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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.

There’s a silent code among fashion editors. We’ll happily write thousand-word odes to the perfect white t-shirt that costs more than a weekend away. We’ll analyze the cultural significance of a particular Prada shoe with the gravity usually reserved for climate treaties. We’ll debate the merits of different cashmere grades like they’re matters of national security. But mention Primark in certain fashion circles and watch the room temperature drop faster than a sample sale on opening morning.

Which is absolute bollocks, if I’m being honest. Because the truth—the dirty little secret of the fashion industry—is that even the most designer-clad, luxury-soaked fashion editors often have a bit of Primark tucked away in their wardrobes. They just don’t talk about it. Well, not in public anyway.

I discovered this about five years ago at a major magazine’s Christmas party. I complimented the fashion director—a woman typically dressed head-to-toe in COS at minimum, The Row at maximum—on her classic black turtleneck. Cashmere? Italian? Some small-batch ethical producer perhaps? “Primark,” she whispered after checking no one was in earshot. “Six quid. I buy five every autumn and chuck them when they stretch.” She looked around nervously, as though Martin Margiela himself might leap out from behind a potted plant to revoke her fashion credentials.

Since then, I’ve made it a personal mission to get fashion industry people to confess their Primark purchases. Not to embarrass them, but because I find it genuinely fascinating what items these extremely style-conscious professionals—people with access to discounts, samples, and a comprehensive knowledge of every garment on the market—choose to buy from a store more known for £1 flip flops than fashion credibility.

The results have been illuminating, occasionally surprising, and weirdly consistent across different sectors of the industry. So here, compiled from years of conversations, slightly drunken confessions, and the occasional unguarded Instagram Story that was definitely deleted by morning, is what fashion editors actually buy from Primark.

At the top of nearly everyone’s list: socks. Not the fun, patterned ones or the sporty ones, but the basic, invisible trainer socks and plain black business socks that fashion somehow forgets about despite them being essential to, you know, actually wearing the shoes we obsess over. “I refuse to spend more than £1.50 on something that’s going to end up smelling like a biology experiment gone wrong and disappear in the laundry anyway,” admitted a menswear editor for a major newspaper. His designer suits hide socks that cost less than his morning coffee, and he’s absolutely fine with that.

Next up, and mentioned with surprising frequency: white t-shirts, but specifically for what industry people call “high-risk wearing situations.” These include festivals, beach holidays, paint-adjacent activities, and anywhere that involves small children with perpetually sticky hands. “I’ve got white tees from everywhere between Fruit of the Loom and Loro Piana,” a stylist for a luxury men’s magazine told me, “But for Glastonbury? Primark, every time. Three for a tenner, wear them, trash them, repeat next year.” It’s a pragmatic approach that makes complete sense when you think about it—why subject the £45 Sunspel to certain destruction when the £3.50 Primark can take the hit?

Loungewear is another surprisingly common Primark purchase among fashion professionals. Those jersey shorts and oversized t-shirts that never leave the house but form the backbone of Netflix marathons and Sunday morning pancake-making sessions? Often Primark. “I literally style celebrities for red carpet events,” one London-based menswear consultant told me. “But my home-alone outfit? Primark jersey shorts I’ve had for five years. They’ve outlasted relationships, flats, and many allegedly superior garments.” The logic is consistent: why spend on clothes that only your cat will see?

There’s also a seasonal aspect to industry insiders’ Primark habits. Summer brings a whole category of what one magazine fashion director calls “disposable summer”—those items so specific to holidays and warm-weather activities that investing seems pointless for the UK’s two-week summer. Linen shirts that will be subjected to sunscreen, sweat, and sand. Beach cover-ups. Basic swimwear for pool lounging (as opposed to the “being seen” swimwear for beach clubs and Instagram). Even sunglasses make the list—”I lose a minimum of three pairs per summer,” a prominent stylist admitted. “The Primark ones are actually decent UV-wise, and I don’t have a breakdown when I leave them in a taxi.”

The most surprising category to me was what several editors independently called “trend testers”—inexpensive versions of runway trends they’re curious about but not ready to invest in. “If I’m not sure a particular trend will work for me or last beyond a season, I’ll often try the Primark version first,” explained a former colleague who now works for a luxury fashion platform. “I tested the oversized shirt trend there, liked how it looked, then invested in a proper one from COS. But the padded headband experiment started and ended at Primark, thank god.” It’s actually a remarkably sensible approach to trend adoption—use the high street as a fitting room for concepts before committing proper money.

