, welcome to your 30s—will keep you warm, won’t stink after day two, and actually wicks moisture away from your body. Uniqlo does perfectly good ones that won’t bankrupt you, or Sunspel if you’re feeling flush. Throw a flannel shirt or light sweatshirt over the top, and you’re halfway to being a functional human being regardless of what the weather app is threatening.

Legwear is where it gets controversial. Shorts are an option if you’re feeling brave and the forecast isn’t apocalyptic, but they’re a commitment. Once you’re in shorts, you’re in shorts for the duration, even when the temperature decides to do its classic British plummet at sundown. The most versatile option is a pair of straight-leg chinos in a dark color that won’t show every speck of mud/beer/mystery festival substance. Dickies 874s have crossed over from workwear to festival-wear for good reason—they’re virtually indestructible, comfortable after multiple wears, and they’ve got a slightly wider leg that allows for desperate dancing when that one song comes on.

The footwear debate is one I’ve had with myself for years, and I’ve finally conceded that wellies aren’t actually the devil. They’re a necessary evil when the heavens truly open. But for those in-between days—which let’s face it, is most of the British summer—a pair of Gore-Tex lined walking boots provides the perfect balance. They’ll keep your feet dry without making you feel like you’re wearing fishing equipment. Danner, Fracap, and even Clarks have options that don’t scream “I’m about to lead a rambling society day trip.” Just make sure they’re worn in before the festival—nothing ruins your weekend faster than blisters the size of pound coins by day one.

Now, accessories. A cross-body bag is your best friend. Not a bumbag worn across your chest like you’re an off-duty roadman, but a proper bag with enough space for the essentials—phone, wallet, hand sanitizer (oh god, so much hand sanitizer), and whatever other questionable items you need for festival survival. Folk, Carhartt WIP, and even Eastpak make decent options that won’t make you look like you’re having a midlife crisis.

A hat is essential, but step away from the bucket hat unless you’re genuinely a fisherman or it’s 1994. A simple six-panel cap will keep the rain off your face and the sun off your increasingly vulnerable hairline (just me? Cool, cool). If it’s properly cold, a watch cap beanie in a neutral color works with everything and covers up the fact that your festival hair is eight different textures by day two.

The secret weapon in my festival arsenal is—and I can’t believe I’m admitting this in print—merino wool socks. I know, I know. But once you’ve experienced the joy of feet that stay warm even when wet, that don’t blister, and most importantly, don’t smell like something died in your boots, you’ll never go back. Bring at least one pair per day. It’s the kind of luxury that makes sleeping in a tent almost bearable.

There’s a fine line between practical festival wear and looking like you’re about to scale Everest, and it’s a line I’ve crossed more times than I care to admit. Last year at Green Man, I turned up in what my friend Vijay described as “full expedition gear” and was promptly told I looked like I was “applying for a job at Mountain Rescue.” The key is balance—one technical piece (the jacket, the boots) paired with normal clothes prevents the “just escaped from an outdoor pursuit center” look.

The beauty of festival dressing in your 30s and beyond is that comfort is no longer the enemy of style—it’s a crucial part of it. You’ve lived through enough fashion mistakes to know what actually works for you. You’ve endured enough downpours to understand the value of proper waterproofing. You’ve lost enough phones to appreciate a secure pocket.

A couple of years back, I found myself sharing a cider with a 21-year-old lad who was at his first Glastonbury, wearing nothing but shorts, a tank top, and—I swear to god—flip flops. FLIP FLOPS. It was due to rain all weekend. I felt like David Attenborough observing a particularly doomed species. Part of me envied his youthful optimism, his commitment to the bit, his complete disregard for the realities of spending 72 hours in a field in Somerset. But mostly, I was just grateful to be on the other side, with my waterproof jacket, my supportive footwear, and the knowledge that I’d be the one laughing when the mud came.

And I was, mate. I absolutely was.

I’ve got a confession to make, and my tailor might never forgive me. Last month, I walked into a launch party for a rather swanky new menswear collection wearing a pair of shoes that cost less than the champagne they were serving. Thirty-five quid from Next, if you can believe it. I’d grabbed them in a panic the day before when I realized my usual loafers had developed a mysterious stain that looked distressingly biological in origin. These Next shoes were a last resort—a dark brown penny loafer with a surprisingly decent shape and leather that actually looked… well, like leather.

