The pre-acid house late ’80s



Looking at the new season collections, it’s like travelling back 23 years to 1987. The drainpipe jeans and smackhead-influenced rock “chic” of recent years has been replaced by something a little smarter. A look that harks back to an earlier time (1986-88), which in itself was referencing another era (1950s America).

Though barely remembered, by all but the most anorak-ish of fashion er, anoraks, this was a great time for clothes, as the picture above, taken from the brilliant new 80s Casual book, demonstrates. The scally look of the mid-’80s, with its slim-fitting silhouette was superseded by something altogether looser. Out went the Farahs and Shermans, in came chinos, baggy jumpers by brands like Armani, Chipie and Chevignon plastered with retro slogans, and jeans from Ball and C17. This probably explains why I started wearing a blue, nautical blazer by French Connection and trying to look serious in pictures (below).



Over the top of this new uniform. you couldn’t go far wrong with a chino-coloured cotton jacket, often bought from Next, a brand at its absolute zenith during this era. The look was topped off (literally) with a bouncing quiff, cut short around the sides for that Milan catwalk-meets-Elvis-on-holiday-in Capri look. And who rocked it better than anyone? That’ll be the chap below.



I remember going to Stoke away with Liverpool on a grimy, rain-sodden day in January 1988, dressed, as my mate’s dad said, looking like “an ice cream man” in the full chino garb. No longer was I a wannabe scally, looking to the terraces of Anfield for my sartorial inspiration, something else was calling.

I now knew there was a bigger world out there, one I’d seen on programmes like the peerless Rough Guides on BB2 and Channel 4’s Network 7. One in which posh girls of easy virtue were impressed with what you wore and people went to Milan to buy clothes, rather than St John’s Market in Liverpool. They all danced to weird Eurodisco and this strange, but infectious music called house. I liked the look of this world very much. I’d make it my business to get to know it better.

What football means to the people…



The first clip is – though I'm guessing here – from an awards ceremony for the Greek club, PAOK of Thessaloniki. It’s special for a number of reasons. Firstly, the song, obviously some age-old supporters’ anthem, is fantastic, a supremely catchy tune with just a few lines that everyone knows. Then there’s its relentless repetition. Sung over and over again by everyone from old grannies and granddads to chunky lads on the top balcony who are obviously a bit useful with a flare and a flick-knife, the song buries itself in your consciousness, refusing to let go until you find yourself humming it on the bus, in meetings at work, in bed even. And finally, near the end, while the sparkly Eurovision-style presenters try and bring some order back to the ceremony, you’ll notice – and I can’t believe I’ve witnessed this – both a nervous-looking, tinpot army general, wondering whether to break it all up or not and A GREEK ORTHODOX PRIEST taking pictures of the scene with his mobile phone. Really, does it get any better?

The two following clips are in stadiums. The first comes from the Argentine team San Lorenzo, whose supporters have taken the club anthem/bouncing interface to a whole, new, undreamt-of level, while the second is of BIll Shankly’s lap of honour at Anfield following Liverpool’s League Championship triumph of 1973. Note in this clip how Shanks has his photo taken by several snappers, each of whom is a replica of the doomed photographer in The Omen. Also, look out for the none-more-’70s pitch invader, who’s resplendent in flares and the absolute key item of any football fan from that decade – the butcher’s coat. Fantastic.

The periodic table of typefaces




This is great. If you’re a man with too much time on his hands and a collection of Taschen books you never actually bother reading.

Click on the picture to enlarge. To find out more go to Squidspot.

Sergio Tacchini ‘Dallas’ tracksuit, bought 1984



There are many signposts along the road to manhood. For me, one of the earliest, and most significant, was the purchase of a Sergio Tacchini tracksuit top, bought for me on my 13th birthday in October, 1984, by my ever-generous mum.

I’d been into clobber for a couple of years, and had been lucky enough to get an Adidas padded anorak the year before, but the Tacchini (pronounced ”Tashini” by me and my mates) was a real step up. So when I got my hands on it, I was properly chuffed. And no wonder, Tacchini, aside from the almost-mythical ‘Australian’ brand, was the ultimate in European super-rich sportswear. For two years, like John McEnroe, I wore little else.



When the label thing did eventually ‘go out’ in early 1986 – to be replaced by Ocean Pacific sweatshirts and elephant cords – I folded the top reverently and put it away, even then aware that one day I’d want to examine it again some time in the future.

A few years later it was lent to a female mate of mine, who kept hold of it for the best part of a decade. Every time we met thereafter I would ask after its health. It was, she assured me, being looked after very well.



Finally, last year, the tracksuit was given back to me, about five sizes too small, but still recognisably the garment I’d treasured all those years ago. Today, it hangs in my wardrobe, waiting for the moment when it is given the respect it deserves and framed and hung upon the wall of my already-planned ‘Dad room’, so that I can gaze at it for eternity, a treasure from a different age, resplendent in blue nylon and white piping.

Beautiful ’60s-style mod shirts at DNA Groove



I have a thing about shirts. Less of a thing, more of a weakness. I love them, I love the way that a shortening of a collar here or the addition of a little button or two there can give your outfit a completely different feel. I like it when a good spread collar frames a tie and suddenly makes what you’re wearing make sense, or the instant Ivy League/skinhead look you get when you stick a nice button-down Oxford under a V-neck.

And it’s the collar (and then the fit) that is the key to a great shirt. If you’re wearing a tie, then you’ve got to plum for a more traditional British/Italian collar, one that will sit just below your Adam’s apple and deliver a perfectly-sized space for your tie to sit in. Look at the picture of Jude Law as Alfie, below.