Gym wear appears with surprising regularity too, particularly for what one editor called “low-performance exercise”—by which she meant yoga classes where fashion isn’t the focus, or solo runs where no one will see you. “Their workout leggings are honestly decent,” insisted a health and beauty editor who normally wouldn’t be caught dead in anything less than lululemon for her public Pilates classes. “For home workouts or just running errands? They do the job, and I don’t cry if I catch them on something.”

Men in the industry seem particularly drawn to Primark’s plain sweatshirts and hoodies. “They’re not trying to be anything they’re not,” a menswear buyer for a major department store told me. “No fake vintage washes, no over-designed details, just simple cotton basics that look better than they should for the price.” He specifically rates their seamless plain hoodies in gray marl or navy, which he wears for dog walks and working from home. At £10, he considers them “basically disposable warmth” rather than fashion items, which somehow makes them immune to his otherwise exacting standards.

Several industry people mentioned Primark’s men’s basic t-shirts as being surprisingly good for the price. Not the printed ones or anything with design aspirations, but the plain crew necks in black, white, or navy. “The cotton is decent weight, they wash well enough, and the fit is actually quite good if you size down,” a styling assistant at a major men’s magazine told me. “For layering under everything from jackets to knits, they’re perfect—no one sees them anyway.” At around £2.50 each, he buys them in bulk at the start of each season.

Perhaps the most unexpected Primark devotee I encountered was a creative director known for his uncompromising approach to quality and detail. His Primark obsession? Their basic crew neck long-sleeved t-shirts in navy. “Fifteen years I’ve been buying these,” he told me with unexpected passion. “Same cut, same material, £6. I’ve tried versions from everywhere—literally up to about £200—and for some reason, the Primark ones just sit right on me.” He buys five each October and wears them constantly through winter, under everything from casual Engineered Garments to formal Thom Sweeney tailoring. “It’s my one fashion contradiction, and I’m fine with it,” he shrugged.

What about accessories? Black tights appeared frequently in conversations with women in the industry, particularly the slightly thicker 80-100 denier ones for winter. “I’ve tried them all,” sighed a fashion features director who regularly includes £400 cashmere socks in her magazine’s Christmas gift guides. “And honestly? The Primark ones often outlast the expensive ones, possibly because I don’t feel precious about them.” At around £3.50 for three pairs, they’re seen as semi-disposable essentials rather than fashion items.

For men, plain canvas belts and basic leather belts for everyday wear get surprising endorsement. “For a simple black leather belt to hold up jeans? Primark,” admitted a men’s fashion editor who normally wears a handmade Italian leather belt with his work attire. “Eight quid, looks completely fine, does the job.” The logic is consistent—why spend on items that serve a purely utilitarian function and aren’t a focal point of an outfit?

There are definitely categories industry people avoid, however. Almost everyone I spoke to steers clear of Primark’s tailoring and outerwear, where construction values and materials make a more noticeable difference to appearance and longevity. Shoes were another universal no-go, with concerns about comfort and durability trumping price advantages. “Some things are worth investing in,” a stylist told me firmly. “Anything that keeps you off the ground—shoes, mattresses, tires—shouldn’t come from Primark.”

Denim receives mixed opinions. Some avoid Primark jeans entirely, citing poor cuts and rapid deterioration. Others see them as perfect for specific circumstances—festival beaters, paint-job trousers, or what one editor called “anxiety-free whites” (white jeans you can actually relax in because spillage doesn’t mean financial loss).

The psychology behind these shopping habits is fascinating. These are people who can identify fabric content by touch, who understand construction methods intimately, who regularly handle garments worth thousands. Yet they make deliberate, strategic choices to incorporate basics from the most budget-friendly retailer on the high street. It’s not about money—most could afford to shop exclusively at mid-range prices or above. It’s about pragmatism, about understanding that certain garments are functional rather than emotional investments.

There’s something refreshingly honest about this approach. Fashion often promotes the idea that quality matters at every level—that the humble t-shirt deserves the same investment as a tailored jacket. But these industry insiders seem to have developed a more nuanced view: some things truly are worth spending on, while others are perfectly adequate in their most basic form.