Three people—THREE—asked me if they were Crockett & Jones. One bloke, wearing what I’m almost certain was a Brunello Cucinelli jacket that probably cost more than my monthly rent, actually leaned down to get a better look at them. “Nice patina on those,” he nodded approvingly, as I stood there fighting the urge to blurt out “THEY’RE FROM NEXT AND I BOUGHT THEM YESTERDAY!” like some kind of reverse snob having a breakdown.

This isn’t the first time this has happened, either. Something interesting is going on with the high street right now, particularly with footwear. The design teams at places like Next seem to have collectively decided to step up their game, and they’re producing shoes that, at first (and sometimes second) glance, could easily pass for something costing five times as much.

The pair in question are from Next’s “Signature” range—their brown penny loafers with a surprisingly elegant silhouette and none of the clunky, square-toed nonsense that usually plagues high street footwear. They’ve got a proper leather sole (admittedly not the thickest, but it’s there), a genuine Goodyear welt construction, and leather that—while clearly not the same grade you’d get from a proper shoemaker—actually develops a bit of character after a few wears.

But here’s the thing. It’s not just that these shoes happen to look decent. It’s that they’re actively mimicking the design language of much higher-end brands. The shape of the toe, the proportions of the strap, even the slightly burnished finish on the leather—they’re all quietly whispering “Crockett & Jones” or “Cheaney” rather than shouting “I COST THE SAME AS A TAKEAWAY DINNER FOR TWO.”

And they’re not alone in this stealth approach. I’ve noticed this same trend creeping across the high street. Marks & Spencer has started doing a range of shoes with distinctly Church’s-esque styling. Zara has loafers that, from a distance, have more than a passing resemblance to certain Italian makers. Even Clarks—good old dependable Clarks—has been quietly releasing shoes that look like they’re having an identity crisis and think they might be Tricker’s.

The really interesting bit, though, is how to wear these high street finds so they maintain the illusion. Because make no mistake, it is an illusion. Up close, to the trained eye (or snobby eye, depending on your perspective), the differences become apparent. The leather is decent but doesn’t have the depth of color or suppleness of the real deal. The stitching is functional rather than immaculate. The finishing touches lack, well, finish.

But there’s a whole art to making these shoes punch above their weight—to giving them that designer energy without the designer price tag. It’s all about context and curation—the sartorial equivalent of hanging a print next to actual art and watching people squint to figure out which is which.

First rule: condition the hell out of them. Right out of the box, most high street shoes have that slightly plasticky, uniform finish that screams “mass-produced.” I hit these Next loafers with two rounds of Saphir Renovateur (which, yes, cost almost a third of what the shoes themselves did) and then some dark brown polish worked into the toe and heel. Instantly, they developed a more natural depth that mimics the patina of a more expensive shoe.

Second rule: pair them with at least one genuinely good item. This is the oldest trick in the book—the high-low mix that’s been the secret weapon of fashion editors for decades. Those Next loafers suddenly look twice as expensive when worn with a well-cut pair of trousers. My go-to move is a pair of mid-gray flannel trousers from Anglo-Italian (which, admittedly, cost about seven times what the shoes did) with a clean break that just skims the top of the shoe. The quality of the trouser elevates the shoe, and most people’s eyes are drawn to the overall effect rather than scrutinizing the individual components.

Third rule: details matter. Cheap shoes often come with cheap laces that might as well have “budget” stamped on them. Spend a tenner on some decent waxed cotton laces and suddenly your high street finds look substantially more premium. Same goes for insoles—if the included ones are rubbish (they usually are), swap them out.

Fourth rule: wear them with confidence. Nothing gives away budget footwear faster than apologizing for it. The number of times I’ve seen blokes undermine perfectly decent outfits by pre-emptively explaining that something is high street… mate, if you don’t point it out, half the time no one will notice.

I tested this theory last week at a work dinner. Wore the Next loafers with some navy Incotex chinos, an Oxford shirt, and a nicely worn-in tweed jacket. Colleague who fancies himself a bit of a menswear aficionado actually complimented the shoes. Did I come clean? Did I hell. I just said “thanks” and changed the subject to the wine list. Sometimes style is as much about what you don’t say as what you wear.

The irony in all this is that actual luxury brands are busy trying to make their logos as visible as possible, plastering them across everything from belts to the sides of sneakers, while the high street is quietly producing increasingly convincing homages to old-school understated luxury. There’s something properly funny about that role reversal.

I’m not claiming these high street options are “just as good” as the real thing. That would be daft. A proper pair of Northampton-made shoes will last you decades with care and resoling. They’ll age more beautifully, they’ll be more comfortable in the long run, and they often just feel right in a way that’s hard to articulate but easy to experience. There’s a reason they cost what they cost.