His collar is smaller than the norm (though not Top Man silly-small), while his tie is slim in that Don Draper-off-Mad Men way. Then there’s the cuffs. Folding French ones obviously, but held rigorously in place by the cufflinks so they don’t bunch up to the surface of the suit. And that suit… if ever there was an advert for buying a whistle that’s just a little bit too small then this it. Jude looks absolutely boss here.

Of course, there’s another option: the button-down. Now, there are plenty of Americans who wear their superior Brooks Brothers button-downs with ties. This, sadly, makes the wearer look like the sort of New England square who wears chinos with his brogues and fastens his mobile phone to his belt with a mad strap/fastener thing. However, a great button-down shirt, without a tie, is joyful thing. Whether nestling under a V- or round-neck jumper, or being coupled with a svelte cardigan, it always looks the business. On its own, paired with pair of slim-fit Levi’s and desert boots the button-down shirt is the very essence of mod. I’ve got several of them and there is just so instinctively right about them that I’m tempted to wear one every day.

Anyway, the whole point of this little exercise is to flag up the beautiful ’60s-style shirts available from what I consider to be the best mod label about, DNA Groove. Made in Italy, the shirts come in various styles, from a high-collared button-down number to a gorgeous tab-collar model with lovely, rounded lapels. The choice of fabric is mindblowing too, with seemingly every pattern and colour covered, while each individual shirt boasts beautiful design details that mark out it as something really special. As George Harrison said in A Hard Day’s Night, whilst wearing a nice button-down shirt himself, this is the gear. Check out the selection below.







More style here at the DNA website, where you’ll find suits, ties, handmade shoes and everything a good mod needs. There’s even videos made by the brand’s owner, Claudio, showing you how to put an outfit together.

Forget the noughties, here’s ten things I miss about the ’90s



Groups of lads walking about provincial towns in pastel coloured Ben Sherman shirts

Weekly house music clubs in the most remote of places absolutely crammed with gurning young women in shiny bras

Going into boozers and seeing that picture of dogs playing pool unironically displayed

Realising that London’s previously rough Hoxton is filling up with people who were bullied at school – and schools in the English countryside at that

The cockney accent

Chelsea being a mediocre, plodding outfit with no pretensions other than to flit between the Premier League and Division One

Finding these cool, new pubs where food is served on big, white plates and sausage and mash costs ten quid

Looking forward to The Face/Arena magazine coming out every month

A regular stream of new music genres radically different from anything that had come before

Remembering that the ’80s was riven by class warfare, mass unemployment and people so poor they had to forage for food on the rubbish dumps of Birkenhead

Ten noughties fashion things

The rise and rise of the bargain bin Beckham



If any look symbolized the look of the decade (up until 2007 at least), it was the “pre-distressed jeans, suit jacket and millennium mullet” outfit, championed by the likes of ES magazine, GQ and every single estate agent within the M25. See also black shirts with white ties, paint-covered flares and pointy Ali-Baba shoes, all worn by that most noughties of creations, the fun boy – a cross between an Italian anarchist and a Christmas tree.

Men (and boys) in black
It started in Manchester, spread to Liverpool and became the dominant look for the north west’s urchins throughout the 2000s. Key items: Lowe Alpine “Charlie Brown” hat, black The North Face jacket and Adidas PT trainers. Meanwhile in London, the capital’s youth (as opposed to posh yokels who’d moved to Hoxton) went for grey Nike jogging bottoms, rugby shirts and shaggy, mop-top haircuts. A real north/south divide.

The return of the three-piece suit
Go on, wear one, you look like Dolly Parton’s boss in Nine to Five.

Japanese fashion magazines



For years magazines got away with filling their sections with artsy “stories”, featuring models the fashion editor fancied in moody poses staring into the distance. Thankfully, the likes of the brilliant Free & Easy and to a lesser extent, Moncole, have worked out that men actually want to see the clothes they’re supposed to buying, which is why their spreads of beautifully arranged clobber are the way to showcase male fashion.

Being a cut price preppy
Thanks to Uniqlo, Banana Republic and Brooks Brothers turning up in London, (though sadly not anywhere else) anyone could get to look like Potsy in Happy Days. In 1999, a pair of Japanese selvedge jeans cost the price of a three bedroom flat in Hoxton, now, they’re about 50 quid. This is progress – though not for Evisu’s profit margins.

Arena closing



It was the magazine I’d read since 1990, the original style magazine for men, the bloke’s publication that took fashion seriously. I was lucky enough to hold a senior editorial post there from 2007-08, but early in 2009 it closed its Prada-branded doors for the last time, leaving the UK without a stylish men’s mag with national – rather than just London – appeal. A shame.

Laughing at people who take any notice of what GQ says
GQ is not a cool magazine. It is a well-produced, beautifully put-together monthly publication, but its fawning over celebrities (no matter how ridiculous) and its championing of some of the worst excesses of Beckham-ism makes it the magazine of the follower not the innovator. Stick to teaching us what shoes to wear with our suits, gentlemen.

The triumph of cool



From Don Draper in Mad Men to Jude Law in Alfie, from the terraces of Anfield to the heaving shelves of Oi Polloi, the pared-down look that emerged on both sides of the Atlantic in the late 1950s is still the benchmark on how to look cool. Whether you’re in Manchester or San Francisco, London or Tokyo, there’s a shop selling timeless clobber at a non- prohibitive price. Who knew that the clothes designed for Maltese waiters and New England fisherman could be so stylish?

Suit jacket-shaped jackets that aren’t suit jackets
Once big in Japan, now a standard all over the world, over the last few years, it’s been an essential in every well dressed chap’s wardrobe.

The Albam Fisherman’s jacket



The Patrick cagoule of the 2000s. Much imitated, never bettered. The fact that they’ve ceased production just ups is collectability.