I’ve spotted this dual approach in my own wardrobe too. My suits come from proper tailors, my shoes from Northamptonshire makers, my outerwear from specialists. But open my workout drawer and you’ll find a stack of Primark’s £2.50 athletic socks. Check my holiday suitcase and you’ll discover their linen overshirts tucked alongside much pricier items. It’s not fashion hypocrisy—it’s wardrobe pragmatism.

Perhaps the most telling insight came from a fashion director who’s worked for two of the biggest luxury magazines in the country. “Fashion isn’t about where everything comes from,” she told me. “It’s about knowing what deserves investment and what doesn’t. Anyone who tells you otherwise is trying to sell you something.” She was wearing Prada shoes and a Primark cardigan at the time, and looking absolutely fantastic in both.

So next time you spot someone who looks suspiciously like they might work in fashion filling a basket with plain black socks or basic white tees in Primark, you’re probably right. Just don’t tell anyone I told you—I’ve still got to work with these people. Though given how many of them have confessed their Primark habits to me, perhaps the industry’s best-kept secret isn’t such a secret after all.

I was caught in a biblical downpour last Tuesday. You know the type—the rain that falls so hard it bounces back up off the pavement, that makes gutters overflow and taxi drivers shake their heads sympathetically through their windscreens as they drive past, completely ignoring your increasingly desperate arm-waving. I was wearing a jacket that allegedly cost three hundred quid and had the word “weatherproof” prominently featured in its online description. Weatherproof, my arse. I squelched into my flat twenty minutes later looking like I’d gone swimming fully dressed.

The Great British Raincoat is one of those mythical beasts we spend our entire adult lives hunting for. Like the perfect pair of jeans or a genuinely reliable tradesman. You think you’ve found it—that one coat that will finally, FINALLY keep you properly dry—and then along comes the special kind of rain that only Britain can produce, the kind that seems to defy physics by coming at you from underneath and inside at the same time.

After fifteen years of writing about men’s style, I’ve built up quite the collection of raincoats. The wardrobe in my hallway groans under the weight of waxed cotton, Gore-Tex, tightly-woven wool, and various space-age technical fabrics named after mountains and weather systems. “That’s a lot of coats for one person,” remarked my dad last time he visited, in that particularly northern way of pointing out excess without directly criticizing it. I mumbled something about “research” and “professional necessity,” but the truth is I’m still looking for The One. The perfect raincoat that won’t bankrupt me, make me look like I’m about to climb Everest on my way to Tesco, or—crime of crimes—actually let me get wet.

Let’s get the obvious out of the way. Yes, Burberry makes great raincoats. So does Mackintosh. Aquascutum too. We know this. The British heritage brands have been keeping the upper classes dry since Victorian times. My problem isn’t with their functionality (mostly excellent) but with the small issue of needing to eat and pay rent as well as own outerwear. The last Burberry trench I tried on—just tried, mind you—cost roughly the same as my first car. A beautiful, honey-colored thing with perfect horn buttons and a check lining that made me feel like I should be carrying an umbrella with a carved wooden handle and wearing proper bench-made shoes instead of the battered Clarks desert boots I had on. “It’s an investment piece,” purred the sales assistant, who clearly recognized the look of someone experiencing severe sticker shock. “You’ll have it for decades.”

She wasn’t wrong. At that price, I’d be wearing it to my funeral to get proper value for money. But here’s the thing: British rain doesn’t care how much your coat cost. It doesn’t politely avoid you because you’ve spent a month’s salary on waterproofing. We need solutions that work without requiring a loan application. So let’s talk about actually affordable rainwear that does the job.

First up, mountain brands. Not the obvious North Face or Patagonia (although both make solid options), but the slightly nerdier, more serious mountaineering companies. Rab, based in Derbyshire, makes technical jackets that will handle a Lake District deluge, let alone a London drizzle. They’re not cheap—we’re talking £150-250 range—but for something that could genuinely save your life on a hillside and will definitely keep you dry on your commute, that’s reasonable. Their Downpour jacket is an entry-level option that packs down small, comes in colors that won’t make you look like an escaped highlighter, and actually, properly works. I’ve had mine for four years and it still keeps me bone dry, which is more than I can say for coats costing three times as much.

The trick with the mountain brands is to go for their simpler options. You don’t need seventeen pockets and a built-in harness system for urban use. Their “lifestyle” ranges often have cleaner designs that don’t scream “I’M GOING HIKING” quite so loudly. Mountain Equipment’s Squall Hooded Jacket has been my go-to for particularly vile weather days for the past two winters. It’s about £190 but gets discounted regularly, and it’s possibly the most effective rain barrier I’ve ever owned. Doesn’t look half bad either, especially in navy.