But we’re living in interesting times, sartorially speaking. The design gap is narrowing even as the quality and longevity gap remains. For those of us who exist in that strange liminal space between fast fashion and bespoke—which, let’s face it, is most of us—there’s now this curious middle ground where high street brands are producing “good enough” versions of luxury staples.

The Next loafers in question probably won’t last more than a couple of years with regular wear. The leather will likely crease in ways that give the game away over time. The soles will wear through faster than proper bench-made shoes would. But for thirty-five quid? They’re a bit of a miracle, really.

I wore them again yesterday with jeans and a navy blazer. Popped into Liberty’s to browse (translation: torture myself with things I can’t justify buying). Sales assistant actually gave them an appreciative glance. For a brief, ridiculous moment, I felt like I’d gotten away with something—like I’d infiltrated a world of four-figure shopping baskets while wearing shoes that cost less than dinner.

Then I caught my reflection in one of those intimidating Liberty mirrors, and I could see the ever-so-slightly clunky shape that no amount of polish can quite disguise. But you know what? From three feet away, they still looked pretty damn good. And in a world where designer trainers now regularly cost more than my first car, there’s something satisfying about that.

So if you spot me at an industry event and I seem suspiciously protective of my feet, now you know why. I’m not just a style writer—I’m a style con artist, pulling off fashion heists one high street shoe at a time. Just don’t look too closely, yeah?

I got a wedding invitation last month with dress code listed as “lounge suit” and watched my American colleague nearly have an existential crisis. “What the hell is a lounge suit?” he demanded, clearly imagining some kind of velvet smoking jacket situation. “Is it like… formal pajamas?” I laughed for about three minutes before realizing he was genuinely confused, not just winding me up. That’s when it hit me that our British wedding dress codes are completely nonsensical to anyone who hasn’t spent a lifetime decoding them through trial, error, and occasional humiliation.

The thing about British wedding dress codes is they’re deliberately vague while somehow also being incredibly specific. They’re like cryptic crossword clues written by your passive-aggressive aunt—technically comprehensible but designed to make you feel slightly inadequate. And “lounge suit” might be the worst offender of them all.

Here’s a confession: I turned up to my first “lounge suit” wedding in an actual suit I’d wear to lounge in—a slightly rumpled linen number that I thought struck the perfect balance between smart and relaxed. The groom’s mother actually gasped when she saw me, which is never the reaction you want when you’re not the bride. Turns out “lounge suit” means practically the opposite of what it sounds like. English, eh? Marvelous language.

So let me save you from my fate. “Lounge suit” is essentially traditional British code for a proper suit—the kind you definitely wouldn’t lounge in unless you enjoy creasing expensive wool. It sits in that frustrating middle ground of formality: not as formal as black or white tie, but definitely not as casual as “smart casual” (another nightmare dress code for another day). It’s the default setting for most British weddings, the sartorial equivalent of saying “we care about how this looks but we’re not aristocrats, calm down.”

The suit itself should be fairly classic. Navy is the eternal failsafe—I’ve got a midnight navy two-piece from Suitsupply that’s attended more weddings than some of my actual friends. Dark grey works too, and in summer you can venture into lighter territory with mid-blues or even light grey if you’re feeling adventurous. Black, despite what every high street retailer will try to tell you, is generally too somber and evening-focused for daytime wedding festivities. Save it for funerals and casino cosplay.

Cut-wise, you want something fitted but not spray-on. British tailoring traditionally favors a slightly more structured shoulder and a gently nipped waist compared to the softer Italian approach or the boxy American sack suit. Two buttons is standard, though three can work if you’re tall. Notch lapels are the safe option, but a peak lapel adds a touch of flair without veering into fancy dress territory.

The real distinguishing factor is in the details and accessories. This is where “lounge suit” subtly differs from your standard work suit (which, let’s face it, fewer and fewer of us are wearing these days anyway). It’s the flourishes that signal “I understand this is a celebration, not a quarterly budget meeting.”

A pocket square is non-negotiable. Not those pre-folded monstrosities that come attached to a card, but a proper handkerchief arranged with what appears to be nonchalant elegance but actually took you fourteen attempts in front of the mirror. The TV fold (just the edge peeking out in a straight line) is fine for business but too staid for a wedding. Go for a puff fold or, if you’re feeling particularly rakish, a two-point fold. Just don’t match it exactly to your tie—that’s the sartorial equivalent of ordering chicken and chips at a Michelin-starred restaurant.