The Adidas Tango, World Cup ’82 football boot and the everlasting beauty of great sporting design



When I was ten, there were only three things I really wanted in my life.

The first was my parents to get back together. They’d just divorced and I was having to get used to spending half the week at my mum’s new house, the other half with my dad in the home I’d grown up in. Walking around with an Adidas holdall filled with washed/unwashed clothes and schoolboy crap not only ripped my shoulder to bits, but also made me look like a member of the IRA looking for somewhere to deposit a bomb.

The second and third things were more tangible, but just as unlikely to materialise: the Tango football and the World Cup football boot.

At that age I was obsessed with football. I played it twice a week for the cubs and school, went to Anfield as often as my dad would take me (being lower middle class I wasn’t allowed to go on my own yet) and devoured every appearance of the game, from Harry Carpenter’s Sportsnight to The Big Match on ITV. But what I yearned for more than anything else was the World Cup to come around. And in 1982, it did.

For a month I gorged on the football played in Spain. Feasted on it. Indulged my passion for the game with a lust previously unknown to me. And at the centre of every game was the Adidas Tango, the most beautiful football in the world.

No one at the local park had a Tango. Usually we played with a battered “casey”, a leather imitation of the Adidas Telstar with the black and white panels peeled off, or even worse, an orange Tornado, a hard, plastic job that gave you a dead leg when it clattered into your bare thighs on Saturday mornings. Tangos were for pros, not us.

And yet they could be bought. I’d seen one in the window of my local sports shop, sitting there, a vision of beauty a galaxy away from anything I could ever afford. And to make it worse, in the next display was that other great football icon of the age, the Adidas World Cup ’82 boot. It was torture.



The World Cup was just better than anything else around at that time. In fact, 27 years after, it still is. Not only did have the softest upper, quilted around the toe for better torsion (apparently), it boasted a sole so beautiful I’d spend hours gazing at it. Perfectly proportioned in red, white and black, at its very centre was the Adidas trefoil, still the greatest logo in the history of sporting design. But, like the Tango, it too was out of my grasp – the price of £32 too steep for everyone but the most indulged of children.

It hurt me that at the moment when I needed them most (and I did need them) the Tango and World Cup boot could never be mine.

Of course, time – and other things, like girls and music – took away my yearning for these wonders, but they’d appear in my mind occasionally, reminders of an age when I was on the cusp of adolescence and wanted objects that reflected my changing status.

A year or two ago, I did what I’d always promised I’d do when I could afford it: I finally bought myself a pair of World Cups. They sit in my wardrobe today, brought out for when I play one of my occasional games. The leather is as soft as I remembered (it’s kangaroo hide), the sole looks as timeless as ever and when I put them on, I get an inner glow that lasts for the duration of the match.

I haven’t got round to buying a Tango yet, but when I get a place with a garden – and maybe produce a child – it’s on the list. Right at the top.

I’m still working on getting the folks back together.

Living like a king in Paris in November



A couple of weeks ago I got a phone call. It went thus:

Nice lady: “Hey Tony, would you like to go Paris on Monday?”
Me: “Er, well I think… yeah, I’ll… bite your hand off.”

One of the great things about being freelance – and let’s face it, what with the pony wages and getting shafted by clients, they’re increasingly few – is having the freedom to take off at short notice if a nice PR person wants to take you somewhere. This was one such case.





Let’s be frank, we’re not talking about a Holiday Inn or Ibis here. No, for one night each, I’d be staying at the beyond-plush Plaza Athénée and Le Meurice hotels, favourites of movie stars, musicians and the “fashion pack”, whoever they might be.

Three hours after leaving St Pancras I was wondering around my suite at the Plaza, in Avenue Montaigne, marvelling at the size of my room, the quality of the furniture and the mirror-cum-telly that took over one wall of my bedroom. For the next two days, I ate like a king – and a French, 18th Century king with a laissez-faire attitude starving poor folk at that – feasting on everything from veal and pork paté, to slivers of perfectly cooked breast of duck. During an exquisite lunch at Le Meurice, the absolute dedication to the casue of gastronomy at this level of catering became very apparent.

Me: “Blimey, I’m stuffed. Hope the pud’s not too heavy.”
Lady next to me: “It’s pastries… and they’re covered in… gold.”
French waiter: “I can assure you zat ze gold iz 24 carat.”
Me: “Good job too, sonny, none of that Elizabeth Duke 18-carat rubbish for me.”







If it sounds like I’m being facetious, I’m not (alright, I am, a bit). The whole thing, from the way every member of staff treats you like Julius Caesar to the tour of the penthouse suite at Le Meurice (above) – 250m sq garden included in the night’s rate – was beyond fantastic. And no matter whether it’s raining or the binmen are on strike, Paris always, always looks amazing, especially from high up.

Pieter Hugo: ‘Hyena And Other Men’



Young South African photographer, Pieter Hugo doesn’t mess about. Not for him, artsy fashion shots for glossy magazines or studio sessions with brain-dead celebrities. Instead, Hugo goes out into the world and records the amazing things that go on in the everyday lives of ordinary people – particularly in Africa. The shots here are from a series Hugo took in Nigeria, which show the country’s travellers and their rather unusual (ie terrifying) pets. And yes, that is a monkey wearing an England football top at the bottom.

More from Hugo here









Tip: Justin Quirk

Beautiful house/dental practice in Japan

From the Dezeen website comes this beautiful Japanese house, which houses both the owner’s dental practice and a swimming pool. I bet he doesn’t find it hard to attract the ladies with this gaff. Superb.













Tip: Spaceinvading

Rafa: the man they love to hate



Let’s get this straight: Rafa Benitez makes some seemingly odd decisions.