If you want something more traditional-looking, then British country brands are worth investigating. Before you scroll past thinking I’m about to suggest you dress like your uncle who lives in the Cotswolds, hear me out. Brands like Barbour and Joules make waxed and technical jackets that handle proper countryside weather—which, last time I checked, is considerably worse than city weather. Barbour’s Bedale, while not cheap at around £250, is practically indestructible with care and rewaxing. Too warm for summer downpours? Their lighter weight options like the Golspie or the newer waterproof breathable ranges start at about £180 and look considerably more modern.

For the genuinely budget-conscious (and aren’t we all these days), here’s my secret: outdoor equipment shops rather than fashion retailers. Go to Go Outdoors, Decathlon or Millets rather than ASOS or John Lewis. Brands like Craghoppers and Regatta make perfectly functional raincoats in the £50-100 range. Are they cutting-edge style statements? No. Will they keep you dry for years? Absolutely. My mate Dave—a cameraman who spends most of his working life standing in fields in the rain waiting for something to happen—swears by his £60 Craghoppers jacket. “Five years, mate. Not a drop gets through.” If it works for someone whose livelihood depends on staying dry, it’ll handle your dash from the Tube to the office.

The real insider tip? Army surplus. British military wet weather gear is designed for people who have to function in the absolute worst conditions while carrying heavy equipment and potentially being shot at. Your requirements are probably less demanding. Places like Silvermans or online surplus stores sell genuine military Gore-Tex jackets for around £100. They’re not pretty—usually in camo or olive drab—but you can find plainer options if you hunt around, and nothing, NOTHING is more waterproof. I have an ex-RAF jacket that I’ve had for nearly a decade. It’s ugly as sin but bombproof in bad weather, and cost me £85.

If you’re after something that looks a bit more presentable for work, Uniqlo’s BlockTech range deserves a mention. For about £90, their coats offer surprisingly effective waterproofing in clean, minimal designs that don’t scream “I’m wearing technical clothing!” They’re not for mountaineering or standing at football matches in January, but for urban downpours and normal commuting, they’re excellent value. The cotton-blend options look like proper macs rather than hiking gear, and they’re cut slim enough to layer over workwear without making you look like the Michelin Man.

The high street isn’t completely useless either. M&S has seriously upped its game in the past few years. Their “Stormwear” fabric technology actually works, and you can pick up a decent raincoat for around £80-120. I was deeply skeptical until a stylist friend who does a lot of outdoor shoots recommended their navy cotton rain mac. I’m now on my second one. Is it as good as a high-end technical piece? No. Is it perfectly adequate for most British weather situations and doesn’t look out of place in an office? Absolutely.

A word on sustainability, because we need to talk about it. Better quality costs more upfront but means you’re not buying a new coat every year when your cheap one fails or falls apart. Brands like Finisterre, based in Cornwall (where they know a thing or two about bad weather), make ethical, sustainable rainwear starting at around £150. Their lifetime repair policy means they’ll fix damage rather than expecting you to replace the whole coat. Same goes for Patagonia’s Worn Wear program.

Let me end with a few hard-learned practical tips, regardless of your budget. Always, ALWAYS check that a coat has sealed or taped seams. Waterproof fabric means nothing if rain can seep through the stitching (learned this the hard way during a particularly miserable weekend in the Peak District). A proper hood that actually stays up in wind is non-negotiable—those little fashion hoods that sit nicely on your head in a changing room will be completely useless in an actual storm. And spare a thought for length. Those trendy cropped jackets? Brilliant for showing off your outfit, useless for keeping your thighs dry when the rain is coming in sideways.

My current everyday raincoat is a three-year-old Rains jacket—Danish brand, about £110, matte black, looks good over everything from suits to jeans. Is it the absolute pinnacle of waterproof technology? No. But it keeps me dry in 90% of situations, packs down small enough to live permanently in my work bag, and doesn’t make me look like I’m about to summit Ben Nevis or shoot grouse. For the truly apocalyptic days, I’ve got the Mountain Equipment coat hanging by the door, ready for action.

