Author: carl

It started, as most of my questionable fashion experiments do, in the pub. “You’re basically a walking clothes hanger anyway,” my mate Charlie said, three pints in. “I bet you could pull off any look.” Jamie, ever the enabler, chimed in: “Yeah, but could you do Tommy Shelby? You haven’t got the cheekbones, mate.” And just like that, a dare was born. One week, five different British TV character outfits, worn to my regular life events—meetings, dinners, even a bloody dental appointment. God help me.

The rules were simple: I had to fully commit to each character’s signature look for a full day. No half measures. No “inspired by” cop-outs. And I had to document the reactions. My editor nearly spat out her coffee when I pitched it. “You’ll look ridiculous,” she said, immediately approving the budget for any costume pieces I didn’t already own. “The readers will love it.”

Monday: Tommy Shelby (Peaky Blinders)

Let’s get something straight—I’m about as intimidating as a labrador puppy. I’m the bloke who apologizes when someone else steps on my foot. So transforming into the razor-blade-wielding, dead-eyed gangster from Birmingham’s meanest streets was… ambitious.

The outfit itself wasn’t actually that far from my comfort zone: three-piece tweed suit, penny collar shirt, heavy wool overcoat. The differences were in the details—the collar pin instead of a tie, the pocket watch chain, boots instead of Oxfords. Oh, and the flat cap, of course. Not just any flat cap—the exact replica Garrison cap with the trademark Shelby silhouette. I drew the line at sewing razor blades into the peak, for obvious reasons including “not wanting to accidentally slice my own forehead open while adjusting it.”

The cap wasn’t the problem. The walk was. Have you ever tried to channel pure menace through your gait? It’s exhausting. I practiced in my flat the night before, stomping around my kitchen with what I thought was terrifying intensity, until my downstairs neighbor texted: “Are you doing aerobics up there?”

I had a client meeting that day with a major British heritage brand. As I walked into their pristine Mayfair office, the receptionist actually did a double-take. The brand manager—a usually unflappable woman who once maintained her composure when a model’s trousers split during a presentation—blinked rapidly and said, “Alexander, you look… murderous today.”

I growled my way through the meeting, keeping my responses clipped and making intense eye contact that I hoped conveyed “dangerous gangster” rather than “man with potential eye infection.” The strange thing? The meeting went surprisingly well. People interrupted me less. The usual skeptic in the corner office didn’t question my recommendations. When I suggested a bold direction for their summer campaign, instead of the usual twenty minutes of debate, the creative director just nodded and said, “If you think it’s best.”

Is this how Tommy Shelby feels all the time? Do people just… agree with you when you dress like you might have someone beaten up in a back alley? It was intoxicating and slightly terrifying.

The commute home was an education. Usually, I can count on at least three people knocking into me on the Tube without apology. That evening? People actually moved out of my way. A seat mysteriously became available. No one manspreaded into my space.

I stopped at Tesco on the way home. The cashier called me “sir” instead of “mate” and didn’t try to make small talk about the weather. I’m not proud to admit this, but I might have strutted a little bit on the walk back to my flat.

Tuesday: Doctor Who (The Twelfth Doctor)

From Shelby’s controlled menace to the Doctor’s chaotic brilliance—talk about emotional whiplash. I chose Peter Capaldi’s incarnation because: a) I already owned a navy velvet jacket that wasn’t entirely dissimilar, b) his punk-rock-meets-magician aesthetic speaks to my soul, and c) let’s be honest, I don’t have the hair to pull off any of the younger Doctors.

The full look: slim navy trousers, Doc Martens, white button-down, and that velvet jacket with crimson lining. I added Capaldi’s rings and the sonic screwdriver I’ve had since I was 12 (don’t judge—we all have our nostalgic treasures). The pièce de résistance was a set of attack eyebrows penciled in to match Capaldi’s magnificent scowl.

I had editorial meetings all day, which meant the Sartorial Him offices would get the full Time Lord treatment. My colleagues are used to my style experiments, but this one drew actual applause when I swept in, coat billowing behind me. Our intern, Gen Z personified, was utterly confused: “Are you cosplaying?” she asked, bewildered. Our senior editor, a devoted Whovian, responded by throwing a crumpled paper at me and demanding I explain the narrative inconsistencies in Season 8.