Last year he took off Steven Gerrard at Wigan in a game Liverpool had to win to maintain their title challenge. This season, he’s substituted our best player, Yossi Benayoun, in matches against Lyon and Fulham, just when we needed him most. He’s stubborn, thinks too much about the next game and once wore a dreadful stonewash jeans-and-suit jacket combination at Wrexham in a friendly last year.

He’s also one of the greatest managers in the world.

People – and I include a lot of Liverpool fans in this – are so used to the Reds being a dominant force that they ignore the perilous position that the club is in at the moment. For anyone under the age of 45, Liverpool have always been at the top of the English football tree. If they’re not, it must be Rafa’s fault. Right?

Wrong.

If we’re being truthful here, Benitez must take some blame for what’s been happening on the pitch recently, but the real reason we’re in such a bad position at the moment is down to two people: Liverpool’s owners George Gillett and Tom Hicks. Though to call them “owners” grants them more dignity than they deserve.

When they bought our club off long-time chairman David Moores, Hicks and Gilette promised that they would use their own money for the purchase.

They lied.

Instead they took control of Liverpool FC with a £350m Royal Bank of Scotland loan. The profits the club makes, thanks largely to Benitez’s careful management, are ploughed back to pay off the interest on that loan. Want new players, Rafa? Sorry, you can only spend what you earn through the sales of others.

And it’s not just in the purchase of players that the Americans have been sadly wanting.

Three years ago, all the talk was of “new Anfield”, the 70,000-capacity stadium that would see Liverpool bring in the sort of gate receipts that Manchester United and Arsenal do every week. George Gillett promised that within 60 days of them taking over, there’d be “a spade in the ground” at Stanley Park, site of the new ground.

We’re still waiting.

The truth of the matter is that Liverpool are skint. Without Torres and Gerrard, Liverpool have no-one, bar Benayoun who can put the ball in the net with any regularity. The fact that Liverpool couldn’t afford to get rid of someone as woefully inept as Andriy Voronin during the summer shows just how paper-thin our squad is.

And it’s not just me pointing this out. Daniel Finkelstein’s “Finktank” in The Times forensically analyses the form of every Premier League club. His view on Liverpool is eye-opening.

[Last year] Liverpool exceeded our expectations for a team of their quality. And it is not surprising at all that they have dropped back off again this season. Their start to this season is more what we would expect of them.

So what is behind it? Three things seem worth mentioning. First, they have stayed steady in quality but have changed with their defence getting weaker and their attack getting stronger. They are letting in a large proportion of the shots on goal. They need to put this right.

Second, Xabi Alonso was, next only to Steven Gerrard, their best player. It was a disaster to lose him to Real Madrid. But most importantly – the money. Our figures show that Benítez outperforms the wage bill. Blame the Americans. Not Rafa.

So for Liverpool supporters, it has to be a case of holding tight and sitting out this storm. Calling for Benitez’s head does no-one any favours – and there isn’t a decent manager out there who’d come to Liverpool at the moment anyway, not with those two clowns at the helm. As mentioned earlier, the Spaniard should not be immune to criticism, but a real examination of what Rafa can do for the club should wait until Hicks and Gillett have been packed off back to the States.

And Reds fans reading this: remember, we are not Newcastle or England, clamouring for our manager’s head just because it’s not going exactly the way we like it. We are different. We support our team, and especially our manager, through thick and thin.

As our motto goes: we are not English, we are Scouse.

It’s about time a few more people started to behave like it.

On heroes…



I’d never really idolised anyone before Ray Clemence.

I was seven. Mad on football, mad on Liverpool FC and absolutely obsessed with goalkeeping. My fixation on Ray Clemence was thus assured.

Clemence was the lynchpin of the Liverpool side of the ’70s. Signed in 1967 from Scunthorpe United, he replaced Tommy Lawerence – the ‘flying pig’ – in the Reds’ nets three years later in 1970.

Clem was the polar opposite of the average, ultra-dependable goalie of the period. While the likes of his England rival Peter Shilton had honed their skills for years to become capable between the sticks (Shilton used to get his parents to stretch him off the landing to make him taller), Clemence was originally an outfield player, only becoming a goalie to get a game in a school representative side. For Clemence, being in goal was easy – or at least that’s how he made it look.

As I began playing competitively myself, it was Ray who was my inspiration (though I would never master kicking with my left foot as he did). I may have only been playing in the Ormskirk and District Cubs League, but every game gave me the chance to tip the ball round the post a la Clemence or keep a clean sheet like Ray did at Anfield, just a few miles from my house. And when things went wrong for Clem, they went wrong for me too. I couldn’t stand it when he’d make a mistake, and was distraught when his louche style led to a soft goal going in. Even though Clemence had the superior natural attributes, I always had the nagging feeling that Shilton was the better of the two England goalies, but only admitting this to myself, never at school, where the assembled throngs of Evertonians would be gleeful when he messed up. Thirty years on, I still find the soft through-the-legs goal he let in for England against Scotland in 1976 painful. He really was my hero.

And then one day I heard that he would be doing a signing at a sports shop in Ormskirk. I don’t think I’ve ever been as excited about anything in my life. After school I went to the store, to be greeted by a huge queue snaking down the road. I took my place, petrified that the doors would shut and I’d miss out, but within half an hour I was inside, just a few yeards from the great man. I’d gone through this meeting in my head all afternoon. I would be polite. I would ask him about playing in Liverpool, he would quiz me about my sparkling form for the 37th Ormskirk Cubs and perhaps point me in the way of a trial at Anfield. Then came my turn. I walked up and began to speak, but Clem, wearing a dark blue V-neck jumper, just took my autograph book off me and signed his name without even looking up. I was moved on and out of the shop, another expendable part in the faceless production line of fame. Gutted.