The hunt for the perfect affordable raincoat is probably Britain’s longest-running style quest. We’re a nation shaped by our terrible weather, both literally and sartorially. But you don’t need to spend Burberry money to stay dry. Just a bit of knowledge, a willingness to look beyond fashion brands, and perhaps the acceptance that sometimes function really does need to trump form. Because there’s nothing stylish about standing in a meeting room while a small puddle forms around your shoes, trust me on this one.

Oh, and buy an umbrella as well. A proper one with vents that won’t turn inside out in the first gust of wind. Belt and braces, folks. This is Britain, after all.

I destroyed a perfectly good pair of brogues last autumn in the Lake District. Not my brightest moment, I’ll admit. My girlfriend had suggested a “light walk” near Windermere—the kind that estate agents might describe as “a gentle stroll to local amenities” but actually involved boggy paths, unexpected streams, and something the locals casually referred to as a “small incline” that had me gasping for breath halfway up. The brogues—lovely Loake numbers that had served me faithfully through countless fashion weeks and industry dinners—never really recovered. The leather cracked along the seams, the soles separated at the front like a hungry mouth, and they developed a distinctly earthy smell that no amount of cedar shoe trees or speciality cleaners could eliminate.

“You need proper boots,” said my girlfriend, not even trying to hide her I-told-you-so smile as I mournfully inspected the damage back at our B&B. The problem is, I’ve spent fifteen years cultivating a personal style that doesn’t scream “I’m going orienteering after this meeting.” The thought of clumping around in those enormous, day-glo monstrosities that serious hikers wear—you know the ones, with more straps and hooks than a bondage convention—fills me with a very specific kind of fashion dread.

But here’s the thing about British countryside pursuits: they don’t care what shoes you think you should be wearing. Mother Nature will chew up your city footwear and spit it out without a second thought. So began my quest to find walking boots that could handle proper outdoor conditions while still looking vaguely presentable when worn with normal clothes. Boots that wouldn’t have me changing footwear in car parks before entering pubs, or apologising for looking like I’d gotten lost on my way to conquer K2.

First stop was the obvious outdoor chains—Cotswold Outdoor, Blacks, GO Outdoors. Surrounded by equipment that could feasibly support an Antarctic expedition, I felt like a fraud asking for “walking boots that don’t look too walking-boot-ish.” The very patient sales assistant at Cotswold (Craig, if you’re reading this, you deserve a raise) showed me roughly forty-seven virtually identical pairs of boots in various shades of brown, grey, and that weird blue-green that only exists in outdoor equipment stores. “These are our most popular,” he said, presenting a pair that looked like they’d been designed for stomping through nuclear waste. “Gore-Tex lining, Vibram sole, ankle support.” They were technically impressive and utterly hideous.

“I’m looking for something a bit more… subtle?” I ventured. Craig’s expression suggested I’d asked for walking boots made of tissue paper and dreams. “You want something that works or something that looks nice?” he asked, with the weary tone of someone who has this conversation twelve times a day. “Ideally both,” I replied, fully aware I was now that customer. You know, the difficult one. The one sales staff tell stories about over post-work pints.

After much back-and-forth, we landed on a pair of Scarpa boots in plain brown leather with minimal logos and branding. They weren’t exactly Crockett & Jones chelsea boots, but they also wouldn’t get me thrown out of a moderately nice pub. “These will handle most walking conditions you’re likely to encounter,” Craig assured me, “unless you’re planning on bog-snorkelling or actual mountaineering.” At £170, they weren’t cheap, but considering I’d just sacrificed a £240 pair of brogues to the mud gods, it seemed reasonable.

The real breakthrough came later, though, when a stylist mate who works on outdoor fashion shoots (yes, that’s a job, apparently) pointed me toward the emerging category of boots that deliberately bridge the outdoor-urban divide. Brands that understand some of us want to climb a hill and then have a pint without looking like we’ve wandered off from a school geography field trip.

Danner, an American brand with serious outdoor credentials, makes their Mountain Light boots that have somehow crossed over into fashion territory while still being genuinely practical. They’re not cheap—expect to pay north of £300—but they look as good with selvedge denim in a city as they do with walking trousers on a trail. The Portland-based company has been making boots since the 1930s, so they know their stuff, and the slightly vintage styling means they avoid that “just escaped from an outdoor equipment catalogue” look. I picked up a pair in “Cedar Brown” that have now accompanied me across fells, dales, and muddy festival fields without complaint or compromise.

