Tag: updated

I’ve got a bit of a confession to make. Last month I was at one of those impossibly chic industry events—you know the type, where everyone pretends they just threw on whatever was lying around but has actually spent three hours getting dressed—and I bumped into Ellie, fashion director at one of those glossy magazines where everyone looks like they subsist entirely on green juice and industry gossip. She was wearing this absolutely perfect oversized white shirt, the kind that somehow looks intentional rather than like you’ve nicked your dad’s formal wear. “That’s gorgeous,” I said, expecting her to name-drop some obscure Japanese designer I’d have to pretend to have heard of. She leaned in, looked around conspiratorially, and whispered, “Uniqlo. Twenty-nine quid. I’ve got it in three colors.”

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the fashion industry’s best-kept secret. Behind closed doors, when no one’s watching and Instagram’s turned off, we’re all shopping at Uniqlo.

It makes perfect sense when you think about it. Fashion people—the ones who actually work in the industry rather than orbit it—spend their days surrounded by clothes that cost more than a decent used car. They’re drowning in the stuff, constantly confronted with the new, the next, the must-have. And then, like any normal human experiencing sensory overload, they crave simplicity. Enter Uniqlo, with its unfussy designs, consistent sizing, and prices that don’t require a payment plan or trust fund.

The Japanese retail giant has quietly become the industry insider’s go-to for what we now call “elevated basics”—a term I genuinely despise but can’t seem to escape. It’s the place where menswear editors stock up on oxford shirts, where stylists build their own wardrobes around merino knits, and where designers themselves sneak in for the perfect white t-shirt. I know because I’ve bumped into them there, and we’ve all done the same embarrassed nod of recognition, like we’ve caught each other sneaking into McDonald’s after preaching about organic farmer’s markets.

So what exactly are these people buying? I decided to do some digging—by which I mean I texted everyone I know in the industry and asked them to spill their Uniqlo secrets. The responses came flooding in, often with surprising speed and enthusiasm, like they’d been dying to share this information with someone who wouldn’t judge them.

The undisputed king of the Uniqlo insider purchases is the Merino Crew Neck Sweater. At £34.90, it’s honestly ridiculous value—a decent weight, not too sheer (the downfall of many budget knitwear options), and available in approximately 500 colorways each season. James, menswear buyer for a well-known department store, admits to owning eight of them. “They’re my secret weapon,” he told me. “I’ll wear one under a Dries Van Noten jacket to a meeting, and no one’s the wiser.” He particularly rates the navy and dark green versions, which he says look significantly more expensive than they are. “It’s all about the neckline,” he explained in a level of detail that confirmed I was speaking to a true menswear obsessive. “It sits perfectly on the collarbone without stretching, which is usually the first giveaway with cheap knitwear.”

The Oxford Shirts get mentioned almost as frequently. Ben, a stylist whose work you’ve definitely seen in at least three major ad campaigns this year, has a ritual of buying two white ones every September. “They’re the backbone of my work wardrobe,” he said. “The cotton’s decent enough to hold its shape, thick enough not to be transparent, and they wash like a dream.” He particularly rates the slightly relaxed fit versions, which he says hang more naturally than other high street options. At £24.90, they’re almost suspiciously good value in a world where similar shirts can easily clear the £100 mark.

The dark horse favorite among the men I talked to was the EZY Ankle Pants, which several people mentioned unprompted. I’ll be honest, I was skeptical—they looked a bit too comfortable, a bit too practical, with their partially elasticated waist and wrinkle-resistant fabric. But Tomas, who designs for a luxury British heritage brand you definitely know, swears by them. “I wear them on long-haul flights to fabric suppliers, to the studio on days when I know I’ll be on my feet for hours, basically whenever comfort is key but I still need to look put together,” he explained. “They’re like secret pajamas for grown-ups.” At £34.90, they’re his go-to for what he calls “the boring bits” of his wardrobe, the staples that allow his more interesting pieces to shine.

Then there’s the AIRism range—Uniqlo’s technical fabric line that manages to attract both hardcore minimalists and men who wouldn’t be caught dead in “athleisure.” The t-shirts in particular have achieved cult status among photographers, art directors, and anyone else who runs hot or works in stuffy environments. “I discovered them on a shoot in Thailand,” photographer Chris told me. “It was about 40 degrees, horrifically humid, and I was shooting a winter collection, surrounded by models in wool coats looking miserable. My assistant was wearing this AIRism t-shirt and looked infuriatingly cool and composed. I bought seven the next day.” At £14.90, they’re his studio uniform now.