My feelings for Ray Clemence were never the same after this. It was a wake up call, one that we all get eventually, that our heroes are every bit as mortal and prone to faults as the rest of us. Following Ray, came Adam Ant, after Adam, John Barnes, but each time the gap between the man and his actions got wider as I learnt that being good at something didn’t automatically make you a good person. And that goes for all of us.

There is a coda to this little story though. Last year, while entering my private London media club, I happened upon a middle aged man trying to get in. The lady with the clipboard, under strict instruction not to admit anyone but members and their guests, told him that he’d have to wait as his member friend wasn’t here yet. He turned around. It was Ray Clemence.

“It’s alright, Clem,“ I said, “if you’re stuck getting in, I’ll sort you out.”
“Cheers, mate,” he replied, hearing my accent, pleased that the Liverpool connection still bore fruit in the most unexpected of places.

And it’s funny, because even though I was tempted to tell him how shit he’d he made me feel 30 years ago, the fact that he was the first person I ever truly idolised counted for so much more than this – ultimately minor – disappointment. I might now have been a man in my 30s, but meeting him once again laid that ghost to rest. He was mortal alright, but he was still Liverpool goalkeeper when they were the greatest football team on the planet. And that counted for more than anything.

I just wish I’d asked him to sign my serviette – I lost the orginal autograph years before.

Marble sculptures that don’t look as if they’re made from marble

Courtesy of the brilliant arts blog TodayandTomorrow comes the work of Fabio Viale. I’m especially impressed by his sculpture of the Mona Lisa, which looks like it’s been made out of polystyrene balls, though the tyres and marble boat he’s made aren’t bad either. Very talented.

The Amalfi coast – ’70s-style pics

More from my pretentious, trendy Islington honeymoon. This time it’s the craggy coast of the Amalfi peninsula.

Rome in late September



Just got back from my honeymoon in Italy, travelling down the boot from Florence, through to Rome and on to the Amalfi coast. These pics are from my time in the Eternal City. More to come.

Old peculiars: how British men’s brands are harking back to the days of Empire



Originally in FHM

Britain is back in fashion.

But the country that provides the inspiration for the best of the new season’s menswear is not one of comedy-postcard punks, Union Jack electric guitars and Austin Powers faux-‘grooviness’. No, the Britain – and British-ness – that permeates the clothes you’ll want to wear this winter predates the swinging ’60s by a good 30 years or more. A time when the sun never set on the Empire and thoroughly decent chaps with names like Sandy and Roger would navigate the Zambezi river in the morning before ascending Kilimanjaro after afternoon tea – usually armed only with a penknife and a pouch of Golden Virginia.

The clothes these men wore – and by God they were men – were built to protect them on these adventures. Overcoats made from rubberised cotton, lightweight jackets with countless hidden pockets and hunting outfits slathered in waterproof wax all kept the chaps safe as they headed into confront Johnny Foreigner and his ghastly ecosystem.

Today, while the Empire is limited to the Isle of Man and some helpfully mineral-rich outposts of the south Atlantic, homegrown designers are harking back to this golden age of British manhood. From Dunhill to Nigel Cabourn and Oliver Spencer, coats, jackets, luggage and footwear are all imbibed with the Boy’s Own spirit. Even on the high street the look is gaining ground, with Marks & Spencer doing what it does best and producing classic British staples, while Topshop is aiming for the more discerning customer with its new range of grown-up classics. That’s not to say these clothes are stuffy though: seemingly every collection drips, not just with tradition, but also 21st Century cuts and tweaks designed to flatter the wearer. Here there is no compromise between style and practicality.

At Dunhill, a brand forever associated with the pleasures of both the road and the smoking room, designer Kim Jones has been drafted in to create a series of clothes that fuse the label’s august traditions with the silhouettes of now.

“There’s a storm system coat in the new collection,” he says, “which looks distinctly modern but is actually lifted from the company archives. Look hard and you’ll also see echoes of a butcher’s jacket, a sailor’s jacket, things made for a reason. Each and every piece has a story and a purpose.”

Dunhill isn’t the only brand to get in an innovative designer to accentuate its heritage. At Barbour, a company whose waxed jackets are a staple in many a man’s wardrobe, Japanese designer To Ki To has created a range of coats expertly engineered to bear the brunt of whatever the weather can throw at the wearer. His slim-line horse-riding coat, with its waxed cotton shell, tartan interior and range of pockets is ideal for braving a winter weekend in the country, while the ‘Rustic’ driving jacket boasts a brilliantly designed hood and button-up front sure to frighten off the most unfriendly of elements – and traffic cops.



The apex of this spirit can be found in the works of veteran designer Nigel Cabourn. His new collection, which features robust tweed jackets and a stunning parka with its own inbuilt rucksack, is inspired by the clothing that mountaineers Mallory and Irvine wore on their doomed expedition to Everest in 1924. Like Stone Island founder Massimo Osti, Cabourn has a vast collection of vintage military and industrial clothing that he draws upon for inspiration.

“The clothes I make are always inspired by real people or events – they always have a heritage,” he explains. “I use real fabrics from the past and even real zips – and it’s expensive. But if you cut these clothes in a contemporary way men love it.”

These clothes are far more than mere fashion items. They are not garments to be slung out when style editors declare that the colour is no longer in vogue or the cut is not right for whatever season we’re in. The coats, trousers and jumpers here are meant to be treasured and brought out when the occasion demands, year on year. London designer Oliver Spencer, whose new season collection is an exercise in restrained British menswear, sums this philosophy up.

