Blog

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.

I have a slightly embarrassing confession to make. For years, I packed for British seaside holidays as though I was heading to the bloody Amalfi Coast. Linen shirts, lightweight chinos, those preposterously fragile leather sandals that disintegrate if they so much as glimpse saltwater. I’d visualize myself strolling elegantly along some sun-dappled promenade, ice cream in hand, skin taking on that healthy glow that only comes from gentle, consistent sunshine.

The reality, of course, was me huddled behind a windbreak on a Cornish beach, frantically pulling a charity shop sweatshirt over my carefully selected resort wear, while the wind did its level best to exfoliate my face with fine sand. My girlfriend took a photo of me during one such moment in Whitstable three summers ago—sort of hunched over, clutching a takeaway tea with blue-tinged hands, hair arranged by the wind into what looked like some sort of experimental art installation. “For your fashion blog,” she’d said, barely containing her glee at my evident discomfort. Needless to say, that particular image never made it to Instagram.

British seaside holidays require a specific wardrobe strategy that acknowledges the fundamental truth we all know but somehow forget when booking: our coastal weather is, at best, charmingly unpredictable and, at worst, actively hostile to human comfort. That glorious 25-degree heatwave forecasted during your week in Devon? It’ll last precisely 37 minutes on Wednesday afternoon while you’re stuck in a gift shop because someone needed the loo. The rest of the time? Prepare for that peculiarly British meteorological phenomenon—16 degrees and windy, with the persistent threat of drizzle hovering just offshore.

So how do you dress for this reality without completely abandoning all style principles and resorting to the classic British fallback of “hiking gear for all occasions”? After roughly two decades of seaside holidays (and associated wardrobe disasters), I’ve finally cracked a system that keeps me both reasonably comfortable and faintly presentable.

First, let’s talk layers. Not the heavy, winter-appropriate kind, but the light, easily packable, quick-drying variety that can be added or removed as the temperature fluctuates through its typical 10-degree daily range. A decent lightweight merino jumper is worth its weight in gold here. Unlike cotton, it stays warm when damp (critical for unexpected sea spray incidents), doesn’t retain odors when worn repeatedly (important when staying in those charming B&Bs with minimal hanging space), and maintains some semblance of style even when pulled on and off seventeen times in a single afternoon. Uniqlo’s merino options hover around the £30-40 mark and punch well above their weight class performance-wise. John Smedley makes the Rolls Royce version if your budget stretches to £175, but honestly, seaside conditions being what they are, the affordable option might be more sensible.

Under said jumper, forget the classic white t-shirt—it’s a magnet for ice cream drips, seagull contributions, and that mysterious grime that seems to manifest spontaneously in seaside towns. Instead, opt for something with a bit of pattern or texture that can disguise minor mishaps. A Breton stripe is the obvious choice (sailor-inspired clothing actually makes contextual sense here), but a subtle pattern works too. Armor-Lux makes the authentic version, but you’ll find decent alternatives everywhere from M&S to Arket.

For legwear, the great British seaside demands a specific approach. Those lovely linen trousers I mentioned earlier? Save them for Santorini. What you need is something robust enough to withstand sitting on potentially damp sea walls, quick-drying when caught by a rogue wave, comfortable for the surprising amount of walking that seaside towns seem to require, and presentable enough for dinner at that restaurant where you couldn’t get a booking until 9pm. Good quality chinos in a slightly heavier weight than you might typically choose tick all these boxes. The sweet spot is 8-10oz cotton with a bit of stretch—substantial enough to block wind but not so heavy they take days to dry if soaked. Dickies make surprisingly good options that border on workwear but are cut well enough to pass muster in most restaurants.

Footwear is where most seaside sartorial disasters begin. There’s an almost irresistible urge to pack flip-flops or fancy leather sandals, as though sheer optimism might force the weather to accommodate your Caribbean-inspired choices. Resist this impulse. Instead, consider the deck shoe—not the shiny, pristine version beloved by Henley Regatta attendees, but the properly broken-in, salt-stained variety that can handle an impromptu rock pool investigation but still look appropriate for lunch. Sebago and Sperry make the classics (around £100), but if budget is a concern, M&S does a surprisingly decent version for about half that.

For cooler days or evenings, desert boots provide a good compromise between proper shoes and trainers. The crepe sole handles damp pavements and sandy promenades better than leather-soled alternatives, while the ankle height keeps out debris during beach walks. Clark’s Originals remain the benchmark (£120), but Astorflex makes a slightly more refined version if you’re willing to spend a bit more.

The absolute cornerstone of successful British seaside dressing, however, is the right jacket. This single item will make or break your comfort levels and, consequently, your entire holiday experience. What you need is something genuinely windproof (not just wind-resistant—there’s a crucial difference you’ll discover very quickly on a Norfolk beach), reasonably waterproof, breathable enough to prevent that uniquely unpleasant clammy feeling during rare sunny spells, and—crucially—something that doesn’t scream “I’M DOING OUTDOOR ACTIVITIES” at maximum volume.

After years of trial and error, I’ve found that sailing-inspired jackets offer the best combination of functionality and style for seaside conditions. Brands like Henri Lloyd, Musto, and GANT make jackets specifically designed for coastal environments that don’t look like you’re about to attempt a speed-record around Cape Horn. They’re cut slightly longer at the back to protect you when seated on sea walls, feature good quality zips that won’t corrode with the first hint of salt air, and usually include clever details like fleece-lined pockets for hands that have spent too long holding rapidly cooling takeaway coffees.

My personal seaside jacket hero is a navy Henri Lloyd sailing jacket I found on sale four years ago. It’s weathered countless coastal assaults, packs down reasonably small, and looks intentional rather than desperate when worn over most outfits. At around £150-200 full price, these aren’t cheap, but the cost-per-wear over multiple British holidays makes them reasonable value. If that’s beyond your budget, check out French brand Armor-Lux again—their fisherman-inspired jackets offer similar functionality at a gentler price point.

Let’s talk accessories, because they make a disproportionate difference to seaside comfort. A lightweight scarf (yes, even in summer) can transform your microclimate when the wind picks up. Look for cotton/modal blends rather than wool for versatility across temperature ranges. A proper hat is non-negotiable—not just for rare sunny moments but as essential protection against wind that seems determined to extract every last styling product from your hair. Baseball caps blow off; flat caps make you look like you’re cosplaying rural gentry. The ideal is something with adjustable fitting like a bucket hat (they’re legitimately back in style) or a cotton version of a fisherman’s hat with toggles.