Speaking of ties, this is where you can have a bit of fun without looking like you’re auditioning for the circus. The current sweet spot is around 8cm wide—neither skinny nor 1980s power-broker wide. Textured fabrics like grenadine or knitted silk add interest without shouting about it. If it’s a spring/summer wedding, you might venture into lighter colors or subtle patterns. For autumn/winter, darker shades with texture work beautifully. I’m particularly fond of a burgundy grenadine tie I found in a tiny shop in Naples that’s become my wedding go-to. Three different grooms have now asked where it’s from, which I take as the highest compliment.

Shoes should be proper leather dress shoes—Oxfords ideally, though a sleek Derby can work too. Black is safest, but dark brown can be more versatile, especially with navy or lighter suits. They should be polished to a shine that suggests you make an effort but don’t spend your weekends in military boot camp. And for the love of all things holy, proper socks that match your trousers, not your shoes, and certainly not ankle-flashing trainer socks. Nothing ruins the line of a nice suit faster than a glimpse of bare ankle or white sports sock as you sit down.

Shirt-wise, white is the classic, but pale blue or even a subtle stripe can work if the rest of your outfit is restrained. Proper double cuffs with cufflinks add an appropriate touch of occasion, though a well-ironed barrel cuff is perfectly acceptable too. Collar choice matters—a medium spread collar flatters most face shapes and works with most tie knots. Avoid anything too extreme in either direction unless you’ve got the face shape and confidence to pull it off.

Now, the seasonal variables. British weddings have the added complication of our glorious, unpredictable climate. For summer weddings, you might consider lightweight wools, cotton-linen blends, or even full linen if you’re brave enough to embrace the inevitable creasing (I’d advise against it unless the wedding is actually on a beach, which, let’s face it, it probably isn’t because this is Britain). Three-piece suits can be too warm for summer, but perfect for adding an extra layer of elegance to autumn/winter celebrations.

Winter weddings call for heavier fabrics—a nice worsted wool or perhaps even a flannel if you’re feeling textural. Consider a three-piece for warmth as much as style. A smart overcoat is essential (no puffas or parkas, no matter how cold it gets), and a scarf in a complementary color adds both warmth and interest.

The British wedding season also brings the question of morning suits into play. If the invitation specifies “morning dress” rather than “lounge suit,” that’s a whole different ballgame—we’re talking tailcoats, striped trousers, the works. But that’s another article entirely, and one that would require me to stop pretending I know how to properly wear a top hat when I absolutely do not.

What about those invitations that specify “lounge suit” but then add qualifiers like “colorful” or “festive”? This is where the British talent for understatement comes into play. They don’t actually mean “dress like a children’s TV presenter”—they mean perhaps venture into a burgundy rather than navy, or consider a tie with a pattern that isn’t strictly regimental stripes. Maybe a colored pocket square with a bit more punch. Small, tasteful gestures toward joy rather than a full technicolor explosion.

There are regional variations too. London weddings tend to be more conservative in their interpretation of “lounge suit,” while I’ve been to Northern celebrations where it’s practically permission to break out the check three-piece and matching pocket watch. Scottish weddings bring the whole kilt question into play, which is a delightful option if you have genuine Scottish connections but veers dangerously into costume territory if your closest link to Scotland is enjoying Irn-Bru.

Here’s my hard-earned advice after attending roughly 37 weddings in the past decade: it’s always better to be slightly overdressed than underdressed. No one ever side-eyed a guest for looking too elegant, but turn up underdressed and you’ll be a talking point for years to come, and not in the good way. I still occasionally get reminded about the Linen Incident of 2014, usually by the same aunt who was scandalized by my choice of belt at Christmas dinner three years ago.

If you’re still unsure, there’s no shame in sending a discreet text to the couple or someone in the wedding party. A simple “Just checking what you mean by lounge suit for the big day” can save a world of embarrassment. Most people are delighted you care enough to ask.

And remember, no matter how perfectly you nail the dress code, never—and I cannot stress this enough—outshine the groom. It’s his day, not the debut of your new limited edition Edward Green brogues. I learned this the hard way when a groom friend didn’t speak to me for three months after I wore a particularly nice Anderson & Sheppard blazer to his countryside wedding. In my defense, he hadn’t specified “please dress slightly worse than me” on the invitation, but lesson learned nonetheless.

So there you have it. “Lounge suit” decoded: a proper suit, worn with proper accessories, striking that perfect British balance of caring enormously about how you look while pretending you haven’t given it a moment’s thought. Confusing? Absolutely. But then again, so is most of British culture. We like it that way. Keeps the tourists on their toes.