“It’s about making utilitarian luxury. The buyer of our clothes is a ‘new casual’ who appreciates the finest details. He wants clothes that are made with the purest of fabrics. And importantly, he wants them to be made in Britain.”

Just, it seems, like the men who wear it. Now, where’s that canoe…

In defence of Mick Hucknall



I’m going to say something that would see me cast out of every post-work media boozer in London. That would get me laughed at by people whose sole existence seems to consist of looking at Chuck Norris videos on YouTube and saying ‘amazing’ a lot.

I quite like Mick Hucknall.

In fact, the more I see of him, the more I like him. Granted, Simply Red’s earlier output is worthy of praise anyway (and yes, it is), but it’s what Hucknall stands for that endears him to me.

Specifically, it’s an appearance he made in a Piers Morgan programme about the lizard-like rich folk of Monte Carlo last year. With his reputation for good living and, let’s face it, boss shagging, you might expect Mick to spend his days in a Monte Carlo mansion, enjoying the benefits of tax-free living and wearing sunglasses in dimly lit restaurants. But you’d be wrong, because, as he proudly admitted on the show, he is a UK taxpayer. No dodgy offshore accounts, no snidey 70 days at home to escape the Revenue – just a very rich man putting 40 per cent of what he earns back into the pot.

It doesn’t sound much, but when mingebag celebrities take pride in fucking out of the gaff the moment they get upgraded to a ‘gold’ account at the Halifax, then it’s refreshing to find someone who’s willing to take a hit so your nan can have a hip replacement on the NHS. OK, he might come across as a bit of wanker, but if me or any of my mates were famous, the News of the World would have my neighbours torching my house over one of my post-fifth pint gags.

Hucknall is a real Labour man, a working class feller who’s done well in music, but hasn’t gone down the route of adopting one of those weird mid-Atlantic Lancastrian accents so beloved of the middle-aged northern rock star/DJ and moving to the Isle of Man. He didn’t disown Labour or Blair the moment the gastropub mafia got sick of the party, he stuck with them, because he knows that those with less will always do be better off under a Labour government. Even one that’s led by Gordon Brown.

The tiresome anti-northern, anti-ginger prejudice he faces is just another example of those with talent for fuck all, except smirking and pontificating about ’80s youth movements they were never cool enough to be a part of, having too much of a platform in the media. Not that Mick Hucknall cares, he’s waking up in a nice house somewhere with a gorgeous wife and a beautiful young daughter to bring up.

And without a Chuck Norris video in sight.

Ballpoint drawings of the Soviet/Afghan war



The work of a Russian soldier who fought in Afghanistan during the Soviet Union’s ill-fated invasion of the that country in 1979, these pictures were drawn using only a ballpoint pen. According to English Russia, the soldier not only lost comrades in Afghanistan, but in Tajikistan and Chechnya too. His pictures were his way of coping with what he endured on the battlefields of the most remote parts of Asia.

Quadrant Park and the madness of 1990



Liverpool didn’t embrace acid house early on like Manchester did. House was dismissed as a fad in 1987 and the acid variety of a year later was seen viewed with suspicion by most Scousers. In Liverpool, apart from the odd club like the Mardi Gras and the Underground, house was strictly for Mancs and Cockneys. Who needed to jack their body when you could mong out to Floyd on your sofa?

Then Quadrant Park happened.

Located in Bootle, the Quad looked like a shoe warehouse from the outside and a Magaluf fun pub from the in. Four or five miles from the city centre, it was the sort of place that drew in its custom by sending out mass 18th birthday party invites with pictures of champagne bottles on the front. I once went to one such do there, where I was pursued by girl with bright red hair and a mad hat. It being pre-acid house, she'd been attracted by my Rick Astley-influenced outfit of spotted tie, blazer and chinos.



Then in 1990, rumours surfaced about the new nights at Quadrant Park, that this most townie of Merseyside nightclubs had betrayed its ‘cop off and get smacked’ traditions by ‘going house’. I went back on a Monday night to see LFO and sure enough, house it most certainly had gone, as you could tell by the fact the owners were selling Lucozade behind the bar for rather more than it cost in the shops. They even shut off the cold water in the toilets to give it that authentic acid vibe, the scamps.



Despite the fact that LFO didn’t show on that night, the place was properly mental. The music was a mix of British ‘bleep’ techno and Italian piano tracks, danced to by frighteningly skinny local scals and out-of-towners, some of whom wore kaftans just to prove they’d been to the acid house Harrod’s, Affleck’s Palace. Drug-takers or not, we were all swept up in its euphoric Scouse house wave.

As the club became bigger and bigger, the profits that could be had brought in the gangsters, and ultimately, the people who’d made the Quad what it was went somewhere else, specifically the new night that was starting on Slater Street near the legendary Conti club. Nice people, Balearic vibe, no wonder they called it Cream. Liverpool had got acid house at last.

Have Adidas got no shame?



Adi, if you’re up there, please avert your eyes. A pair of trainers have been made in your name with three tongues. God forgive them.

Mexican Coke tastes better than normal Coke. Apparently



Top preppy/general good clobber site A Continuous Lean has a great article on the superior taste of Mexican Coca-Cola compared to the normal stuff which they get in the States. I’ll be truthful here, there are few better things in life than cold Coke drunk from the traditional glass bottle – especially if it’s one that’s been stolen from the local Spa. Having said that, when you’ve had to put up with cheapo Panda ‘cola’ for much of your life – as we British kids did in the recession of the 1980s – anything tastes good. Anyway, ACL say:

It all started in 1985 when — in an effort to save money — Coca-Cola stopped using real cane sugar and reformulated the iconic drink to be made with high-fructose corn syrup. The U.S. government subsidizes corn growers so much (some $40 billion since the mid 90s) that HFCS is cheaper than sugar, and when you are producing on the scale that Coke is material costs are crucial to the bottom line. What does this have to do with Mexican Coke you ask? Well, the bottlers south of the border never made the switch to HFCS, so people (like myself) feel that Mexican Coke has a better taste than American Coke. I think the Coca-Cola made with real sugar is less sweet tasting and has a smoother finish than HFCS Coke and thus is superior.