Sunglasses are necessary year-round at the British seaside—not always for sun, but as protection against the uniquely exfoliating combination of wind and sand that can make your eyes feel like they’ve been scrubbed with fine sandpaper. Opt for a secure fit over cutting-edge style; this is not the moment for those delicate wireframe numbers that perch precariously on your nose.

A good tote bag completes the seaside kit—something washable, ideally waterproof, with a zip to prevent the wind from making an impromptu inventory check of your possessions. It needs to be substantial enough to accommodate layers shed during unexpected warm spells, but not so heavy it becomes a burden during promenade walks. Canvas is the traditional choice, but modern technical fabrics offer greater protection against damp conditions.

What about those genuinely warm days that occasionally bless our shores? By all means, break out appropriate summer gear—but keep your layering options within reach. The British seaside has an almost supernatural ability to drop ten degrees in temperature when your warm weather outfit commitment is greatest. I’ve learned this lesson repeatedly, most memorably during a July weekend in Margate where the temperature plummeted from 26 to 14 degrees in the time it took to eat a Mr. Whippy.

Perhaps the most important aspect of British seaside style is managing expectations. You’re not in Capri. You’re in Cromer or Cardigan or Croyde, and there’s a distinct charm to embracing that reality rather than fighting it. The British seaside holiday has its own aesthetic—one that involves windswept hair, slightly salt-stiffened clothes, and the particular satisfaction of finding a sheltered spot for coffee while watching horizontal rain lash less prepared visitors.

After years of getting it wrong, I’ve made peace with the fact that my seaside wardrobe is fundamentally different from my Mediterranean one. There’s something liberating about this acceptance—about packing clothes that can handle the reality rather than the fantasy. These days, I actively enjoy the challenge of putting together outfits that can survive a blustery August day in Whitby without resorting to full hiking gear or giving up entirely and buying a novelty waterproof poncho from a gift shop.

The ultimate aim isn’t to look like you’ve stepped from the pages of a summer fashion editorial—it’s to be comfortable enough to actually enjoy your holiday while maintaining some semblance of personal style. And if that means wearing a proper waterproof jacket over your summer outfit while eating ice cream in a force six gale, well, that’s the authentic British seaside experience. Embracing it might be the most stylish move of all.

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 in real time. His trousers had visible wear at the knees and a subtle patch near the back pocket. His shoes, ancient brown brogues polished to a rich patina, had clearly been resoled multiple times. To the untrained eye, he might have looked somewhat shabby—perhaps even down on his luck. Except those trousers were bespoke from Anderson & Sheppard. The shirt was handmade Turnbull & Asser, probably close to a decade old. The shoes were Edward Green, likely older than most of the guests. This man—let’s call him Henry—was worth several million pounds and owned the small estate we were standing in.

Welcome to the strange world of “comfortably posh” dressing—arguably Britain’s most subtle, complex, and aspirational male aesthetic. It’s an approach to style that simultaneously signals tremendous privilege while appearing to care nothing about appearances. It’s clothing that whispers rather than shouts, that ages rather than dates, that values provenance over novelty. And for a style built on the illusion of nonchalance, it takes remarkable confidence and insider knowledge to execute properly.

What makes this aesthetic so distinctively British is its seemingly contradictory nature. In no other country would extreme wealth express itself through deliberate shabbiness. The Italian wealthy signal their status through the sprezzatura of perfectly cut suits and handmade shoes. American old money opts for polished preppy classics. The French go for understated luxury with perfect fit. But the British upper classes? They’re out here wearing inherited jumpers with moth holes and thirty-year-old tweed jackets with sweet packet wrappers permanently embedded in the pockets.

I’ve spent years both observing and occasionally infiltrating these circles (primarily for journalistic purposes, I assure you), and I’ve compiled what amounts to a field guide to this peculiar sartorial approach. Consider this your introduction to the rules of comfortably posh dressing—rules that, ironically, appear to reject the very concept of fashion rules.

The first and most fundamental principle is that clothing should never look new. Fresh-from-the-box anything is considered slightly vulgar, a bit too eager. This extends from casual wear to formal attire. Those green wellies should be caked with several seasons of mud. Tweed jackets need at least a decade of wear before they properly conform to the body. Suits should suggest they’ve witnessed multiple generations of family weddings and funerals. Even black-tie attire ideally carries the subtle implication that it might have belonged to one’s grandfather.

This dedication to the well-worn creates a paradox: the items must be of exceptional quality to age gracefully rather than simply deteriorate. That’s why the comfortably posh wardrobe is fundamentally expensive, even if it doesn’t appear so at first glance. The jumper with elbow patches wasn’t bought that way—it earned them after years of wear, then was properly repaired rather than discarded. The countryside jacket with fade marks where a shotgun once rested against the shoulder has genuinely seen hundreds of days in the field. These clothes tell stories of lives actually lived, not lifestyle aspirations purchased ready-made.

The second principle concerns brands and provenance. There exists an unwritten list of acceptable suppliers that rarely changes from generation to generation. For countryside attire, think Cordings, Purdey, and Farlows. For tailoring, it’s the established Savile Row houses—Huntsman, Anderson & Sheppard, Henry Poole. For shirts, Turnbull & Asser, Hilditch & Key, or New & Lingwood. For shoes, Crockett & Jones, Edward Green, Tricker’s, or John Lobb. Interestingly, these references are never displayed prominently—no visible logos, no showy design signatures—but to the informed observer, the cut and details are unmistakable.

Even more intriguing is how items from these suppliers are acquired. Many are inherited or purchased secondhand. Family hand-me-downs are the gold standard, creating clothing with literal bloodlines. Failing that, vintage and pre-loved pieces from the right sources are perfectly acceptable. I once witnessed a heated debate between two otherwise reserved gentlemen about whether a particular tweed jacket had belonged to someone’s father or uncle—the provenance mattered more than the item itself.

The third principle involves the specific items that form the comfortably posh uniform. For casual country wear, it’s the well-worn Barbour jacket (preferably the Beaufort or Border models, patched multiple times rather than replaced), corduroys or moleskins in muted earth tones, tattersall check shirts, and those famously ancient brown brogues or dealer boots. The knitwear is invariably lambswool or cashmere, often in the distinctive diamond pattern of Fair Isle or simple crew necks in bottle green, navy, or burgundy. Nothing matches perfectly, yet everything harmonizes in a way that suggests generations of accumulated taste rather than a single shopping expedition.

