It started, as most of my questionable ideas do, in the pub. Jamie (yes, the same one from uni who still dresses like he’s about to step into a board meeting) was banging on about how British telly has such distinct style signatures you could identify any show from a single costume. Marcus—who’s swapped his 70s polyester nightmares for Japanese workwear that costs more than my monthly rent—bet me fifty quid I couldn’t pull off “proper telly looks” in real life without looking like I was off to a fancy dress party.
Challenge bloody accepted.
The rules were simple: five days, five iconic British shows, worn to normal everyday activities. No Halloween-level cosplay, just authentic interpretations that captured each show’s essence while remaining something I could actually walk down Market Street in without being sectioned. Oh, and I had to document the whole thing for my column, which is exactly what you’re reading now. Poor life choices make for good content, after all.
Monday: Bridgerton (Regency-ish businesswear)
Christ, starting with Bridgerton was a tactical error. I’ve interviewed enough costume designers to know that true historical accuracy isn’t the point of the show—it’s more “Regency with a modern wink”—but still, translating those ruffled shirts and tailcoats into something I could wear to a 9am editorial meeting took some doing.
I settled on my highest-waisted trousers (thankfully the recent 90s revival has made these less impossible to find), a crisp white shirt with an absurdly large collar that I’d bought for a wedding then never worn again, and—the pièce de résistance—a midnight blue brocade waistcoat I found in a vintage shop in the Northern Quarter three years back and had never quite had the nerve to wear.
“You look like you’re about to announce the next dance at a provincial ball,” said my flatmate Tom as I headed out. Not exactly the look I was going for, but close enough.
The Tube was an experience. Look, Manchester isn’t exactly known for its conservative dressing, but even by our standards, a bloke in what my boss later described as “the full Jane Austen” at rush hour attracts attention. One woman actually asked if I was in a play. I told her I was the Duke of Manchester, which got me a proper eye-roll.
At the office, reactions ranged from confusion to delight. Patrick from marketing kept calling me “m’lord” all day, while Michael (my editor) just sighed and muttered something about “the things we do for content.” The real test came at an afternoon meeting with a denim brand—very much not the Regency aesthetic—where I had to explain to increasingly bewildered PR people that no, this wasn’t my usual style, and yes, I did actually know about contemporary menswear despite looking like I’d stepped out of a BBC period drama.
The waistcoat, though? Might be keeping that in rotation. Turns out brocade works surprisingly well with jeans for evening drinks.
Tuesday: Top Boy (Roadman realness)
Talk about whiplash. Going from Bridgerton’s refined silhouettes to Top Boy’s streetwear-heavy wardrobe felt like cultural hopscotch, but that’s British telly for you—we contain multitudes.
This one required shopping. My wardrobe runs to tailoring and what you might call “elevated basics” if you were the kind of person who uses phrases like “elevated basics” without irony. The full tracksuit, chunky trainers, and puffer jacket combo central to Top Boy’s aesthetic was outside my usual remit.
I spent Monday evening panic-buying on ASOS and convinced my mate Dwayne—who actually dresses like this normally and has excellent taste—to lend me his black Nike Tech Fleece (a garment I’ve written about numerous times but never actually owned).
“You look ridiculous,” was Dwayne’s assessment when I FaceTimed him for approval. “Not because of the clothes, but because you’re wearing them like you’re afraid they’ll bite you.”
He wasn’t wrong. I’d spent so many years softening jackets and wearing things with “natural ease” that the structured, street-sharp silhouette felt alien. I wasn’t wearing the tracksuit; it was wearing me.
Still, I had a photoshoot to oversee and three separate feature meetings to survive. The photographer actually laughed out loud when I arrived at the studio. “Alex Wright in a tracksuit is like seeing the Queen in jeans,” he said, which felt both insulting and weirdly flattering.
The day’s surprise was that, once I got over my self-consciousness, the outfit was ridiculously comfortable. Like, why-haven’t-I-been-wearing-this-to-ten-hour-photo-shoots-all-along comfortable. I kept the hood up during my afternoon coffee run, partly to complete the look and partly because I ran into Julian (yes, steamer disaster Julian, who now works for a competing magazine and still holds a grudge) and wasn’t prepared for that interaction.
Wednesday: Doctor Who (Eccentric academic chic)
Middle of the week called for the Doctor—specifically, a mash-up of Capaldi’s rock-professor look and Whittaker’s colorful eccentricity. This was closer to my natural habitat but pushed to eleven.
I went with absurdly wide-legged wool trousers, a vintage velvet blazer in a burnt orange that I usually save for autumn weddings, burgundy Doc Martens (the closest I could get to the Doctor’s boots without buying new ones), and—because no Doctor is complete without a signature accessory—a ridiculously long striped scarf I’d bought at a Paul Smith sample sale years ago.