The Housemartins: the group who invented the ’90s



It’s 23 years since the Housemartins first released their album, London 0 Hull 4. And to celebrate this, er, pivotal anniversary, the record has been re-released complete with bonus thingies and unreleased whatsits. This is a good thing.

As a record it’s faultless, a landmark example of the enduring power of post-war British pop music. I’ve never particularly attached a great deal of importance to lyrics, but on London 0 Hull 4, PD (later Paul) Heaton’s descriptions of a north of England ravaged by Thatcherism made me both sad and proud at the same time. The fact that they were carried by the most infectious of pop melodies just made these songs even better. But that wasn’t all.



When you took the record out and looked at the inner sleeve of the record you were greeted with a picture of the band. And in that shot Heaton was wearing a round neck jumper, small-collared shirt and a tiny, discreet football badge on his breast. These details said one thing: Heaton was one of us.

I’d spent the most of the mid-’80s ignoring pop music. And no wonder. Because, from 1984-1986, apart from a few notable exceptions, most of the stuff I heard was pompous, tuneless, overblown rubbish – the soundtrack of me trying to avoid getting my head kicked in at under-18s discos. It was Queen at Live Aid, Duran Duran ditching the funk of their first two albums for big hair and overblown rock, and Go West and Jennifer Rush polluting the charts. I missed out on the genius of The Smiths because they looked like students and the only bit of moving I did to music was my distinctly average breakdancing moves in an upstairs room at the local baths. No wonder that my heroes were Liverpool FC players and the fashion-obsessed scallies who watched them from the Anfield Road End.



This is why The Housemartins were such a breath of fresh (River Humber) air. The clothes they wore and the subjects they sang about marked them out as people my mates and I could identify. When The South Bank Show did a documentary on the band I loved the fact that Heaton wore an à-la-mode Dundee FC ‘tea cosy’ hat when singing Think For a Minute on a boat in the Humber (Bassist Norman Cook’s Adidas windcheater and guitarist Stan Cullimore’s Patrick cagoule are also worthy of note).

The Housemartins sowed the seeds of what, sadly, would eventually become known as ‘laddism’. They showed that you could be into football and politics, that you could obsess about clothes but never go to a Paris catwalk show, and that the things that defined our everyday existence were subjects worthy of documentation. At that time, John Peel was roundly booed by left wing audiences for having the temerity to read out the football results at assorted rock festivals. That wouldn’t happen today (and not because Peel passed away a few years back).



After two albums, the group split, with Heaton going on to form the all-conquering Beautiful South. Musically, to me at least, they were hit and miss, but their songs carried on in the Housemartins tradition of detailing the absurdities of normal life – and Heaton’s hair in the video for Song for Whoever is the best example of a late-’80s long-on-top bob I’ve ever seen. He also wore CP Company and Stone Island long before they became a staple for football hooligans from the Potteries and Yorkshire.

After the demise of The Housemartins came acid house and the creative explosion in music and media that followed, led by many more young men – DJs, musicians, journalists – who shared the same background as Hull’s finest. But by the mid-’90s, this invasion of society’s cooler echelons had been taken over by those whose credentials didn’t bear up to close scrutiny, but whose long-standing links in the ‘creative industries’ ensured their success. Suddenly, everyone from Radio 1 DJs to Harry Enfield was a ‘lad’.

So Heaton withdrew into the comfort of his limited edition Mille Miglia coats and the warmth of his local. Lad he may once been, but once it became just another lazy media term, he did what we all have to – and grew up.

Buying trainers: a guide for the older man



A re-edited version of this appeared in The Economist’s Intelligent Life magazine.

In general, a man doesn’t give much thought to his trainers. He may well have a pair tucked away in the wardrobe, waiting for when he needs to walk the dog or go out for a quick drink. But that’s where the relationship ends: he thinks of them—if he ever does think of them—as throw-them-on shoes, shoes that don’t matter. This is a pity. The right pair of classic trainers can be as versatile as a pair of made-to-measure oxfords from Lobb.

By “classic” trainer, I don’t mean the modern, hyper-size sports shoe, with their various air pumps, cushioned soles and space-age lacing systems. These are too big, too clever-clever and too noticeable to be much use. For trainers that bring out the best in clothes—or at least the clothes that a grown man might want to wear—you need the simpler styles: how trainers looked before trainers got silly. Often constructed of fine leather in dark or understated colours, and with a lack of any obvious markings or branding, a classic trainer will be reminiscent in shape of the pumps of the 1960s and 1970s You could play a spot of a five-a-side in a pair, if you had to, but they’re smart, too—as smart as trainers can get without actually becoming shoes. Coupled with a pair of slimmer-fit, indigo jeans, a good jacket and a well-fitting shirt, they’ll see you right for all but the most formal of occasions.

There’s no shortage of places to shop for this type of shoe—the big sportswear brands such as Adidas, Nike, Puma, Lacoste and Reebok are sold globally. But you’ll want to pass on these brands’ showiest models and instead search out their retrospective ranges. Adidas’s Originals line (www.adidas.com/originals), in particular, is a cornucopia of classic shoes from the company’s back-catalogue. Models such as the Stan Smith, Forest Hills, Universal and Stockholm are constructed mainly from leather or coloured suede, and have a timeless shape that will work with most casual trousers, especially a pair of relaxed-fit jeans or dark cords—perfect for Saturday-afternoon outings or leisurely evenings in the pub. But be wary of the much-hyped, money-spinning collaborations between the big sportswear labels and established designers, such as that between Alexander McQueen and Puma. Aside from Adidas’s work with Porsche Design, they’re all a more ponderous, overstated and more expensive version of the real thing. It’s like someone buying a chic modernist house, and the adding a Tudorbethan roof to it. Then charging you twice as much for the privilege.