The challenge with channeling the Doctor wasn’t the outfit—it was the manic energy. By lunchtime, I was exhausted from spontaneously monologuing about the nature of time and humanity’s potential. I found myself gesticulating wildly during our content planning meeting, jumping between topics with barely a connection, and at one point actually standing on a chair to make a point about our digital strategy. Our editor-in-chief looked both concerned and strangely impressed.

The real test came during my lunch break. I had promised to help my friend’s teenager with university application advice, meeting him at a café near the office. He took one look at me, with my velvet jacket and wild eyebrows, and visibly relaxed. “I thought this was going to be boring career advice,” he said. We ended up having a brilliant conversation about pursuing passion over practicality, the nature of time (I couldn’t help myself), and why humans create art. Not the CV-building chat I’d planned, but possibly more useful.

On the downside, three different people asked me where the nearest Comic Con was, and one woman at the bus stop wanted to know if I could recommend a good magic show. The Doctor’s clothes telegraph “eccentric but trustworthy,” which is flattering but not entirely accurate in my case.

Wednesday: Ted Lasso

Mid-week called for something completely different. I decided on Ted Lasso, the relentlessly optimistic American football coach turned British football manager. This was challenging for multiple reasons: I’m not American, I’m not naturally that cheery, and frankly, his style is… well, it’s not exactly high fashion.

The outfit: khakis (had to buy these specially—I don’t think I’ve worn khakis since a regrettable gap year phase), blue jumper, checked shirt underneath, aviator sunglasses, and the piece de resistance—a clearly fake mustache purchased from a party shop. I also bought a whistle, which I wore around my neck, and practiced saying “I believe in believe” with my best attempt at a Kansas accent.

My calendar for Wednesday included a dentist appointment, which in retrospect was poor planning. The dentist was not amused when I refused to remove my fake mustache, explaining it was “for work.” Eventually, we compromised—I removed it for the actual check-up but insisted on wearing it in the waiting room, where I cheerfully offered life advice to a terrified-looking child waiting for an extraction.

The most surprising part of Ted Lasso day was how people responded to relentless optimism. As an experiment, I decided to approach every interaction with Ted’s unfailing belief in humanity’s goodness. I high-fived the barista who made my coffee. I left an encouraging note for our building’s maintenance man. I sent motivational texts to my most cynical friends.

The results were mixed. The barista seemed delighted by the high five but confused by my accent. The maintenance man left a thank-you note in return, addressing me as “Mr. American.” My cynical friends responded with variations of “Are you having a breakdown?” and “Did you join a cult?”

But something odd happened as the day progressed. I found myself actually feeling more optimistic. There’s something about physically embodying positivity—the constant smiling, the encouraging words, the literal bounce in my step—that started to rewire my typically British, slightly pessimistic outlook. By afternoon, I wasn’t even faking the accent anymore; the good cheer had become semi-genuine.

I had dinner plans with Vijay, my most fashion-forward friend who regularly roasts my style choices. He took one look at me, mustache and all, and burst out laughing. “You look like a PE teacher having a midlife crisis,” he said, which felt fair. But by the end of the meal, even he admitted there was something “annoyingly likeable” about the whole Ted Lasso vibe. “It’s like being annoyed at a golden retriever,” he concluded. “You want to roll your eyes but end up smiling instead.”

Thursday: Fleabag’s Priest (The Hot Priest)

After a day of wholesome American optimism, I swung to the other extreme: the complicated, conflicted, impossibly cool Hot Priest from Fleabag. Now we’re talking—back in my comfort zone with a black clergy shirt, black trousers, and that iconic charcoal grey jumpsuit-style clergy jacket that launched a thousand inappropriate fantasies about men of the cloth.

Finding clerical wear was surprisingly easy—apparently there’s a robust market for priest costumes year-round, not just at Halloween. The dog collar was plastic and dug into my neck all day, which felt appropriately penitential.

I had worried this might be crossing a line into offensive territory, but I decided the character was fictional enough (and famously tormented enough) to avoid being disrespectful. Still, I avoided actually claiming to be a priest to anyone who asked—that seemed a step too far, even for journalism.

I had to meet a PR team to view a new collection, which meant navigating Soho dressed as a man of God. The double-takes were constant. A group of tourists asked for directions to Carnaby Street, addressing me as “Father” with complete seriousness. Two separate people actually tried to make confessions—one seemingly as a joke, one alarmingly sincere before I could explain I was not, in fact, qualified to grant absolution.