For city wear, it’s classic British tailoring in subtle patterns—often featuring connections to regiments, schools, or clubs that only insiders would recognize. Shirts are predominantly white or blue, with occasional forays into discreet stripes or checks. Accessories are minimal but significant: a signet ring perhaps (never fashionable, always familial), an understated mechanical watch (Jaeger-LeCoultre and Patek Philippe are favorites, always on a leather strap, never ostentation), and possibly a pocket square (though never too artfully arranged—it should look casually stuffed rather than precisely folded).

The fourth principle, and perhaps the most challenging to navigate, is the art of selective scruffiness. True practitioners of comfortably posh style master the balance between care and calculated neglect. Shoes are always impeccably polished, even if their uppers are creased and their soles well-worn. Tailoring may be decades old but is properly maintained—brushed, hung, and respected. Hair may appear slightly unkempt but is cut by the best barbers (often for generations—”My father took me to Trumper’s for my first haircut, as his father did for him”). This selective attention creates the impression that appearance matters in principle but isn’t worth fussing over in practice—a powerful statement about priorities and values.

What makes this aesthetic so difficult to imitate is that it genuinely can’t be purchased off the rack. The passage of time is non-negotiable. You can buy the right Barbour jacket, but without years of wear, repairs, and authentic countryside adventures, it remains conspicuously new. You can invest in bespoke tailoring, but without the patina that comes from decades of use, it lacks the essential lived-in quality. This is an aesthetic that requires patience more than purchasing power.

There’s also the matter of context and bearing. Comfortably posh dressing is accompanied by specific mannerisms, speech patterns, and cultural references that can’t be acquired quickly. The confidence to wear visibly worn clothing in formal settings comes from absolute security in one’s social position. When the Duke of Edinburgh famously attended events in suits that were decades old, it wasn’t frugality but a demonstration that he was beyond fashion—he didn’t need new clothes to affirm his status.

The most fascinating aspect of this style is how it communicates values through textiles. It suggests continuity, tradition, and stewardship rather than consumption. It implies a comfortable relationship with inheritance—both material and cultural. It quietly announces that the wearer values longevity over novelty, quality over quantity, and appropriateness over trendiness. In an age of disposable fashion, there’s something almost radical about clothing intended to last a lifetime or longer.

For those interested in adopting elements of this aesthetic (without the associated class pretensions), focus on the principles rather than specific items. Invest in quality pieces that improve with age. Develop relationships with tailors, shoemakers, and repairers who can maintain your wardrobe for decades. Learn to appreciate patina and wear as adding character rather than detracting from appearance. Be patient—this is a marathon, not a sprint.

The comfortably posh approach raises legitimate questions about privilege and accessibility. Many of the specific items mentioned here are prohibitively expensive for most people. The leisure time required to develop the associated lifestyle signifiers is unevenly distributed across society. The very concept carries unavoidable class connotations in Britain’s still highly stratified society. These are valid critiques.

Yet there’s something worth salvaging from this approach: the fundamental idea that clothing should serve us for many years, that quality transcends fashion, that repair is preferable to replacement, and that our wardrobes might tell authentic stories about our lives rather than aspirational fantasies about who we wish to be.

I’ve seen genuine practitioners of this style wear the same dinner jacket to annual events for thirty years, gradually altering it as their physique changes with age. I’ve watched them instinctively select repairable, resoleable footwear without considering less durable alternatives. I’ve observed their genuine distress when a favorite item becomes truly unwearable after decades of service. These aren’t performances of sustainability but ingrained habits from a pre-disposable era.

The comfortably posh aesthetic is simultaneously ridiculous and admirable, exclusionary and instructive. It represents both entrenched privilege and genuine wisdom about material goods. It can’t be reduced to shopping advice or style tips because it’s fundamentally about values, identity, and relationship to time itself.

Perhaps the most interesting aspect is how this approach has influenced adjacent style cultures. The heritage menswear movement, with its emphasis on provenance and durability, draws heavily from these traditions while democratizing the underlying values. The growing interest in classic tailoring, visible repairs, and buying fewer but better things suggests that aspects of this aesthetic resonate beyond its original social context.

The next time you encounter someone wearing an ancient Barbour with patches upon patches, frayed-collar shirts of obvious quality, or perfectly polished shoes that have clearly walked thousands of miles, consider that you might be observing not just a style choice but a philosophy about material goods embodied in fabric and leather. It’s an approach that says some things improve rather than deteriorate with age and use—including, perhaps, ourselves.

There’s a moment that every serious charity shop hunter lives for. That split second when your fingers brush past some unremarkable polyester blend and suddenly—wait, what’s this?—you’re touching cashmere or merino or something else entirely too good to be sitting on a metal rail between a worn-out George at Asda jumper and someone’s discarded holiday shirt. I had one of those moments last Tuesday in a British Heart Foundation shop in Didsbury. Rain hammering down outside, that peculiar musty-book-and-fabric-softener smell inside, and suddenly there it was: a perfectly preserved Paul Smith jacket in exactly my size.

£18. Eighteen bloody quid. I actually glanced around to see if someone was playing a practical joke on me. The thing would’ve been north of £500 new. The charity shop ladies behind the counter didn’t bat an eyelid when I practically sprinted to pay for it, though one did say, “Oh, that’s a nice one, that is. Came in yesterday.” Which nearly killed me because I’d walked past the shop the day before and thought, nah, I’ll come back tomorrow. Could’ve missed it entirely.

I’ve been hunting in charity shops since university when it was less a hobby and more a financial necessity. My student loan barely covered rent and beans on toast, let alone any notions of dressing well. But I’ve kept at it long past the point where my bank balance strictly requires it because, honestly? The thrill of the find is addictive. Plus there’s something deeply satisfying about building a wardrobe of quality pieces while simultaneously giving money to good causes and keeping perfectly good clothes out of landfill. Win-win-win, that is.

Over the years, I’ve developed something of a system. Not foolproof by any stretch—there’s always an element of luck—but I’ve noticed patterns that significantly up your chances of scoring designer gold in the sea of fast fashion castoffs. And since I’m feeling generous (or perhaps because I’m writing this after three coffees and that makes me verbose), I’ll share my hard-won wisdom with you.

First off, location matters. A lot. I know it sounds obvious, but the socioeconomics of an area directly influence what gets donated. The charity shops in Alderley Edge or Harrogate or Richmond are going to yield very different results than those in, say, less affluent areas. I’m not saying don’t check the latter—I’ve found absolute treasures in the most unexpected places—but if you’re specifically hunting designer pieces, follow the money.