On the more affordable end, Cat Footwear (yes, related to the Caterpillar machinery people) make surprisingly decent boots that hover around the £100-120 mark. Their Colorado boot is a bit of a workwear classic, but their less well-known models like the Stiction are proper waterproof walking boots disguised as casual everyday footwear. Mine have survived three years of regular abuse, including that memorably wet weekend in Wales where I’m pretty sure I saw animals queuing up two-by-two.

For those really trying to maintain style points while wading through muddy puddles, Fracap’s M120 boots offer Italian craftsmanship with proper Vibram soles. They look like something a particularly fashionable lumberjack might wear but handle light to moderate trails without issue. At around £220, they sit in that middle ground between high street and luxury pricing. They’re not what you’d choose for Helvellyn in January, but for most weekend walks followed by Sunday roasts, they’re ideal.

Surprisingly, Clarks—yes, the high street staple your mum dragged you to for school shoes—make some genuinely decent waterproof boots that don’t scream “OUTDOOR ACTIVITY HAPPENING HERE.” Their Batcombe range includes Gore-Tex options with proper rugged soles, but in silhouettes that could pass for casual office footwear in more relaxed workplaces. The Batcombe Alpina GTX saved my feet during a particularly damp Cotswolds weekend last spring, and at around £130, they won’t reduce your children to eating toast for a month.

The most stylish option I’ve found comes from a small brand called Fracap, who make boots that look like they’ve walked straight out of a Pitti Uomo street style gallery but actually have legitimate outdoor credentials. Their M120 Magnifico boots, handmade in Italy with Vibram soles, handle moderate trails while looking good enough to wear with tailored trousers. The downside? They’re around £280, and availability can be spotty.

Red Wing’s classic work boots, particularly the Iron Ranger and the Roughneck, have become fashion staples but also offer genuinely practical features for light hiking. They need some breaking in (my god, do they need breaking in—I had blisters on top of blisters for the first month), but once that’s done, they’re tanks. The Roughneck has a more aggressive sole pattern that handles mud well, while still looking appropriate for city wear. They hover around £300 but will genuinely last decades with proper care.

For the more fashion-conscious, Diemme from Italy make gorgeous hiking-inspired boots that actually function off-road. Their Roccia Vet model has been a favourite of both outdoor enthusiasts and streetwear fans for years. At around £250-300, they’re an investment, but one that works in multiple contexts. I’ve had mine for four years, and they’ve handled everything from Dartmoor to Shoreditch without missing a beat.

If budget is a primary concern, both Mountain Warehouse and Decathlon offer surprisingly effective options in the £60-90 range. No, they won’t win any style awards, but they’re noticeably less offensive to fashion sensibilities than many specialist hiking boots. Mountain Warehouse’s Brecon model in brown leather could almost pass for casual office footwear in certain lights, and they’ll keep your feet dry through standard British weather conditions.

The key things I’ve learned in my quest for stylish-but-functional walking boots: leather is your friend (it looks better as it ages, unlike synthetic materials which just look beaten up), minimise external branding and logos, avoid those toe caps that look like they’ve been dipped in sealing wax, and stick to natural colours rather than the neon accents that outdoor brands seem so fond of.

A word on care, because good boots deserve it: invest in proper waterproofing treatments and apply them regularly. Nikwax makes specific cleaners and proofers for different boot materials, and they actually work. Also, proper walking socks make an enormous difference—don’t spend hundreds on boots then pair them with thin cotton socks that will leave you with blisters five minutes into your walk. Bridgedale makes terrific walking socks that don’t look like something your granddad would wear.

The reality of British outdoor pursuits is that sometimes function has to win over form. When you’re halfway up a muddy hillside in driving rain, you won’t be worrying about whether your boots would look appropriate at a gastropub. But the good news is you no longer have to choose between feet that are dry and feet that are stylish. The gap between specialist outdoor footwear and everyday boots has narrowed significantly, with brands recognizing that many of us live lives that don’t fit neatly into “urban” or “outdoor” categories.

So yes, I still occasionally get odd looks from serious hikers with their state-of-the-art walking poles and boots that probably cost as much as a small car. And yes, I’ve accepted that no walking boot will ever look as elegant as a well-crafted dress shoe. But my current rotation of outdoor-capable footwear handles real British weather conditions without making me look like I’m about to request an emergency helicopter evacuation from Scafell Pike. And in a country where you can experience all four seasons in a single afternoon, that feels like victory enough.

