Two Chaps Talking

Mon vieux,

With Christmas approaching our thoughts naturally turn to families and for some the occasional avoidance of. Well you and I both know the impressions our dear old dads have had on us and for my part here's a recent adventure of my Old Man's that inspired me enormously. To protect the innocent I shall relate the story in the manner of a camel-coated Old Kent Road chancer.

The following is a true story:

So the rozzers turn up mob-handed to feel the Old Man's collar.
''Ello, 'ello, 'ello,' says Plod Number One. 'It 'as come to our attention that you 'ave occasioned some grievous upon the person of Mister Badpayersmarmybastard.'
'Cor blimey,' says the Old Man. 'Would you Adam it? All I done was 'elp the geezer out of the office after 'e got a bit lively. Feast your minces on me for gawd's sake. I'm a pensioner I am. Got me bus pass an' ev'ryfink. And 'e's a stroppy six-footer and quite a bit tasty if you get my meanin'. Can you really see the likes of 'im being escorted out wiv a boot up the jacksey by an old fella like myself?'
'You 'ave got a point there sir, and between you and me 'e does 'ave a bit of form in that 'e is considered around the station to be somewhat loosely wrapped.'
'There you go son, I mean officer. Fancy a cuppa?'
'Don't mind I do.' Takes off helmet. 'Wot about that rugby then eh?'

So the Old Man's still got the touch and the Boys in Blue are as balanced and fair as legend would have you believe. Anyway that wasn't actually what I wanted to talk about this fortnight.

As you know old chap I've always had a keen interest in lady's under-things. Oh come, come, you know what I mean. Anyway I heard a story the other day in relation to these unmentionables that I'm afraid confirms our darkest fears about this fair land in which I reside.

An acquaintance of mine is something called a fit model (I thought they all had to be fit, nudge-nudge). She was recently hired to attend the head office of a behemoth purveyor of tat called Tollbooth's or Dilbert's or something, there to try on various unsightly abbhorrations to see if they fit properly, as though that made any difference. Arriving at the appointed hour in a suitably drab and conservative lady's suit she was denied entry.

'But why?' she asked, perplexed.
'Cuz y'in't wearn' hose,' said the Cyclops before her, acting under strict orders of course.

I'll just let that sit for a while shall I?

So that got me thinking about how we are perceived when travelling abroad. You may recall that there was a time when I was detained on a regular basis in order to perform tasks of a tawdry commercial nature. When not drinking or cavorting on the company shilling I was specifically charged with the selection of fine fabrics for gentleman's clothing. Though primarily concerned with the Fickle Mistress of Fashion my employers were of such a size they also owned car dealers and other sundry enterprises across Northern Ireland. On one occasion while visiting their Londonderry head office, appropriately over-dressed and sitting in the front seat of a taxi, as one is expected to do over there, I found myself in conversation with the driver.

'So what're you doin' here in Derry?' asked the honest toiler.
'I'm working,' said I, and named my employer.
'Aye. I thought so.' He replied. 'Spot welder are ye?'

Again, I think I shall leave it there.

How then does a Young Turk ensure he is neither mistaken for hoi polloi nor excluded when abroad? The uninitiated might think simply purchasing one's apparel from the correct purveyor would do it. There was indeed a time when this was so. Alas it is no more.

Go into your local Church's shoe shop and what are you presented with? Yes there are the trusty brogues and Oxfords but what's this? A plastic sole? Injection moulded? Egad! Something more suited to the bridge of the Enterprise than the pavements of St. James. The problem, you see, is that Gianni Bloody Prada Foreigner has got his hands on it.

Similar problem with our trusty old favourite Crombie, though don't know if it's Gianni or some Daily Mail reader or SH member. As recently as a year ago one was sure of appropriate threads, of which I had frequent occasion to partake. However during a recent visit to their emporium on Jermyn Street one was greeted by a melee of mediocrity and monstrous modernity. When asked what the hell had gone wrong the downtrodden assistant rolled his eyes to the heavens and said the new gaffer was trying to modernise the place.

As if that weren't egregious enough I come now to the worst and most pernicious example which will, I think, give us all pause. During the First Little Unpleasantness a venerable institution manufactured over coats of such excellent quality that the valiant chaps who wore them dubbed them trench coats after the hellish place in which they fought. In addition to these fine garments the venerable institution went on to provide an excellent service in departure lounge tokens for errant husbands to purchase for their cuckolded wives. All well and good. But then the owner Lord Fah-fah-whatever-his-name-is decided to go global and brought in an upstart till-girl from an American department store. She's done a fine job. Witness this recent story in the newspaper about what wearing McBurberry's now denotes.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/business/story/0,3604,1092473,00.html

And as you can see, if that weren't bad enough, when pressed about unworthy associations the McBurberry's frippet sniffed that the UK is but a small part of their business (so who cares?). I have a very specific suggestion for what they should do with their supermarket-item-gift-with-purchase company, but it's not for these pages.

Now lest we lose faith during this season of goodwill let me extol the virtues of some chaps who haven't taken the devil's shilling. Their numbers are legion and they're not confined to SW1, though most have a showing there of course. Trickers, Lock and Cleverly are still family owned and as such are the paragon of worthiness. Though owned by a shady Egyptian who also happens to own Harrods Messrs Turnbull and Asser are above reproach. As are New and Lingwood, T M Lewin and Albert Thurston, who it should be noted are in their fifth generation of supporting gentlemen's trousers.

Catching wind of their pecuniary difficulties a Mr Eric Clapton recently purchased Cordings to ensure he could still buy his clothes there. He is I gather a musician, but at least he's an English one. John Lobb are a trickier candidate as whilst the John Lobb shop on St James St. makes the world's finest shoes sans pareill, the ready-to-wear shop round the corner on Jermyn Street is in fact owned by the bloody French. The r-t-w shoes are still made in England and are mostly acceptable, but a chap can never be too careful.

Over here in the New World things are a little thinner on the ground but there is a company called Oxxford who in spite of the ludicrously mis-spelt name make perfectly acceptable suits. And a Mr Lauren has been known to come up with correct raiment when he puts a purple label in it and remembers to make it in England.

So all is not lost. It just takes a bit more time and attention to detail. After all the history of a garment's manufacturer is as important as the garment itself. No one might notice that a chap's tie is from Drakes, but he knows, and that is what counts.

In short, buy the right clothes from the right places and wear them in the right manner at the right times and you're sorted. Easy.

By the way, Merry Christmas Old Fruit. In honour of the season I am trying to drink my own weight in Champers and not pay for a drop. I shall apprise you of the result in my next missive.

Yours, flute in hand, wrist cocked, and sartorially insouciant as ever,

S

PS It has been brought to my attention that a Mr G W Bush of America has been trying to secure alternative employment beginning in January 2004. Whilst clearly unsuited for anything beyond that which could be done by a five-year-old chimpanzee his Curriculum Vitae does make for amusing reading. (insert link)