The sweet spot, I’ve found, is affluent villages and small towns where there’s a high concentration of professional couples in their 40s-60s. These are people who buy quality, take care of their clothes, and then donate them when they’re bored rather than when they’re worn out. University towns are another goldmine, especially at the end of term when international students can’t be bothered to ship everything home. I once found three pristine Sunspel t-shirts (tags still on) in an Oxfam in Durham in June. Some student’s loss was very much my gain.

Timing is crucial too. Midweek mornings, especially Tuesdays and Wednesdays, tend to be when most shops put out new stock. Monday donations get processed and Tuesday they hit the floor. Friday is the second-best bet, as shops gear up for Saturday traffic. Speaking of which, avoid Saturdays like the plague unless you enjoy competing with hordes of other bargain hunters who have exactly the same idea as you. I learned this the hard way after one too many elbows to the ribs in a Cancer Research shop in Bath. Never again.

January is surprisingly excellent for menswear—post-Christmas clear-outs mean lots of barely-worn gifts from well-meaning relatives. “What do you buy the man who has everything? Apparently another blue jumper,” as my sister-in-law once sighed while watching my brother unwrap his fifth nearly identical sweater one Christmas. Those jumpers inevitably end up donated come January.

Now, once you’re in the shop, have a strategy. Most people head straight for the obvious sections—suits, coats, knitwear. And yes, check those, but don’t neglect the areas others skip. The shirt rail is often a goldmine because good shirts get lumped in with bad ones, and most people can’t tell the difference at a glance. Learn to spot quality from three feet away—look for mother of pearl buttons (they catch the light differently), split yokes on the back of shirts, and fabric that hangs differently from the cheap stuff.

The best indicator is often the feel. Quality wool, cotton, linen all have a weight and texture that synthetic fibers or cheap blends can’t replicate. I can usually eliminate 80% of a rail with a quick brush of my hand without even looking at labels. My wife calls it my “textile radar” and makes fun of me for it, but she’s not complaining when I bring home a Loro Piana shirt for a fiver, is she?

Always, always check inside labels and construction. I flipped a plain navy jumper inside out once and discovered it was a Jil Sander piece that had been donated with the labels cut out (probably from a sample sale originally). The construction was immaculate—flat-locked seams, perfect finishing—which is what made me check closer in the first place. Worth every penny of the £4.50 I paid for it.

The other thing—and this might sound mad, but trust me—is to be nice to the staff. I don’t mean in a calculating way, just… be a decent human being. Chat to them. Remember their names. The ladies who run the charity shop near my flat now keep an eye out for anything they think I’d like. “We had this lovely linen shirt come in, and I thought of you, so I put it aside,” said Jean last month, producing a perfect Officine Générale piece from behind the counter. Nearly wept with gratitude, I did.

Having said all that, there are some things you’re unlikely to find no matter how strategic you are. Really high-end designer shoes rarely appear—people tend to wear good shoes until they’re genuinely worn out. Same with quality jeans. And anything currently trendy gets snapped up by the shop staff or their friends before it ever hits the sales floor. That’s just the way it is.

You’ve also got to be prepared for disappointment. For every perfect Paul Smith jacket, there are twenty trips where you find absolutely nothing. That’s part of the game. If you get frustrated easily, this might not be the hobby for you. I once went through a three-month drought where I swear every charity shop in a thirty-mile radius only had George at Asda and Primark donations. Dark times. I started questioning my methods, my luck, the entire concept of second-hand shopping. Then I found a perfect Burberry trench coat for £25 and all was right with the world again.

What about the really exclusive stuff? The Zegnas and Brunello Cucinellis of this world? They do appear—rarely—but you’re more likely to find them in charity shops that have wised up to designer donations. Places like Mary’s Living & Giving shops for Save the Children (curated by retail expert Mary Portas) actively sort and price designer pieces accordingly. You’ll pay more, but still a fraction of retail. The British Red Cross shop in Chelsea is another spot where you might find higher-end pieces at higher-end (but still bargain) prices.

The other strategy, if you’re after specific designers, is to look beyond traditional charity shops to consignment stores and vintage boutiques. Yes, they’re more expensive, but they’ve done the sorting for you. Places like Reign Vintage in London or The Vintage Showroom sometimes have incredible menswear pieces. I found a 1960s Aquascutum overcoat in perfect condition at a vintage place in Manchester that I treasure to this day.

Online has changed the game too, of course. eBay remains a treasure trove if you’re willing to wade through the endless listings. Vestiaire Collective and Grailed are good for specific designer pieces, though the real bargains are rarer there as sellers know what they’ve got. But there’s something about the physical hunt, the tactile experience of flipping through rails, that I find infinitely more satisfying than scrolling on my phone. Plus, you can’t feel the fabric online, can you? And as I’ve said, that’s half the battle.

My latest obsession is the British Heart Foundation’s furniture and electrical shops, which most people don’t realize often have a small clothing section tucked away at the back. Less competition, more chance of finding something good. Got a perfectly good Albam chore jacket for £12 last month while supposedly looking for a bedside table. Didn’t find the table, but honestly, who cares?

At the end of the day, the real joy of charity shop hunting isn’t just saving money—though that’s a definite perk. It’s about the thrill of discovery, the satisfaction of rescuing something beautiful that might otherwise be overlooked, and yes, the smug feeling when someone compliments your outfit and you get to say, “Thanks, charity shop, seven quid.” Their face is always a picture.

So next time you’re walking past that row of charity shops on your local high street, maybe duck in for five minutes. You never know what you might find. Just leave the good stuff in the Manchester shops for me, alright? I’ve got my eye on a couple of places that are due for a good donation any day now.

I’ve got this navy blue crew neck jumper that I’ve worn to death for going on seven years now. Nothing fancy—just a simple, medium-weight merino wool number with a clean silhouette and ribbed cuffs that have somehow managed to retain their shape despite countless washes and my habit of pushing sleeves up when I’m writing. Cost me £65 from John Lewis back when I was still pretending I could maintain a sensible budget. Every autumn I tell myself I should probably replace it, and every autumn I try on about fifteen different options and end up coming home with nothing because, well, they’re just not as good, are they?