I’ve got a bit of a confession to make. Last month I was at one of those impossibly chic industry events—you know the type, where everyone pretends they just threw on whatever was lying around but has actually spent three hours getting dressed—and I bumped into Ellie, fashion director at one of those glossy magazines where everyone looks like they subsist entirely on green juice and industry gossip. She was wearing this absolutely perfect oversized white shirt, the kind that somehow looks intentional rather than like you’ve nicked your dad’s formal wear. “That’s gorgeous,” I said, expecting her to name-drop some obscure Japanese designer I’d have to pretend to have heard of. She leaned in, looked around conspiratorially, and whispered, “Uniqlo. Twenty-nine quid. I’ve got it in three colors.”

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the fashion industry’s best-kept secret. Behind closed doors, when no one’s watching and Instagram’s turned off, we’re all shopping at Uniqlo.

It makes perfect sense when you think about it. Fashion people—the ones who actually work in the industry rather than orbit it—spend their days surrounded by clothes that cost more than a decent used car. They’re drowning in the stuff, constantly confronted with the new, the next, the must-have. And then, like any normal human experiencing sensory overload, they crave simplicity. Enter Uniqlo, with its unfussy designs, consistent sizing, and prices that don’t require a payment plan or trust fund.

The Japanese retail giant has quietly become the industry insider’s go-to for what we now call “elevated basics”—a term I genuinely despise but can’t seem to escape. It’s the place where menswear editors stock up on oxford shirts, where stylists build their own wardrobes around merino knits, and where designers themselves sneak in for the perfect white t-shirt. I know because I’ve bumped into them there, and we’ve all done the same embarrassed nod of recognition, like we’ve caught each other sneaking into McDonald’s after preaching about organic farmer’s markets.

So what exactly are these people buying? I decided to do some digging—by which I mean I texted everyone I know in the industry and asked them to spill their Uniqlo secrets. The responses came flooding in, often with surprising speed and enthusiasm, like they’d been dying to share this information with someone who wouldn’t judge them.

The undisputed king of the Uniqlo insider purchases is the Merino Crew Neck Sweater. At £34.90, it’s honestly ridiculous value—a decent weight, not too sheer (the downfall of many budget knitwear options), and available in approximately 500 colorways each season. James, menswear buyer for a well-known department store, admits to owning eight of them. “They’re my secret weapon,” he told me. “I’ll wear one under a Dries Van Noten jacket to a meeting, and no one’s the wiser.” He particularly rates the navy and dark green versions, which he says look significantly more expensive than they are. “It’s all about the neckline,” he explained in a level of detail that confirmed I was speaking to a true menswear obsessive. “It sits perfectly on the collarbone without stretching, which is usually the first giveaway with cheap knitwear.”

The Oxford Shirts get mentioned almost as frequently. Ben, a stylist whose work you’ve definitely seen in at least three major ad campaigns this year, has a ritual of buying two white ones every September. “They’re the backbone of my work wardrobe,” he said. “The cotton’s decent enough to hold its shape, thick enough not to be transparent, and they wash like a dream.” He particularly rates the slightly relaxed fit versions, which he says hang more naturally than other high street options. At £24.90, they’re almost suspiciously good value in a world where similar shirts can easily clear the £100 mark.

The dark horse favorite among the men I talked to was the EZY Ankle Pants, which several people mentioned unprompted. I’ll be honest, I was skeptical—they looked a bit too comfortable, a bit too practical, with their partially elasticated waist and wrinkle-resistant fabric. But Tomas, who designs for a luxury British heritage brand you definitely know, swears by them. “I wear them on long-haul flights to fabric suppliers, to the studio on days when I know I’ll be on my feet for hours, basically whenever comfort is key but I still need to look put together,” he explained. “They’re like secret pajamas for grown-ups.” At £34.90, they’re his go-to for what he calls “the boring bits” of his wardrobe, the staples that allow his more interesting pieces to shine.

Then there’s the AIRism range—Uniqlo’s technical fabric line that manages to attract both hardcore minimalists and men who wouldn’t be caught dead in “athleisure.” The t-shirts in particular have achieved cult status among photographers, art directors, and anyone else who runs hot or works in stuffy environments. “I discovered them on a shoot in Thailand,” photographer Chris told me. “It was about 40 degrees, horrifically humid, and I was shooting a winter collection, surrounded by models in wool coats looking miserable. My assistant was wearing this AIRism t-shirt and looked infuriatingly cool and composed. I bought seven the next day.” At £14.90, they’re his studio uniform now.