The Packable Ultra Light Down Jacket inspires almost religious devotion from certain quarters. Fashion editor David keeps one permanently in his carry-on bag. “It weighs nothing, packs down to the size of an apple, and has saved me from freezing to death in overly air-conditioned press days and surprise weather changes more times than I can count,” he said. While acknowledging it’s not the most stylish item in isolation, he insists it’s the perfect mid-layer under a more substantial coat or jacket. “It’s like thermal underwear for your torso, but acceptable to be seen in.”

The Uniqlo U collection—designed by Christophe Lemaire—gets a special mention as the range that even the most luxury-obsessed fashion people will openly admit to buying and wearing. The t-shirts in particular, with their substantial cotton and perfect cut, are spoken of in hushed, reverent tones. “They’re better than t-shirts I’ve owned that cost six times as much,” insisted Marcus, who works for a menswear site you definitely have bookmarked. “The crew neck sits perfectly, the cotton gets better with each wash, and the colors are these beautiful rich, unusual shades rather than flat primaries.” At £14.90, they’re probably the best quality-to-price ratio on the high street.

The cashmere offerings inspire particularly passionate responses. In a world where cashmere has been simultaneously democratized and devalued, with prices dropping as quality often follows suit, Uniqlo’s versions maintain a surprisingly decent standard. Oliver, who works for one of London’s most respected tailors, admits to wearing their cashmere crew necks under his suits in winter. “For £89.90, they’re not going to compete with the Scottish mills we use, obviously, but they’re soft, they hold their shape, and they’re genuinely warm.” He particularly values them as his “secondary cashmere”—the pieces he doesn’t mind wearing for dog walks or pub gardens, saving his investment pieces for client meetings and special occasions.

The Seamless Down Parka inspires particular enthusiasm among the more technically minded menswear crowd. At £159.90, it’s one of Uniqlo’s pricier offerings, but still remarkably good value compared to similar technical outerwear. “It’s genuinely excellent,” insists Raj, who reviews outdoor gear for various publications. “The down fill is properly distributed, the waterproofing actually works, and it doesn’t have that shiny, cheap look that so many high street down jackets suffer from.” He particularly appreciates that it doesn’t feature an enormous logo, allowing it to blend seamlessly (no pun intended) with much more expensive pieces.

The brand’s collaborations—with designers like JW Anderson, Jil Sander (under the +J label), and Tomas Maier—are perhaps the only Uniqlo purchases fashion people will proudly broadcast. These limited-edition collections offer slightly more distinctive designs while maintaining the brand’s accessible price points, creating a perfect storm of fashion insider appeal. “I once got into a minor physical altercation with another editor over the last JW Anderson trench coat in a size medium,” admitted Rob, a menswear writer for a major newspaper. “Neither of us is proud of it, but that coat was something special.”

What’s particularly interesting is how these industry insiders style their Uniqlo finds. The common thread seems to be using these affordable staples as the canvas for more interesting, investment pieces. “I’ll wear a £24.90 Uniqlo oxford with my £600 Japanese selvedge denim and handmade Italian loafers,” explained buyer Thomas. “The shirt isn’t making a statement, it’s letting the statement pieces do their job.” It’s a smart approach to building a wardrobe—investing where it counts and saving where it doesn’t.

Of course, no one I spoke to is under any illusions about the brand’s limitations. The fits can be boxy, especially for those used to more tailored European cuts. The materials, while good for the price point, aren’t going to compete with luxury equivalents. And there’s always the risk of showing up to an industry event and spotting three other people in the same knitwear (something I’ve personally experienced, leading to an awkward moment of silent recognition with a rival menswear editor).

But in an industry built on exclusivity and aspiration, there’s something refreshingly democratic about this shared secret. The fact that a pattern cutter for a Savile Row house, a fashion director for a luxury magazine, and a design assistant just starting their career can all shop at the same place—and all find pieces that work within their wildly different wardrobes and budgets—is rather nice, actually.

So the next time you’re in Uniqlo and you spot someone who looks suspiciously like they might work in fashion, meticulously examining the stitching on a seemingly basic t-shirt or stocking up on identical navy sweaters, give them a knowing nod. You’re both in on the secret now. Just don’t tell anyone I told you.

