I had a properly humbling experience last summer. I was rushing through Covent Garden, late for a meeting with some Italian fabric suppliers—you know, proper menswear journalist business—when a confused…
There’s a special kind of cold that exists only in Britain—a damp, insidious chill that somehow feels worse than the minus-twenty freeze I experienced in Stockholm a few years back.…
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…
“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…
I was standing at Piccadilly Circus last Tuesday, watching a group of tourists huddled miserably under the screens, absolutely drenched. It had gone from bright sunshine to biblical downpour in…
There’s a special kind of desperation that grips Britain when the temperature hits 21 degrees. It happened last Tuesday, actually—I was walking through Manchester and witnessed the full spectrum of…
I once spent an excruciating evening at a friend’s wedding watching a bloke in an expensive suit fidget miserably throughout the entire reception. The suit was clearly top-drawer—lovely cloth, decent…
I once attended a house party in the Cotswolds where the host—a friend of a friend—greeted guests wearing a shirt so frayed at the collar it appeared to be disintegrating…