The Packable Ultra Light Down Jacket inspires almost religious devotion from certain quarters. Fashion editor David keeps one permanently in his carry-on bag. “It weighs nothing, packs down to the size of an apple, and has saved me from freezing to death in overly air-conditioned press days and surprise weather changes more times than I can count,” he said. While acknowledging it’s not the most stylish item in isolation, he insists it’s the perfect mid-layer under a more substantial coat or jacket. “It’s like thermal underwear for your torso, but acceptable to be seen in.”

The Uniqlo U collection—designed by Christophe Lemaire—gets a special mention as the range that even the most luxury-obsessed fashion people will openly admit to buying and wearing. The t-shirts in particular, with their substantial cotton and perfect cut, are spoken of in hushed, reverent tones. “They’re better than t-shirts I’ve owned that cost six times as much,” insisted Marcus, who works for a menswear site you definitely have bookmarked. “The crew neck sits perfectly, the cotton gets better with each wash, and the colors are these beautiful rich, unusual shades rather than flat primaries.” At £14.90, they’re probably the best quality-to-price ratio on the high street.

The cashmere offerings inspire particularly passionate responses. In a world where cashmere has been simultaneously democratized and devalued, with prices dropping as quality often follows suit, Uniqlo’s versions maintain a surprisingly decent standard. Oliver, who works for one of London’s most respected tailors, admits to wearing their cashmere crew necks under his suits in winter. “For £89.90, they’re not going to compete with the Scottish mills we use, obviously, but they’re soft, they hold their shape, and they’re genuinely warm.” He particularly values them as his “secondary cashmere”—the pieces he doesn’t mind wearing for dog walks or pub gardens, saving his investment pieces for client meetings and special occasions.

The Seamless Down Parka inspires particular enthusiasm among the more technically minded menswear crowd. At £159.90, it’s one of Uniqlo’s pricier offerings, but still remarkably good value compared to similar technical outerwear. “It’s genuinely excellent,” insists Raj, who reviews outdoor gear for various publications. “The down fill is properly distributed, the waterproofing actually works, and it doesn’t have that shiny, cheap look that so many high street down jackets suffer from.” He particularly appreciates that it doesn’t feature an enormous logo, allowing it to blend seamlessly (no pun intended) with much more expensive pieces.

The brand’s collaborations—with designers like JW Anderson, Jil Sander (under the +J label), and Tomas Maier—are perhaps the only Uniqlo purchases fashion people will proudly broadcast. These limited-edition collections offer slightly more distinctive designs while maintaining the brand’s accessible price points, creating a perfect storm of fashion insider appeal. “I once got into a minor physical altercation with another editor over the last JW Anderson trench coat in a size medium,” admitted Rob, a menswear writer for a major newspaper. “Neither of us is proud of it, but that coat was something special.”

What’s particularly interesting is how these industry insiders style their Uniqlo finds. The common thread seems to be using these affordable staples as the canvas for more interesting, investment pieces. “I’ll wear a £24.90 Uniqlo oxford with my £600 Japanese selvedge denim and handmade Italian loafers,” explained buyer Thomas. “The shirt isn’t making a statement, it’s letting the statement pieces do their job.” It’s a smart approach to building a wardrobe—investing where it counts and saving where it doesn’t.

Of course, no one I spoke to is under any illusions about the brand’s limitations. The fits can be boxy, especially for those used to more tailored European cuts. The materials, while good for the price point, aren’t going to compete with luxury equivalents. And there’s always the risk of showing up to an industry event and spotting three other people in the same knitwear (something I’ve personally experienced, leading to an awkward moment of silent recognition with a rival menswear editor).

But in an industry built on exclusivity and aspiration, there’s something refreshingly democratic about this shared secret. The fact that a pattern cutter for a Savile Row house, a fashion director for a luxury magazine, and a design assistant just starting their career can all shop at the same place—and all find pieces that work within their wildly different wardrobes and budgets—is rather nice, actually.

So the next time you’re in Uniqlo and you spot someone who looks suspiciously like they might work in fashion, meticulously examining the stitching on a seemingly basic t-shirt or stocking up on identical navy sweaters, give them a knowing nod. You’re both in on the secret now. Just don’t tell anyone I told you.