The first time I walked down Savile Row, I was 19 and utterly terrified. I’d convinced the features editor at the student magazine to let me write a piece on “the heart of British tailoring,” which was really just an excuse to peek inside a world I’d been obsessing over since finding that old Jaeger suit in Dad’s wardrobe. I remember standing outside Anderson & Sheppard in a painfully cheap high street blazer that suddenly felt like it was made of cardboard and plastic, working up the courage to push open the door. When I finally did, a gentleman who looked like he’d been measuring inseams since the Crimean War raised a single eyebrow at me and asked if I was lost. I mumbled something about research for an article, went bright red, and promptly fled.

Twenty years and countless suits later, I still get a flutter of intimidation when I approach those hallowed doors, though these days they at least let me in without assuming I’ve taken a wrong turn from Topman. But I’ve also learned something important: while Savile Row represents the pinnacle of British tailoring—and Christ, the craftsmanship really is something else—it exists on a spectrum, not in isolation. There’s a whole world of exceptional British tailoring that doesn’t require a second mortgage or a family crest.

The reality is that a bespoke suit from one of the Row’s established houses will set you back anywhere from £4,000 to £7,000, depending on fabric and details. Made-to-measure starts around £2,500. These are investment pieces in the truest sense—they’ll last decades with proper care—but they’re simply not accessible for most of us, especially as an entire wardrobe solution rather than a once-in-a-lifetime purchase.

The good news? British tailoring excellence exists at more accessible price points if you know where to look. And I’ve spent an embarrassing portion of my adult life looking, testing, and occasionally getting it horribly wrong so you don’t have to.

Let’s start with the middle ground—what I think of as “accessible quality.” These are the brands and tailors offering genuine construction values and proper materials at prices that won’t require selling a kidney. They’re not cheap by any normal person’s standards (we’re still talking suits rather than streaming subscriptions here), but they represent genuine value when you consider cost-per-wear over their lifetime.

First up, there’s Anglo-Italian in Marylebone. Founded by former Trunk Clothiers buyer Jake Grantham and his business partner Alex Pirounis, it occupies this brilliant sweet spot between British structure and Italian softness. Their house style features a natural shoulder, a slightly lower buttoning point, and a garment that’s canvassed but not rigid. Made-to-measure suits start around £1,800, while ready-to-wear comes in at about £1,500. Not pocket change, clearly, but for something made with proper canvassing, cut from excellent cloths (many from the same British and Italian mills that supply Savile Row), it’s genuinely fair. I’ve had a navy hopsack from them for four years now, worn at least weekly, and it still looks better than most new suits.

Then there’s Whitcomb & Shaftesbury, which offers a fascinating model. Their Classic Bespoke service (starting around £1,800) uses a unique approach where the pattern is cut in London but much of the labor-intensive work is done in their workshop in Tamil Nadu, India, where they’ve trained local tailors in traditional techniques. The result is Savile Row quality at a significantly lower price point. Their full Savile Row Bespoke service (entirely made in London) is still about £3,400—not cheap, but significantly less than most Row options.

Drake’s, which began as a tiemaker before expanding into full menswear, offers made-to-measure starting around £1,500, with a natural English shoulder but a relaxed, contemporary cut. Their Games Suit in particular has developed a cult following—relaxed enough for modern life but still with the structure and shaping that makes British tailoring special.

For ready-to-wear with many of the construction values of bespoke, there’s the often-overlooked Chester Barrie. They’ve been making suits in Crewe since 1935, using traditional canvassing methods and excellent British cloths. Their mainline suits hover around the £800 mark—still a significant investment, but we’re talking about half-canvassed garments made in the UK from proper materials. I picked up one of their navy birdseye suits in a sale five years ago, and it’s still in regular rotation despite some frankly punishing treatment. (Note to self: carrying a curry takeaway inside your suit jacket is never a good idea, no matter how heavy the rain).

Another option that’s flown strangely under the radar is Paul Smith’s “A Suit To Travel In” range. While most of Smith’s tailoring is made in Italy these days, this specific line is constructed in Hebden Bridge, Yorkshire by Cookson & Clegg, a factory with over 150 years of history. At around £750, they’re half-canvassed, made from crease-resistant wool, and cut in a slim but not skinny silhouette that works for most body types. I’ve recommended these to countless friends who travel regularly for work—they can genuinely be rolled up in luggage, given a quick steam, and look presentable for meetings.

If you’re prepared to look beyond household names, Oliver Spencer’s Solms suits deserve attention. Spencer trained on Savile Row before launching his own brand, and while his mainline focuses on relaxed workwear, his tailoring maintains many traditional values. They’re around £580, feature a modern cut with natural shoulders, and use interesting textured fabrics that dress up or down easily. They’re not canvassed—at this price point, that would be miraculous—but they’re well-constructed with proper pattern matching and decent internals.