“This is just how you dress normally, but more,” observed my sister when I sent her the obligatory mirror selfie. Fair, but not entirely accurate. Yes, I’ll do a velvet blazer for special occasions, but the full Time Lord ensemble with clashing colors and that scarf (draped dramatically, of course) was several notches beyond my usual.
The outfit got its first test at a breakfast meeting with a Swiss watch brand. Their UK director, a very precise man in a very precise suit, looked genuinely pained when I swept in with my scarf trailing behind me. “Interesting… choice today, Alexander,” he managed. I explained the column concept, which he found so bewildering I think he decided I was joking and just moved on.
The real win came from three separate compliments on the tube. A woman with spectacular silver hair stopped me to ask about the blazer, and two students wanted to know where the scarf was from. When I explained it was vintage Paul Smith, they looked so disappointed I almost offered to give it to them.
Eccentric academic might be my sweet spot, it turns out. Who knew?
Thursday: Peaky Blinders (Gangster-adjacent tailoring)
I’d been both dreading and looking forward to Peaky Blinders day. On one hand, it’s arguably the show that’s had the biggest impact on British menswear in the past decade—the number of terrible haircuts and waistcoats it’s inspired is incalculable. On the other hand, done wrong, I’d look like I was heading to a themed stag do.
I went all in: three-piece suit (charcoal herringbone, not quite period-accurate but close enough), collarless granddad shirt, heavy wool overcoat, and the pièce de résistance—a proper Birmingham-made flat cap from a hatter I’d interviewed last year. No fake razor blades sewn in, because I’m not an absolute helmet.
The look felt powerful, I won’t lie. There’s something about that particular silhouette—all hard edges and structured shoulders—that changes how you carry yourself. I found myself walking more deliberately, making more direct eye contact, and generally taking up more space. Behavioral psychology through tailoring, basically.
I had back-to-back meetings with potential advertisers all day, which turned out to be perfect timing. Nothing says “your money’s safe with this publication” like turning up dressed like you might have someone’s kneecaps broken if they miss a payment. (I’m JOKING, legal department, if you’re reading this.)
The most telling reaction came from a barista who, without any context for why I was dressed like this, automatically called me “sir” in a way that felt different from usual. Clothes maketh the man, and all that bollocks.
Friday: Great British Bake Off (Rural dad energy)
I saved the most challenging for last. Not because Bake Off has particularly outlandish costumes—quite the opposite. The distinctive “middle-aged person in a marquee” aesthetic is so everyday, so deliberately normal, that making it read as a specific reference rather than just “bloke who hasn’t tried very hard” was the real challenge.
After studying far too many episodes, I identified the key components: slightly too-bright jumper with some kind of novelty aspect, comfortable chinos or jeans, and an utterly sincere enthusiasm for life.
I selected a yellow cable-knit sweater with elbow patches that my mum gave me three Christmases ago (it’s the kind of thing no one under 50 would buy for themselves, which made it perfect), my least fashionable jeans, and boat shoes that I usually only wear on holiday. The piece de resistance was a Bake Off-style floral apron, which I wore to my morning coffee run with absolutely no explanation.
“You look like you’re about to tell me about your shed,” said the receptionist at our office. MISSION ACCOMPLISHED.
The day involved a team lunch where I insisted on asking everyone detailed questions about their food (“How’s the crumb structure on that sandwich?”) and a client call where I had to explain that no, I hadn’t accidentally turned on my camera while gardening, this was a deliberate style choice.
By mid-afternoon, I’d fully committed to the bit, bringing in homemade shortbread (shop-bought, but I transferred it to a tin, I’m not a monster) and using phrases like “lovely bake” and “good rise on that” about absolutely everything, including a colleague’s new haircut.
So what did I learn from five days of televisual cross-dressing? A few things, actually:
One, clothes are powerful bloody things. Each day’s outfit genuinely affected my mood, my posture, and how people interacted with me. The Peaky Blinders suit had people unconsciously standing further away from me on the Tube, while the Bake Off dad-wear had strangers striking up conversations at the coffee shop.
Two, context is everything. The exact same outfit that makes you look like a fashion-forward tastemaker in one setting will have people asking if you’re on your way to a costume party in another. I wore the Doctor Who getup to drinks after work and got compliments; I suspect if I’d worn it to my dad’s golf club, they’d have called security.
Three, British telly is a weirdly accurate barometer for our national relationship with clothes. From Bridgerton’s class-conscious peacocking to Bake Off’s deliberate averageness, these shows reflect something essential about how we view style as personal expression, social signaling, or just plain practicality.
Did I win the bet? Marcus grudgingly handed over the fifty quid, though he insisted the Bake Off day was “just you dressing badly on purpose.” Jamie, predictably, has now suggested a follow-up where I dress as American TV characters for a week. Absolutely not. I’ve seen Succession, and I do not have the net worth to pull off those cashmere baseball caps.
Besides, I’m still finding glitter in my coat pockets from that RuPaul’s Drag Race UK special edition I did last year—but that’s another story entirely.