The first time I walked down Savile Row, I was 19 and utterly terrified. I’d convinced the features editor at the student magazine to let me write a piece on “the heart of British tailoring,” which was really just an excuse to peek inside a world I’d been obsessing over since finding that old Jaeger suit in Dad’s wardrobe. I remember standing outside Anderson & Sheppard in a painfully cheap high street blazer that suddenly felt like it was made of cardboard and plastic, working up the courage to push open the door. When I finally did, a gentleman who looked like he’d been measuring inseams since the Crimean War raised a single eyebrow at me and asked if I was lost. I mumbled something about research for an article, went bright red, and promptly fled.

Twenty years and countless suits later, I still get a flutter of intimidation when I approach those hallowed doors, though these days they at least let me in without assuming I’ve taken a wrong turn from Topman. But I’ve also learned something important: while Savile Row represents the pinnacle of British tailoring—and Christ, the craftsmanship really is something else—it exists on a spectrum, not in isolation. There’s a whole world of exceptional British tailoring that doesn’t require a second mortgage or a family crest.

The reality is that a bespoke suit from one of the Row’s established houses will set you back anywhere from £4,000 to £7,000, depending on fabric and details. Made-to-measure starts around £2,500. These are investment pieces in the truest sense—they’ll last decades with proper care—but they’re simply not accessible for most of us, especially as an entire wardrobe solution rather than a once-in-a-lifetime purchase.

The good news? British tailoring excellence exists at more accessible price points if you know where to look. And I’ve spent an embarrassing portion of my adult life looking, testing, and occasionally getting it horribly wrong so you don’t have to.

Let’s start with the middle ground—what I think of as “accessible quality.” These are the brands and tailors offering genuine construction values and proper materials at prices that won’t require selling a kidney. They’re not cheap by any normal person’s standards (we’re still talking suits rather than streaming subscriptions here), but they represent genuine value when you consider cost-per-wear over their lifetime.

First up, there’s Anglo-Italian in Marylebone. Founded by former Trunk Clothiers buyer Jake Grantham and his business partner Alex Pirounis, it occupies this brilliant sweet spot between British structure and Italian softness. Their house style features a natural shoulder, a slightly lower buttoning point, and a garment that’s canvassed but not rigid. Made-to-measure suits start around £1,800, while ready-to-wear comes in at about £1,500. Not pocket change, clearly, but for something made with proper canvassing, cut from excellent cloths (many from the same British and Italian mills that supply Savile Row), it’s genuinely fair. I’ve had a navy hopsack from them for four years now, worn at least weekly, and it still looks better than most new suits.

Then there’s Whitcomb & Shaftesbury, which offers a fascinating model. Their Classic Bespoke service (starting around £1,800) uses a unique approach where the pattern is cut in London but much of the labor-intensive work is done in their workshop in Tamil Nadu, India, where they’ve trained local tailors in traditional techniques. The result is Savile Row quality at a significantly lower price point. Their full Savile Row Bespoke service (entirely made in London) is still about £3,400—not cheap, but significantly less than most Row options.

Drake’s, which began as a tiemaker before expanding into full menswear, offers made-to-measure starting around £1,500, with a natural English shoulder but a relaxed, contemporary cut. Their Games Suit in particular has developed a cult following—relaxed enough for modern life but still with the structure and shaping that makes British tailoring special.

For ready-to-wear with many of the construction values of bespoke, there’s the often-overlooked Chester Barrie. They’ve been making suits in Crewe since 1935, using traditional canvassing methods and excellent British cloths. Their mainline suits hover around the £800 mark—still a significant investment, but we’re talking about half-canvassed garments made in the UK from proper materials. I picked up one of their navy birdseye suits in a sale five years ago, and it’s still in regular rotation despite some frankly punishing treatment. (Note to self: carrying a curry takeaway inside your suit jacket is never a good idea, no matter how heavy the rain).

Another option that’s flown strangely under the radar is Paul Smith’s “A Suit To Travel In” range. While most of Smith’s tailoring is made in Italy these days, this specific line is constructed in Hebden Bridge, Yorkshire by Cookson & Clegg, a factory with over 150 years of history. At around £750, they’re half-canvassed, made from crease-resistant wool, and cut in a slim but not skinny silhouette that works for most body types. I’ve recommended these to countless friends who travel regularly for work—they can genuinely be rolled up in luggage, given a quick steam, and look presentable for meetings.

If you’re prepared to look beyond household names, Oliver Spencer’s Solms suits deserve attention. Spencer trained on Savile Row before launching his own brand, and while his mainline focuses on relaxed workwear, his tailoring maintains many traditional values. They’re around £580, feature a modern cut with natural shoulders, and use interesting textured fabrics that dress up or down easily. They’re not canvassed—at this price point, that would be miraculous—but they’re well-constructed with proper pattern matching and decent internals.