For those on tighter budgets who still want British-made options, Hammond & Co by Patrick Grant (available at Debenhams) offers a remarkable proposition. Grant, who owns Norton & Sons on Savile Row and revived E. Tautz, brings genuine tailoring expertise to the high street. While you’re not getting canvassing or super 150s wool at £250-£300, you are getting proper pattern cutting, decent fabrics, and a style informed by one of Britain’s best tailors. I’ve got one of their spring-weight blazers that’s survived three seasons of regular wear without losing its shape.

The made-to-measure market has also expanded dramatically in recent years, making customized tailoring accessible to more people. Cad & The Dandy, founded by two ex-bankers during the 2008 financial crisis, has disrupted the traditional model by offering three tiers of make: machine-cut and made (from £950), half-handmade (£1,200), and fully handmade (£2,000). Even their entry level uses floating canvassing rather than fusing, proper cloths from British mills, and is made in the UK.

Look beyond London and you’ll find regional tailors offering exceptional value. In Manchester, there’s Whitfield & Ward, where made-to-measure starts around £850 for half-canvassed construction. In Glasgow, Walker Slater offers ready-to-wear tweed and wool suits with surprisingly good construction for around £500. In Leeds, Michelsberg Tailoring provides full bespoke from around £1,300—significantly less than you’d pay for equivalent make in the capital.

What about the high street? Can you find anything approaching proper tailoring there? The honest answer is: occasionally, with caveats. Charles Tyrwhitt’s top-end suits hover around the £500 mark and are half-canvassed—a genuine quality marker that puts them above most competition at similar prices. Their cuts are conservative but well-executed. Marks & Spencer’s Savile Row-inspired range (around £300) isn’t canvassed but does feature decent wool blends and pattern cutting that belies the price. I keep one in my office for emergency meetings and it’s performed admirably for three years now.

Now, a word on construction, because this is where many get confused about what they’re actually paying for. A fully canvassed suit contains a layer of canvas (traditionally horsehair, though often now a mix of horsehair and other materials) between the outer fabric and lining. This canvas floats rather than being glued to the wool, allowing the suit to mold to your body over time and move naturally. It’s labor-intensive to create but results in a garment that actually improves with wear.

Half-canvassed means the canvas extends through the chest and lapels but not the full body—a good compromise at lower price points. Fused suits have their interlining glued to the wool, which is cheaper to produce but doesn’t allow the same movement, doesn’t breathe as well, and can bubble or delaminate over time, especially after dry cleaning.

When you’re paying Savile Row prices, you’re getting full canvassing, handwork in areas that create shape and structure (collar, lapels, armholes), hand-padded chest pieces, hand-sewn buttonholes, and a pattern cut specifically for your body. As you move down the price spectrum, these handwork elements decrease and machine work increases, but the better mid-range options maintain canvassing (even if half rather than full) and some degree of handwork in crucial areas.

For perspective on value, consider my own experience: I saved for years to commission a bespoke suit from Anderson & Sheppard for my wedding—a traditional 13oz navy worsted with all the handwork that makes Savile Row special. That was eight years and approximately 300 wears ago. It’s been altered twice as my waistline has embarked on its own journey of expansion and contraction. It still looks better than most new suits and should last another 20 years with care. That’s the true value equation of proper tailoring.

But I’ve also got suits from Anglo-Italian, Whitcomb & Shaftesbury, and Drake’s that have performed brilliantly for years at half the price. And I’ve been genuinely impressed by the longevity of that Chester Barrie ready-to-wear option that cost a quarter of bespoke.

What I’ve learned is that British tailoring isn’t just one thing at one price point—it’s a spectrum of options that maintain certain core values: structure with comfort, cloths that perform over time, and cuts that flatter rather than follow transient trends. Whether your budget stretches to The Row or peaks at the high street’s best efforts, there’s a version of these values available at every level if you look beyond obvious options and understand what you’re actually paying for.

The intimidating gentleman at Anderson & Sheppard eventually became a friend—though he still occasionally raises that same eyebrow when I turn up in something he considers questionable. The last time I visited, I was wearing that Anglo-Italian jacket. “Not one of ours,” he sniffed, running an expert hand over the lapel. “But decent work nonetheless.” From him, that’s practically a standing ovation. British tailoring excellence, it turns out, exists beyond those intimidating doors I once fled through—you just need to know where to look for it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.