Just don’t tell Craig from Cotswold Outdoor that I sometimes pair my Scarpa boots with selvedge denim for fashion events. Some compromises are between a man and his footwear alone.

I walked past a major accountancy firm in the City last Tuesday around lunchtime. Pre-pandemic, this would have guaranteed a sea of navy and charcoal suits, white shirts, conservative ties—the full corporate uniform that’s been the backbone of British office style since time immemorial. Instead, I witnessed a bizarre sartorial melting pot: a bloke in what looked like technical hiking trousers paired with a blazer; a woman in a proper suit but with trainers; someone senior (judging by the grey hair and confident stride) in chinos and an open-necked shirt; and, most shocking of all to my traditionalist core, a young man in—I swear this is true—shorts. Not tailored Bermudas, mind you. Actual casual shorts. In the City. In an accountancy firm. If my father had witnessed this scene, he’d have needed smelling salts.

British office style in 2024 is, to put it mildly, experiencing an identity crisis. The pandemic took our neatly defined workplace dress codes, threw them in a blender with our newly discovered appreciation for elasticated waistbands, and created a confusing smoothie of conflicting signals. What’s appropriate now varies wildly not just between industries (that was always the case) but between companies in the same sector, between different offices of the same company, and sometimes between different days of the week in the same bloody office.

“I have no idea what to wear anymore,” confessed James, a former university mate who works in insurance, over pints last month. “Half the office is in full suits, the other half looks like they’re about to go for a run, and I’m stuck in this weird middle ground wearing smart trousers with casual shirts feeling like I’ve got it wrong no matter what I do.” His confusion isn’t unique. I’ve received more panicked messages about office attire in the past two years than in the previous decade combined, and these aren’t just from fashion-phobic blokes who’ve always needed guidance—these are from people who previously navigated workplace style with confidence.

So what’s actually acceptable in British offices now? Let’s break it down by sector, based on my deeply unscientific but extensive research consisting of reader questions, mates working in various industries, and lurking outside office buildings pretending to be on my phone while actually taking mental notes of what people are wearing (I never claimed this job was always dignified).

Banking and Finance: Still the most conservative sector, but with significant cracks in the armor. The traditional City uniform of dark suit, proper shoes, and tie remains standard in client-facing roles and senior positions, especially in the old-guard institutions. However, US-influenced banks have relaxed considerably—Goldman Sachs officially relaxed their dress code back in 2019, and post-pandemic, they haven’t reversed course. The safest approach seems to be a well-cut suit worn without a tie, or smart separates (tailored trousers and a blazer). Shoes remain a sticking point—proper leather shoes are still expected in most institutions. The trainer-with-suit look that’s infiltrated other sectors hasn’t fully breached these citadels yet, at least not widely.

My banker friend Tom says the key is to “dress like the most conservative person in the room, minus 15%.” Enough to show you understand the culture but aren’t stuffy. His personal formula: suit with no tie Monday-Thursday, smart casual Friday, and reading the room when meeting clients rather than assuming a suit is always necessary.

Law: Nearly as conservative as finance on the surface, but with more variety underneath. Magic Circle firms maintain formal expectations for client meetings and court appearances (obviously), but day-to-day office wear has relaxed. Dark suits remain common but are no longer mandatory daily attire in many firms. A solicitor contact describes the current approach as “smart business separates”—good trousers, proper shirts, blazers or sportcoats, but not necessarily matched suits. Ties have become increasingly optional except for court and formal client meetings. Smaller firms, especially in areas like family law or those outside London, have embraced business casual more fully. The age divide is stark here—older partners generally maintain traditional standards while younger associates push the boundaries.

Accountancy and Consultancy: Genuinely confusing territory now. The Big Four have officially relaxed dress codes to varying degrees, but implementation differs wildly between offices and teams. Client-facing roles still tend toward traditional business attire, while internal teams have embraced everything from smart casual to borderline weekend wear. A senior manager at Deloitte told me they now dress specifically for each client—suits for traditional sectors, business casual for tech and creative industries—which means keeping a suit jacket in the office for emergency formality.

The trend toward “dress for your day” policies sounds liberating but actually creates anxiety for many. “I spend more time worrying about what’s appropriate now than when we just had to wear suits,” complained one EY employee. “If I’m too formal I look stuffy, too casual and I look unprofessional.” The general safe zone seems to be tailored trousers, a proper shirt (though possibly patterned), and smart shoes, with a blazer available if needed. It’s essentially a modernized take on business casual that can be dialed up or down.