The thing is, that jumper represents something that’s becoming increasingly rare: a fairly priced, well-made basic from a British high street retailer that’s actually built to last. In an era where we’re drowning in £9.99 t-shirts that twist after one wash and £29.99 jumpers that pill before you’ve even got them home, finding properly made staples without venturing into luxury territory feels like a proper treasure hunt. And it shouldn’t be, should it?

I got into a slightly heated discussion about this with Jamie last week. We were grabbing a pint at this pub in Northern Quarter where they insist on serving everything in those dimpled pint glasses that always make me feel like I should be wearing driving gloves and complaining about decimal currency. Jamie—who, if you remember from previous columns, now runs his dad’s menswear business—was insisting that “proper basics” at accessible price points are dead. “It’s all fast fashion or designer now, mate. Middle ground’s gone,” he declared, with the confidence of someone who spends his days knee-deep in wholesale catalogs.

I disagreed. Strongly. Because while it’s definitely harder to find quality basics on the high street than it was in our dads’ day, there are still British retailers holding the line, making proper gear that won’t disintegrate if you look at it sideways. You just need to know where to look. And since I’ve spent an arguably unhealthy amount of my life investigating exactly this, I thought I’d share my findings. Consider it a public service.

Let’s start with the obvious: John Lewis & Partners. Yes, I know—not exactly a groundbreaking revelation, but there’s a reason this middle-class institution has endured. Their own-brand menswear is consistently reliable, particularly when it comes to knitwear and shirts. The design team there seems to understand something fundamental that many others have forgotten: men actually like clothes that look the same year after year. Their pure cotton Oxford shirts (around £35-40) are cut well, don’t shrink unevenly in the wash, and the collars don’t curl up at the corners after a few months—a personal bugbear that has me muttering under my breath in changing rooms nationwide.

What’s particularly impressive about John Lewis is their consistency across price points. Even their more affordable ANYDAY range doesn’t completely sacrifice quality for cost. Is it as good as their mainline stuff? No, of course not. But a £22 ANYDAY t-shirt will still be in your rotation longer than most other options at that price. Their cashmere, while not cheap at around £85 for a basic crew neck, is genuinely good value when you consider cost-per-wear over the years. I’ve got one that’s four years old and only just starting to show wear at the elbows, which is practically ancient in modern clothing terms.

Next up, and I know this might raise some eyebrows: Marks & Spencer. Stop that sniggering at the back. Yes, your dad shops there. Yes, some of their stuff can look a bit, well, safe. But here’s the thing—their basics are legitimately good, especially in the last couple of years. The cotton they use in their £15 t-shirts is surprisingly substantial, with decent recovery (meaning it doesn’t go all saggy around the neck after a few hours), and their merino jumpers around the £35-40 mark represent seriously good value. Their underwear and socks remain unbeatable for everyday reliability—I’ve been wearing the same style of M&S boxer briefs for about a decade, and I refuse to change because they just work. Sometimes boring is beautiful.

The real secret with M&S is to completely ignore how they style things in their marketing and on mannequins, which often feels like it’s been directed by someone whose last cultural reference was an episode of Last of the Summer Wine. Instead, just focus on the individual pieces. That sensible-looking navy merino jumper will look completely different worn your way than it does paired with those strange elasticated trousers they inexplicably keep trying to push on us all.

Uniqlo deserves a mention here, though it’s technically a Japanese brand. Their UK high street presence is strong enough that I’m counting it, especially as they’ve been consistent champions of proper basics at fair prices. Their Supima cotton t-shirts (around £15) have a substantial weight to them that you’d typically find at twice the price elsewhere. The merino jumpers (£35-40) are genuinely good, though slightly lighter weight than traditional British knitwear. And their Oxford shirts, particularly from the U collection overseen by Christophe Lemaire, are genuinely comparable to ones I’ve paid three times as much for.

The real standout at Uniqlo, though, is their outerwear. Their wool-blend coats hover around the £130 mark and look like they should cost three times that. I’ve got a navy mac from them that I bought five years ago that still looks box-fresh despite being worn through multiple British winters (and we all know what that means—constant, soul-destroying drizzle that somehow penetrates clothing at a molecular level).

If we’re talking affordable tailoring, Moss Bros has quietly been upping their game. Now, let’s be clear—we’re not talking Savile Row quality here. But their wool and wool-blend suits in the £200-300 range are properly constructed, with decent canvassing and stitching that doesn’t immediately give up the ghost if you’re caught in unexpected rain. Their pure wool options around the £249 mark, in particular, offer a level of quality that’s increasingly hard to find at that price point. The cuts tend toward the more classic end of the spectrum, which means they’ll still look good when slimmer or more relaxed fits inevitably swing back into fashion.

For slightly more casual options, look to Community Clothing, founded by Patrick Grant of E. Tautz and Great British Sewing Bee fame. It’s a brilliant concept—using slack time in British factories to create no-nonsense wardrobe staples while supporting UK manufacturing. Their £25 t-shirts are made from heavyweight 220gsm cotton that feels like something from an era before planned obsolescence was a business strategy. The sweatshirts (around £45-50) are proper old-school gym gear, the kind you might have found in school PE kits in the 70s—dense, durable loopback cotton that gets better with age rather than disintegrating.

While we’re on the subject of British-made, Private White V.C. deserves recognition, though it sits at the higher end of the high street price-wise. Based in Manchester (my home turf, so I’m biased), they make outrageously good outerwear in the last remaining clothing factory in the city. Their waxed cotton jackets start around £450, which isn’t cheap, but you’re getting Savile Row levels of construction and materials that will outlive your interest in wearing them. They’re one of the few brands where I genuinely believe their “buy once, buy well” philosophy, rather than seeing it as a convenient justification for eye-watering prices.

A bit more under the radar is Albam, which straddles the line between high street and premium with most items in the £60-150 range. Their workwear-inspired pieces are made to properly robust standards—I’ve had one of their chore jackets for years, and it stubbornly refuses to show any signs of wear despite being my go-to for everything from countryside walks to moving furniture. The cotton they use has a satisfying density to it, and the stitching is visibly more substantial than most high street offerings.

On the slightly more fashion-forward side, I’ve been impressed with Folk in recent years. Not cheap, with t-shirts around the £45 mark and shirts closer to £120, but the quality justifies the investment if your budget stretches that far. Their pieces have just enough design interest to lift them above basic basics, without veering into try-hard territory that’ll look dated in six months.