Perhaps surprisingly, higher price is not necessarily a guarantee of a better shoe. Many designer fashion labels have spin-off sportswear lines, punting out tracksuits and shoes plastered with visible logos. But when I was doing the research for this piece, I found a pair of plain black Comme des Garçons pumps, at Dover Street Market in central London, that were indistinguishable from the ones worn by six-year-olds in school gymnasiums up and down the country to do their forward rolls in. The price to you? £155. Admittedly Prada does a few perfectly crafted black leather trainers—but even then, it adds garish red logos running up the tongues of some styles, which spoils the whole thing. At the other end of the market—and usually that’s where they’re found—you should avoid the temptation to save a few quid by buying a pair of imitation pumps. They may look like that pair of Adidas you saw last week, but the four stripes, cardboard sole and unpleasant smell of substandard glue will soon illustrate the folly of your purchase. Plus, if you wear them out with your children they’ll never speak to you again.

For people with concern for those who actually make these items, the likes of Adidas and Nike haven’t exactly covered themselves in glory. Both brands use giant factories in south east Asia and South America as a way of cutting costs and sadly, their record in labour relations has been poor. For example, in 2005, 33 Adidas employees in Indonesia were sacked for taking part in a legal strike over pay – workers had been paid as little as 60 cents an hour. It was only a concerted campaign by Oxfam that finally got them a severance deal two years later. More hopefully, Nike, for years a target of anti-poverty campaigners, has made a concerted effort to distance itself from these sort of practices. In 2005, it published a dossier which contained details of abuses at its factories in Asia and joined the Fair Labour Association – both of which were seen as positive moves forward by human rights groups. Neither firm, however, can compete on these issues with Brazilian/French trainer brand, Veja (www.veja.fr), which not only makes strikingly retro sports shoes in organic cotton and wild rubber, but also ensures workers are rewarded for their toils by running the business on a co-operative model.

Another danger comes in the form of the horrendous casual shoe/trainer hybrids that have surfaced in the past few years. Often constructed in pre-distressed leather and covered in all sorts of unsightly details—oddly angled Velcro fastenings are popular—they’re usually worn by men with intricate mullet haircuts, purposely bashed-about jeans and nasty suit jackets. These are not for you. Instead, stay svelte and explore the ranges by the Majorcan cobblers Camper, the Italian high-end sportswear specialist C.P. Company—or amiable but intermittently stuffy English shoemakers Clarks. If it’s lo-tech, classic simplicity you’re after, Converse’s Chuck Taylor and Jack Purcell basketball boots will look super-fresh with a pair of 1950s-style, baggy, turned-up jeans, while Superga’s cotton Cotu plimsoll has been complementing Italian men’s fitted summer shorts since 1925. You could also try some of the classy European styles produced by the Swedish brand Tretorn and France’s Spring Court (the latter as worn by John Lennon on the front of Abbey Road).

Of course, one of the problems about buying trainers is the actual shopping experience. Like record shops and hi-fi stores, trainer emporiums can be horribly intimidating places. Specialised men’s boutiques such as Oi Polloi in Manchester, or Liverpool’s Transalpino, can be easier on the male ego, with assistants who’ll happily take you through their tailor-made choice of retro-looking trainers and reissues without making you feel like an unwanted guest. These shops also boast fantastic, easy-to-use websites if you can’t make it in the flesh. At the top end, London’s Lanvin menswear store in Savile Row is a joy to a shop at, while around the corner, in Brook Street the ultra-friendly boutique Browns has just opened a dedicated shoe store; in Paris, the Bonne Marché branch in St Germain is particularly welcoming and well-stocked. And if you have to go high-street, the UK-wide chain Size (size.co.uk), boasts an unrivalled selection of reissues, while Office carries plenty of the bigger sports brands. Be warned, however: some members of staff wear baseball caps turned to the side—unironically.

When you put on a pair of trainers on it’s wise to bear a couple of things in mind. Firstly, the laces: many an outfit has been ruined by huge bows flapping off the feet of an otherwise carefully dressed man. Either cut the laces shorter, or tie them behind the tongue: that way you’ll get a nice, clean silhouette and be less likely to fall over when running for that early morning flight. Think about what you’re wearing them with, too. The sleeker the trainer, the narrower your trousers should be. You’ll often see smart footwear swamped by cheap, baggy jeans, lost under a blanket of shredded denim—keep your jeans resting on top of your footwear. After all, what’s the point in shelling out on quality sports shoes if no one can see them?

If you find you’re getting stuck about what trainers to plump for, use the same rules for buying other clothes. Think about what other items you’ve got, the sort of places you’ll be going and what suits you. Don’t be too clever or ambitious. This is not about fashion or taking risks, it is about style—and that, as we know, is timeless. Happy hunting.

Harry Patch: 1898-2009



He was the last surviving soldier of World War I, but on Saturday, at the age of 111, Harry Patch died, thus severing the last living link with the 1914-18 conflict. Oddly, the week before, the war’s other survivor, 113-year-old Henry Allingham, also passed away, meaning that this November, for the first time, there will be none of the ‘fighting Tommies’ present at the Cenotaph on Remembrance Sunday. The photo, by Don McCullin comes courtesy of this profile of Patch in The Observer.