The PR team’s faces when I walked in were absolutely priceless. “Is this… for an article?” the junior assistant asked hopefully, clearly worried she’d somehow scheduled a collection viewing with actual clergy. Once I explained, they relaxed—too much, perhaps. The senior PR person spent the entire meeting making thinly veiled “hot priest” references and offering me gin in a can, which I accepted in character.

What fascinated me most was how people spoke to me—more thoughtfully, with fewer swear words, and with a strange mixture of respect and caution. A construction worker who would normally have ignored me held a door open. The typically snooty barista at my local coffee shop called me “sir” instead of sighing dramatically when I ordered.

And I found myself behaving differently too—speaking more deliberately, maintaining eye contact longer, listening more carefully. There’s something about the priest’s costume that demands a certain gravity. I caught myself nearly putting a comforting hand on a stressed-looking woman’s shoulder before remembering I was just a fashion writer in fancy dress, not someone qualified to offer spiritual comfort.

The low point came when an elderly woman asked for my blessing outside Marks & Spencer. I panicked and mumbled something about having a train to catch. The costume crossed from fashion experiment into ethical gray area faster than I’d expected.

Friday: Villanelle (Killing Eve)

For the grand finale, I went bold: Villanelle from Killing Eve. Not one of her more outrageous looks—I drew the line at a full pink tulle dress—but her famous Dries Van Noten suit from Season 1. I already owned a similar printed suit (what can I say, I’m a fashion writer with expensive taste and poor impulse control), so with a white shirt, tousled hair, and my most intense stare, I was ready for my female assassin day.

This one sparked the most controversy among my friends. “Isn’t it weird for a bloke to dress as a female character?” Jamie texted when I shared my plan. I disagreed—Villanelle’s style is flamboyant but the suits themselves aren’t inherently gendered. If David Bowie taught us anything, it’s that men can absolutely rock bold prints and androgynous tailoring.

I had an important pitch meeting with a luxury client, which meant presenting to a room full of very serious fashion executives while dressed like a psychopathic assassin with excellent taste. I decided to fully channel Villanelle’s confidence—the borderline arrogance, the unblinking stare, the slightly unnerving smile.

It worked disturbingly well. I’ve never had a pitch meeting go smoother. When one executive questioned our proposed budget, instead of my usual diplomatic negotiation, I just stared at him silently with what I hoped was Villanelle’s “I could kill you and feel nothing” expression. He actually mumbled “never mind” and moved on. Power move accidentally unlocked.

The rest of the day was a revelation. The suit itself attracted compliments—it’s objectively gorgeous, after all—but it was the character’s energy that really changed how people interacted with me. Villanelle doesn’t ask for space; she takes it. She doesn’t hope people will listen; she assumes they will. Walking through Covent Garden at lunch, I realized I was taking up more physical space, walking with more certainty, making decisions faster.

My evening plans involved drinks with the entire Sartorial Him team to celebrate a colleague’s promotion. I considered changing first but decided to commit to the bit. Our editor-in-chief took one look at me and said, “Villanelle, I presume?” I was absurdly pleased she recognized the reference. The team was divided—half thought it was brilliant, half found it vaguely unsettling how much I seemed to be enjoying channeling a fictional murderer.

The Week’s Verdict

Seven days, five characters, and more self-discovery than I’d bargained for. I expected this experiment to be about how others perceive clothes and the characters we associate with them. What I didn’t expect was how dramatically these outfits would change my own behavior.

Tommy Shelby’s three-piece armor made me more assertive. The Doctor’s eccentric professor look gave me license to be more expansive with my ideas. Ted Lasso’s dad-core outfit somehow made me actually feel more optimistic. The Hot Priest’s collar made me a better listener. And Villanelle’s bold suit unlocked a confidence I didn’t know I needed.

It’s easy to dismiss fashion as superficial, but this week proved what I’ve always suspected: clothes are costumes we use to signal who we are—or who we want to be—to the world. The right outfit doesn’t just change how others see us; it changes how we see ourselves.

Will I continue wearing a fake mustache to important meetings? Probably not. Am I planning to invest in more three-piece suits with subtle menace? Absolutely. And the next time I need to nail a pitch meeting, you might just spot me in a bold printed suit, channeling my inner assassin. Just don’t sit with your back to the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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