And I can’t write about quality high street menswear without mentioning Arket, H&M’s more grown-up, quality-focused sibling. Their heavyweight t-shirts (£17) are legitimately good—cut from substantial cotton with neat, durable stitching. The merino knitwear (around £85) is comparable to pieces I’ve paid significantly more for elsewhere. Their outerwear, particularly the wool overcoats, offers a level of quality that feels at odds with the price tags (around £175-225).

Look, I’m not claiming any of these options compare to proper luxury-tier gear. If you’ve experienced the cloud-like embrace of a £300 John Smedley jumper or the structural perfection of a Sunspel t-shirt, these high street versions won’t quite hit the same notes. But that’s not the point. What these brands offer is a genuine middle ground—clothes that are made properly, will last more than a single season, and don’t require remortgaging your flat.

The tragedy is that we’ve collectively lowered our expectations so much that finding basics that simply don’t fall apart feels like a win. My dad still has t-shirts from the 90s that look better than ones I bought last year. That’s not rose-tinted nostalgia—it’s a genuine downward shift in what we expect from our clothes.

So yes, Jamie’s partly right—the landscape has changed, and finding proper quality on the high street takes more effort than it once did. But he’s wrong to declare the middle ground dead. These brands, and others like them, are proof that you can still find genuine quality at reasonable prices if you know where to look.

I suspect I’ll still be wearing that navy John Lewis jumper for another few years yet. And when it finally gives up the ghost, at least I know where to find its replacement. Even if I’ll probably still try on fifteen alternatives before admitting that the first one I picked up was right all along.

It started as a joke, really. I was having dinner with Marcus and Vijay—yes, the same university housemates who once witnessed me iron a pocket square at 3 AM before a job interview—and somehow we got onto the subject of white t-shirts. Marcus was insisting that his £55 Japanese cotton whatever-the-hell was objectively superior to anything else, while Vijay maintained that his pack of three from M&S did the job just fine, thanks very much. I, slightly wine-fuelled and feeling contrarian, declared that I would settle this debate once and for all by trying every bloody white t-shirt on the British high street. “Like, literally all of them?” asked Marcus. “Watch me,” I replied, with the misplaced confidence of a man who has no idea what he’s just committed to.

Two months, 37 t-shirts, and a rather concerned look from my bank manager later, and I’ve done it. Well, nearly all of them—I had to draw the line somewhere, and that somewhere was at brands that only exist online or in a single London location that considers itself too good for the provinces. But I’ve covered everywhere from the obvious suspects like M&S, Uniqlo and H&M to the slightly more left-field choices like Mountain Warehouse and TK Maxx. I’ve tried plain crew necks only—no v-necks, no pockets, no logos, no frills. Just the purest form of this staple item. And I’ve spent anywhere from £6 to £70 on them.

The criteria were simple but extensive: How does it look straight out of the package? How does it feel against the skin? How does it hang on the body—does it flatter or reveal every extra pint you’ve ever consumed? How does it wash? Does it keep its shape or twist like a politician avoiding a straight answer? Does it survive a tumble dry without turning into a crop top? Does it yellow under the arms after three wears? And, most crucially, what’s the opacity factor—can people tell what color your nipples are? (Sorry, but someone had to ask.)

I should probably point out here that my wife thought I’d finally lost the plot. “You already have at least eight white t-shirts,” she pointed out, quite reasonably, as another package arrived. “Yes,” I replied, “but none of them are perfect.” She gave me that look that wives across the nation have perfected—the one that says “I love you but you’re being completely ridiculous right now.” She wasn’t wrong, but I was in too deep to back out.

The first casualties were the super-budget options. Look, I wanted to love the £6 Primark basic tee. I really did. There’s something appealing about the idea that you could get a decent staple for the price of a fancy coffee. But after one wash it looked like it had been through a war. The fabric had that telltale thinning that budget cotton gets, where you can practically see through it, and the neckline had already started to warp. To be fair, what do you expect for six quid? It’s engineered to last approximately as long as a mayfly.

A similar fate befell options from Peacocks, George at Asda, and F&F at Tesco. The brutal truth is that sub-£10 t-shirts are generally a false economy. They look decent enough on the hanger, but they’re not built to last beyond a few washes. If you’re buying them as essentially disposable items—maybe for painting or gardening—fair enough. But as an actual wardrobe staple? You’re setting yourself up for disappointment and contributing to the landfill problem.

Moving up the price bracket slightly, things got more interesting. H&M’s regular cotton t-shirt (£8.99) was surprisingly decent for the price, holding its shape reasonably well through three washes, though the fabric was still on the thin side. Their Premium Quality version at £12.99 was noticeably better—thicker cotton, better cut, and it survived the wash test with minimal shrinkage.

Next’s pure cotton t-shirt at £8 was pretty underwhelming—not terrible, but nothing to write home about. The fabric felt a bit rough against the skin, and it suffered from the dreaded twisted seam after washing—you know, when the side seam migrates to the front of your torso like it’s got somewhere more important to be?

Marks & Spencer offered several options, and this is where things got interesting. Their regular Pure Cotton tee at £8.50 was perfectly serviceable—decent weight, no major issues after washing—but their Autograph version at £16 was genuinely impressive. The cotton was visibly finer, the cut more flattering, and after multiple washes it still looked box-fresh. The real surprise, though, was their 2-pack of Cool & Fresh tees for £15. These are designed with some kind of wizardry that genuinely seems to reduce sweating and odor, which, let’s be honest, is the white t-shirt’s mortal enemy. During a particularly warm week, I wore one for an entire day running errands around Manchester, and it remained remarkably fresh. Black magic or clever fabric technology? Either way, I was impressed.

Uniqlo, as expected, performed strongly. Their Supima Cotton crew neck at £14.90 has a cult following for a reason—the fabric has a lovely soft hand feel, a slight natural sheen, and excellent durability. After multiple washes, it kept its shape perfectly with no shrinkage. The U Crew Neck at £12.90, designed by Christophe Lemaire, had a more substantial feel and a slightly boxier cut that somehow looked intentional rather than ill-fitting. Both were comfortably opaque—no embarrassing nipple situations here—and neither showed signs of yellowing after repeated wear.

The high street surprise came from John Lewis’s own brand. Their regular cotton t-shirt at £15 was decent enough, but their £22 organic Pima cotton version was excellent—on par with t-shirts I’ve paid twice as much for. The fabric had a lovely smooth feel with just enough structure to hang well on the body, and the neck band retained its shape perfectly even after being subjected to my impatient yanking when taking it off.