Marketing, Media and Creative: Always the early adopters of casual workwear, these sectors have now abandoned nearly all boundaries except for client presentations. However, the freedom has created its own pressure—there’s an expectation of stylish individuality that can be more stressful than following a simple dress code. A smart-casual formula driven by quality and fit rather than formality seems to dominate—think good jeans or chinos, casual but well-cut shirts, knitwear in cooler months, and clean trainers or desert boots. My mate who runs a design agency says his only rule is “nothing you’d wear to paint the house or go to the gym,” which seems both liberating and completely unhelpful as specific guidance.

Tech and Startups: The stereotype of hoodies and flip-flops isn’t entirely accurate in the UK context (we’re still more conservative than our Silicon Valley counterparts), but tech remains the most casual sector. Quality dark jeans and a decent casual shirt has become the default uniform, with trainers completely normalized. The focus is on looking clean and put-together rather than formal. However, it’s worth noting that senior management, especially those handling investor relations, often maintain a slightly sharper look—upgraded business casual rather than full relaxed mode.

Government and Public Sector: Traditional with a capital T, but slowly changing. Central government still maintains fairly formal standards, particularly in Whitehall and for senior roles. Local government has relaxed considerably more. The civil service friend I consulted described it as “dressing for credibility”—which means relatively formal attire when representing departments or meeting external stakeholders, but increased flexibility for internal operations. He still keeps a tie in his desk drawer for unexpected formal situations, which seems like sound advice for most office environments now.

The “casual Friday” concept has largely dissolved, replaced by a more nuanced approach to occasion-appropriate dressing. Instead of specific days determining formality, it’s now about your diary—who you’re meeting, what you’re doing, whether you’re client-facing that day. This actually makes more sense but requires more thought each morning.

So what are the new general principles for navigating this confusing landscape? Here’s my best attempt at guidelines based on everything I’m seeing and hearing:

1. Default to the more formal option when starting a new job, then adjust once you’ve observed the actual culture. It’s always easier to relax your style than to suddenly formalize it after making the wrong first impression.

2. Invest in high-quality separates rather than full suits—good trousers, blazers, and shirts that can be mixed and matched give you more flexibility to dial formality up or down.

3. Shoes remain one of the most noticeable signals of formality. Proper leather shoes still command a certain respect in traditional environments, while clean, minimal trainers (not your gym shoes, please) are increasingly acceptable elsewhere.

4. Fit matters more than ever. The latitude in clothing choices means shabby or ill-fitting options stand out more. When dress codes relax, quality and fit become the new markers of professionalism.

5. Context is everything. The same person might legitimately wear a full suit for an important client presentation, smart separates for a normal office day, and something much more casual for an internal workshop or away day. Having a wardrobe that can flex across this spectrum is the new challenge.

6. When genuinely unsure, ask. Most managers would rather answer a straightforward question about dress expectations than deal with inappropriate choices after the fact.

7. A good blazer or sportcoat can salvage almost any outfit in a pinch. Keep one at the office if you can.

The most important thing to understand about British office style in 2024 is that uncertainty is universal. Nobody has fully figured out the new rules because they’re still being written. The pandemic forced a reset of workplace norms that we’re still processing, and different organizations are landing in different places. The traditional British business uniform provided clarity and ease—you knew exactly what was expected. The new landscape requires more judgment and attention to subtle cues.

For what it’s worth, in most environments, I’m seeing a return to slightly more formal standards than the immediate post-lockdown period, but not back to pre-pandemic levels. That extreme casual moment where people were essentially wearing upmarket loungewear to important meetings seems to be fading. There’s a growing recognition that how we dress affects how we work and how we’re perceived, regardless of whether anyone is formally enforcing a dress code.

Bottom line? British office style in 2024 is a negotiation—between personal comfort and professional expectations, between tradition and modernity, between individual expression and organizational culture. The days of the universal suit may be behind us, but the principle of dressing appropriately for context remains. The difference is that now, you have to figure out what “appropriate” means through observation and judgment rather than following a simple written code.

And if all else fails, decent trousers, a good shirt, and clean shoes will get you through most situations without raising eyebrows. Sometimes the boring middle path is the safest one while we all figure out what comes next. Just maybe don’t wear shorts to your accountancy firm. Some boundaries, it seems, are still worth maintaining.