For those on tighter budgets who still want British-made options, Hammond & Co by Patrick Grant (available at Debenhams) offers a remarkable proposition. Grant, who owns Norton & Sons on Savile Row and revived E. Tautz, brings genuine tailoring expertise to the high street. While you’re not getting canvassing or super 150s wool at £250-£300, you are getting proper pattern cutting, decent fabrics, and a style informed by one of Britain’s best tailors. I’ve got one of their spring-weight blazers that’s survived three seasons of regular wear without losing its shape.

The made-to-measure market has also expanded dramatically in recent years, making customized tailoring accessible to more people. Cad & The Dandy, founded by two ex-bankers during the 2008 financial crisis, has disrupted the traditional model by offering three tiers of make: machine-cut and made (from £950), half-handmade (£1,200), and fully handmade (£2,000). Even their entry level uses floating canvassing rather than fusing, proper cloths from British mills, and is made in the UK.

Look beyond London and you’ll find regional tailors offering exceptional value. In Manchester, there’s Whitfield & Ward, where made-to-measure starts around £850 for half-canvassed construction. In Glasgow, Walker Slater offers ready-to-wear tweed and wool suits with surprisingly good construction for around £500. In Leeds, Michelsberg Tailoring provides full bespoke from around £1,300—significantly less than you’d pay for equivalent make in the capital.

What about the high street? Can you find anything approaching proper tailoring there? The honest answer is: occasionally, with caveats. Charles Tyrwhitt’s top-end suits hover around the £500 mark and are half-canvassed—a genuine quality marker that puts them above most competition at similar prices. Their cuts are conservative but well-executed. Marks & Spencer’s Savile Row-inspired range (around £300) isn’t canvassed but does feature decent wool blends and pattern cutting that belies the price. I keep one in my office for emergency meetings and it’s performed admirably for three years now.

Now, a word on construction, because this is where many get confused about what they’re actually paying for. A fully canvassed suit contains a layer of canvas (traditionally horsehair, though often now a mix of horsehair and other materials) between the outer fabric and lining. This canvas floats rather than being glued to the wool, allowing the suit to mold to your body over time and move naturally. It’s labor-intensive to create but results in a garment that actually improves with wear.

Half-canvassed means the canvas extends through the chest and lapels but not the full body—a good compromise at lower price points. Fused suits have their interlining glued to the wool, which is cheaper to produce but doesn’t allow the same movement, doesn’t breathe as well, and can bubble or delaminate over time, especially after dry cleaning.

When you’re paying Savile Row prices, you’re getting full canvassing, handwork in areas that create shape and structure (collar, lapels, armholes), hand-padded chest pieces, hand-sewn buttonholes, and a pattern cut specifically for your body. As you move down the price spectrum, these handwork elements decrease and machine work increases, but the better mid-range options maintain canvassing (even if half rather than full) and some degree of handwork in crucial areas.

For perspective on value, consider my own experience: I saved for years to commission a bespoke suit from Anderson & Sheppard for my wedding—a traditional 13oz navy worsted with all the handwork that makes Savile Row special. That was eight years and approximately 300 wears ago. It’s been altered twice as my waistline has embarked on its own journey of expansion and contraction. It still looks better than most new suits and should last another 20 years with care. That’s the true value equation of proper tailoring.

But I’ve also got suits from Anglo-Italian, Whitcomb & Shaftesbury, and Drake’s that have performed brilliantly for years at half the price. And I’ve been genuinely impressed by the longevity of that Chester Barrie ready-to-wear option that cost a quarter of bespoke.

What I’ve learned is that British tailoring isn’t just one thing at one price point—it’s a spectrum of options that maintain certain core values: structure with comfort, cloths that perform over time, and cuts that flatter rather than follow transient trends. Whether your budget stretches to The Row or peaks at the high street’s best efforts, there’s a version of these values available at every level if you look beyond obvious options and understand what you’re actually paying for.

The intimidating gentleman at Anderson & Sheppard eventually became a friend—though he still occasionally raises that same eyebrow when I turn up in something he considers questionable. The last time I visited, I was wearing that Anglo-Italian jacket. “Not one of ours,” he sniffed, running an expert hand over the lapel. “But decent work nonetheless.” From him, that’s practically a standing ovation. British tailoring excellence, it turns out, exists beyond those intimidating doors I once fled through—you just need to know where to look for it.