Gap, once the king of basics, was surprisingly disappointing. Their standard crew at £13 felt thin and had a weird boxy cut that somehow managed to be both too tight across the shoulders and too loose around the waist. Not a winning combination.

Reiss offered a £45 Pima cotton option that was undeniably lovely—beautiful fabric, perfect cut, excellent durability—but at that price point, it’s straying beyond high street into premium territory. Same goes for their “Casual Friday” collaboration with Sunspel (£55), which was predictably excellent but eye-wateringly expensive for what is, let’s remember, just a white t-shirt.

The unexpected contenders came from places I wouldn’t normally associate with quality basics. Zara’s Join Life premium cotton tee at £17.99 was surprisingly good—nice weight, good opacity, and it washed well. The sustainability credentials were a bonus, though I always take high street “eco” claims with a pinch of salt.

The outdoor retailers were interesting too. Mountain Warehouse’s organic cotton tee (£16.99) had a pleasingly substantial feel and impressive durability, though the cut was a bit utilitarian. Cotswold Outdoor stocked a Patagonia plain white tee for £35 that was excellent quality but felt like overkill for everyday wear—it’s built for alpine adventures, not sitting in mediocre coffee shops pretending to write my next column.

TK Maxx yielded a Calvin Klein 3-pack for £25 that turned out to be surprisingly decent for the price—not the most luxurious fabric, but good opacity, decent durability, and they kept their shape well after washing.

After all this exhaustive testing (and my wife’s patience), I’ve reached some conclusions. First, there’s no such thing as a perfect white t-shirt at any price point. Each has its strengths and weaknesses, and what works for me might not work for you. Body type, washing habits, and personal preference all play a part.

That said, if you’re forcing me to crown a winner (and since that was the whole point of this ridiculous exercise, I suppose you are), I’d have to give the title to Uniqlo’s Supima Cotton Crew Neck at £14.90. It hits the sweet spot of quality, price, durability, and style. The fabric is substantial enough to be opaque but light enough to be comfortable on warm days. It washes beautifully and keeps its shape. The cut is flattering without being try-hard. And at under £15, it won’t break the bank if you need to replace it after a year of heavy wear.

For those willing to spend a bit more, John Lewis’s £22 organic Pima cotton tee is worth the extra investment. And if you’re a sweaty bastard like me (sorry, but we’re all friends here), M&S’s Cool & Fresh technology is genuinely impressive.

The budget recommendation would be H&M’s Premium Quality tee at £12.99—not perfect, but the best performer under £15 by some margin. Just expect to replace it more frequently than the pricier options.

What I wouldn’t recommend is spending £55+ on a t-shirt unless you’ve got money to burn. Yes, the Sunspel classic (£70) is beautiful. Of course the Reiss Pima (£45) is lovely. But are they three to four times better than the Uniqlo option? Absolutely not. There’s a law of diminishing returns that kicks in hard around the £25 mark with t-shirts.

I’d also avoid anything under £10 if you want it to last more than a few washes. Fast fashion has conditioned us to think clothing should be dirt cheap, but the reality is that properly made basics from decent materials cost money to produce. That doesn’t mean you need to spend a fortune, but expecting quality from a £6 t-shirt is like expecting gourmet cuisine from a vending machine sandwich.

So there you have it—one man’s obsessive journey through the world of white t-shirts. I’ve spent a frankly embarrassing amount of time and money on this quest, all so you don’t have to. Marcus still insists his Japanese cotton whatever is superior to my recommendations, and Vijay still thinks we’re all overthinking a basic item. They’re probably both right. But at least now when someone asks me for a white t-shirt recommendation, I can give them a thoroughly researched answer rather than just gesturing vaguely toward the high street.

Oh, and in case you’re wondering what happened to all 37 t-shirts after testing—I kept the top five performers and donated the rest to charity. Somewhere in Manchester, there’s a charity shop with a very confused volunteer wondering why someone donated 32 slightly worn white t-shirts in exactly the same size. If that person is reading this: I can explain. Sort of.

There’s a particular brand of British delusion that emerges around festival season. You see it in the shopping bags of hopeful twenty-somethings across the country—flimsy floral shirts, impractical suede boots, outfits seemingly designed for a parallel universe where Glastonbury takes place in the Balearics rather than a frequently waterlogged farm in Somerset. I know because I’ve been that deluded optimist more times than I care to admit. There was the year I packed exclusively linen shirts for Reading Festival, only to end up wearing the same rain-soaked hoodie for three days straight. Or the time I brought pristine white trainers to Bestival and returned with what looked like two lumps of archaeological mud that vaguely resembled footwear.

It took me years of festival disappointments—and several ruined outfits—to accept a fundamental truth: British festival fashion isn’t about looking good in the conventional sense. It’s about looking good while acknowledging we live on a damp island where the weather forecast is essentially just a creative writing exercise. I’m not saying abandon all style ambitions—far from it. I’m suggesting we embrace a peculiarly British form of pragmatic festival dressing that works with our meteorological realities rather than against them.

I had this epiphany at Latitude about four years ago. It had been glorious sunshine for the first day—25 degrees, clear skies, the kind of weather that tricks you into believing maybe, just maybe, this time will be different. I’d smugly packed a selection of carefully chosen pieces that walked the line between stylish and practical. Then, around 3 AM on the second day, the heavens opened. Not just rain, but that special British festival rain that seems to defy the laws of physics by somehow falling upwards and sideways simultaneously. By morning, the entire site looked like the Somme with better catering options.

As I stood in a rapidly expanding puddle, watching a man in a soaked floral playsuit (brave choice, mate) sink ankle-deep into mud while trying to hold both a pint and an increasingly soggy crepe, I had my revelation: we need to stop dressing for the festival we want and start dressing for the festival we actually get.

Since then, I’ve developed something of a system. A British festival capsule wardrobe, if you will, that maintains some semblance of style while acknowledging we’re essentially engaging in a very expensive form of glamping in a country where “summer” is a theoretical concept rather than a reliable season. And since festival season is upon us, I thought I’d share these hard-won insights with you.

Let’s start with the absolute non-negotiable: outerwear. Your first instinct might be to reach for a standard waterproof, which—don’t get me wrong—will certainly keep you dry. But most lack any semblance of style, leaving you looking like you’ve just wandered off a hillwalking expedition and accidentally found yourself at the main stage during Stormzy’s set. Instead, consider a waxed cotton jacket—Barbour if your budget stretches that far, or one of the decent high street alternatives if not. They’re properly waterproof, look better with a bit of weathering, and have proper pockets for all the festival essentials (phone, cash, hand sanitizer, emergency Percy Pigs). Mine’s a navy Barbour Ashby that’s survived five festivals and actually looks better for it—each muddy adventure adding character rather than ruining it.

If you’re more of a parka person, Folk, YMC and Universal Works all do options that balance practicality with style. The key is to look for sealed seams, a proper hood (none of those pointless decorative ones that protect approximately 4% of your head), and a cut that allows for layering underneath. Because regardless of what the weather app says, you’ll need layers. British festivals exist in a microclimate where it can be simultaneously too hot and too cold, often within the same hour.

For mid-layers, the humble sweatshirt reigns supreme. I know, hardly groundbreaking style advice, but there’s a reason it’s a festival staple. Cotton or cotton-blend options insulate when it’s cool but don’t become unbearable if the sun does make an appearance. Community Clothing do a fantastic one made in Lancashire that’s built like a tank but doesn’t look like something your PE teacher would wear. If you’re determined to inject some personality, go for something with a subtle bit of interest—a contrast stitch detail or a small embroidered logo—rather than anything covered in neon slogans unless you’re explicitly trying to be found easily when your phone inevitably dies at 2 AM.

When it comes to t-shirts, pack more than you think you need, but don’t waste money on anything expensive. Festival conditions are brutal, and even with the best intentions, that pristine white YMC number isn’t coming home in the same state. High street options from Uniqlo, Arket or H&M will do the job perfectly well. Go for darker colors or patterns that can hide a multitude of festival sins—that mysterious brown splatter could be mud or beef dripping from a £12 burger, and it’s sometimes better not to know.

For legwear, I’ve become a staunch advocate of the humble cargo pant, which has thankfully been reclaimed from its 90s lad culture associations. Labels like Albam, Universal Works and even Carhartt WIP do versions that look considered rather than like you’re about to help your mate move house. The multiple pockets prove invaluable when you need to keep essentials secure while jumping around to Arctic Monkeys, and the slightly looser cut means you can add a thermal layer underneath if the temperature drops. The key is finding ones in a cotton-nylon blend that dries quickly after rain or an unexpectedly enthusiastic silent disco session.

If you’re more of a jeans person, save your good selvedge for another day. Opt for something hardwearing but not precious—Levi’s 501s are the obvious choice for a reason. They can take a beating, don’t show dirt easily, and if they get muddy beyond salvation, you haven’t ruined your prize Japanese denim. Whatever you do, avoid anything white or light-colored unless you’re specifically aiming for the “fell in a mud bath” look by the end of day one.

Now, footwear—arguably the most crucial festival decision. I’ve seen grown men nearly weep at the sight of their box-fresh trainers disappearing into a sea of mud, never to look the same again. My advice is brutal but necessary: leave anything you truly care about at home. This isn’t the time for your limited edition collaborations or anything with a suede panel.

For muddy British festivals, wellies remain the nuclear option. Not the most stylish choice, granted, but there’s a certain point (usually around 4 PM on day two when the site resembles the world’s largest mud bath) where function obliterates any concern for form. Hunter’s are the obvious choice if you want to telegraph that you’re a slightly posh festival-goer, but their Festival range is actually decent—slightly less heavy-duty than their regular wellies, which means you won’t feel like you’re walking around with diving weights strapped to your feet. If you’re on a budget, any generic wellies will do the job, but size up and wear proper thick socks to prevent the dreaded welly rub that can ruin your festival by day two.

For less apocalyptic conditions, trail runners from brands like Salomon or Hoka have become increasingly acceptable from a style perspective while offering actual practical benefits like grip and water resistance. They’re the sweet spot between practical footwear and something you wouldn’t be embarrassed to be seen in when you inevitably bump into someone from school you haven’t seen in fifteen years.

If the forecast is genuinely promising (approach this assumption with extreme caution), then canvas high-tops are your friend. Converse Chuck 70s or Vans Sk8-His can handle a bit of dust and light mud, and they’re not so precious that a beer spill will ruin your night. Plus, they’re relatively easy to clean post-festival, unlike anything with a complicated knit upper that will never truly recover from the experience.

The accessories game is where you can inject some personality without compromising practicality. A decent bucket hat provides sun protection on the rare good days and keeps the rain off your face on the inevitable bad ones. Folk, Albam and YMC all do stylish options that don’t make you look like you’re desperately clinging to your Britpop youth. Brands like Universal Works and Dickies offer options that manage to be practical without screaming “I’ve just been fishing.”

For bags, cross-body options reign supreme. They keep your essentials secure while dancing and are harder for the light-fingered festival opportunists to access than a backpack you can’t see. The Fjällräven Greenland pocket bag is perfect—just enough room for the essentials without encouraging you to bring your entire life with you to the main stage.

A quick word on sunglasses: bring a pair, obviously, because the British weather’s favorite prank is to unleash blazing sunshine immediately after you’ve written off the entire weekend as a washout. But please, for the love of God, don’t bring your expensive designer frames. Festival sites are where sunglasses go to die—lost in mosh pits, sat on in tents, or abandoned in portable toilets in moments of crisis. Something cheap but not completely horrible looking from the high street will do the job.

The final piece of advice—and this applies regardless of which festival you’re attending—is to build in some redundancy. Pack assuming you’ll lose access to at least one item due to mud/rain/overexcitement during a Chemical Brothers set. A spare t-shirt rolled up into a zip-lock bag (the most unsexy but practical packing tip I can offer) has saved many a festival day for me.

It might seem like I’m being overly pessimistic about British festival weather, but this is hard-earned wisdom from someone who once had to fashion emergency footwear out of plastic bags and gaffer tape after my trainers became casualties of the Glastonbury mud. The irony is that the moment you fully commit to dressing for meteorological disaster, you’ll experience the one British festival in recorded history with five straight days of Mediterranean sunshine.

But that’s the thing about British festival dressing—it’s an exercise in hope tempered by experience. We pack raincoats while praying for sunshine. We bring wellies while dreaming of dusty fields. It’s not about surrendering to the inevitable weather disappointment; it’s about being prepared for it while maintaining enough style that you don’t wince when you look back at the photos.

So go forth, pack smartly, and remember—the greatest festival outfit isn’t the most Instagram-worthy one you packed with optimism. It’s the one that allows you to stay until the bitter end of the headline set while your less practically dressed friends have retreated to their tents, defeated by Britain’s refusal to provide the weather its festival calendar so clearly deserves.