Young Fogey Rising

The rapid decomposition of society leaves one feeling at times a bit adrift. Brideshead Revisited viewing parties only go so far in alleviating the rage. These days the only people I see carrying around a teddy bear in public are children and vagrants. It's time to face the impending immolations with the same determination of our ancestors. Brute force and violence are required. If you don't get it, then get out of the way. It's time to reclaim our heritage, including its cultural and sartorial forms. The Scotsman of all things recently took note of the growing presence of the Young Fogey. Perhaps he isn't so much an effect of the economic crisis, as an antidote to the anti-White poison of the MultiKult? Young Fogey as explicit English identity. I like to think I'm contributing to his resurgence. But even if I'm not, I shall claim otherwise anyway. Here's an excerpt:

There’s a new mood in menswear, and sartorially-minded chaps keen to tap into it need look no further for a fashion role model than their own grandfathers.

Which is exactly what Robbie Williams has done in launching his own clothing line; Farrell, both named for and inspired by his grandpa Jack Farrell, a collection of flat caps, pea coats, cosy cardigans, herringbone textiles and fedoras that pay homage to an elderly man but are firmly aimed at the 18-40 lad about town: the young fogey.

The key elements of the young fogey look – ties, tweed sports jackets, waistcoats, elbow patches, cords, braces and brogues – more usually associated with a certain generation of geography teachers and betting shop stalwarts, are somewhat paradoxically looking rather fresh these days, after nigh-on three decades of trainers, jeans and sweatshirts making up the average young man’s weekend wardrobe.

Traditional items that even a few years ago would have seemed at odds with men’s style anywhere but a sheltered housing complex are now the epitome of it. Leading proponents of the geriatric look include 30-something presenters Rick Edwards and George Lamb (whose foxy silvery locks complement the look perfectly), nu-folk old-timer-dressers Mumford & Sons, and even the positively embryonic One Direction, whose signature layered look of blazers, ties and sensible knitwear saw chat show host Alan Carr compare their action figures to university lecturers.

Topman’s latest collaboration is with Harris Tweed, and while even a few years ago this would have been remarkable, it now seems the natural fit for both brands. The former’s new stand-alone concept store in the heart of Shoreditch (stomping ground of the fashionable London fogey, or codger in local terms), which they have named The General Store, is done up like a gentleman’s outfitters from days gone by – all vintage fittings, battered floorboards and artfully distressed display units.

© 2011 Johnston Publishing Ltd

Corsair Slip-Ons

"My Britain is fuck-all now"

Sloane Rangers: Peter Jones

As you know, when I was much younger I shopped at Peter Jones in Sloane Square. In fact one of my first serious girlfriends would take us there most weekends. I could have sworn Laura Ashley goods were on her shopping list, but I am told Peter Jones did not sell LA. Oh well, my memory must be shot. Later on I became a regular for shirts, ties, and suits. The 134-year old department store has now been refurbished. The Daily Telegraph recently covered the introduction of the 'new' Peter Jones:

Peter Jones straddles Britain's swankiest fault line, where Belgravia meets Chelsea. Diana, Princess of Wales shopped here, as does - claim the regulars I spoke to recently - Prince Harry and his newish sister-in-law. According to Tony Wheeler, the department store's managing director, 40 per cent of its clientele lives within walking distance. Which - given this neighbourhood's affluence - explains why it is the strongest financial performer of all John Lewis stores. As well as being local, Peter Jones customers are loyal: from their first pair of prep-school shoes onwards, they shop here for life.

Last night, many of those customers were invited to a party thrown to celebrate the end of a 10-year, £100 million refurbishment. David Cameron donated one of his Prime Ministerial fountain pens for a charity auction, and a choir - from a local, Peter Jones-shod prep school - was due to provide the music. The final flourish of this spruce-up took place in the menswear department, which now boasts trendy Danish furniture in the changing rooms and a strong, Sloane-friendly collection of Ralph Lauren, Gant, Hackett, Tommy Hilfiger, Thomas Pink and Mayfair Richard James suits. To mark the occasion, the store has produced a special collection dedicated to its core customers, those fountain-paddling Sloane Rangers. It includes a red-white-and-blue trimmed Barbour, a paisley lined wax Cro'Jack jacket, Eton shirts, a Chelsea boot by Grenson and even - rather suspiciously - a "heritage Sloane Ranger eye-mask".

When Peter York and Ann Barr wrote their Sloane Ranger handbook, these items and their contemporary equivalents comprised a highly evolved localised dress code that quickly set apart the U from the non-U. For men, the key Sloane Ranger kit included a tweed jacket, "worn in all situations, particularly with jeans"; the covert coat, "a vital garment because only Sloanes wear it"; and a green, oiled Barbour that "smells of dogs". By wearing these garments, Sloanes could recognise their own kind, and never fall into conversation with ideologically suspect Hampstead intellectuals.

© Copyright of Telegraph Media Group Limited 2010

Harris Tweed

From the publisher:

'Harris Tweed is a unique woolen textile hand-woven by generations of islanders in the Outer Hebrides off the west coast of Scotland. Worn worldwide, and much used by fashion designers including Vivienne Westwood and Paul Smith, it is increasingly cherished, both for the garments made from it and as a fascinating traditional craft.

This book is a group portrait of the craftsmen who work with Harris Tweed, from the Hebrides to London's Saville Row. The author will interview and photograph farmers, mill workers, weavers, tailors, and designers, and will also consider their landscape and context. Several tailors on Saville Row, including Henry Poole, Norton & Sons and Huntsman, have welcomed the publication, and will allow the author full access to photograph and interview their staff.

Primarily for those who love to wear Harris Tweed and want to know more about its provenance, the book will also tap into a growing interest in traditional crafts. It will appeal to an audience from the design and fashion industries along with students of fashion, design and textiles.'

Inside Jack Wills

les chevaliers teutoniques

Yamato !

archéofuturiste !

Jeremy Hackett

Chalk Stripe Splendour

The Germans Who Never Lost

Cough Syrup (Young the Giant)

A Shirt of English Viyella

Purdey...A Short Film

Tartan Tuesday

Girl Panic! (Duran Duran)

Chevaliers

Stripes

Domenico Vacca



This is Sparta !

Rearview

Southern Rock

The English Gentleman: National Colours

Cuff Undone

I do not usually go around with a suit cuff button undone, but occasionally I unfasten one just to see what would happen. The sun, as expected, continues to shine and the earth continues to spin on its axis. Of course no one apart from fellow fogeys, clothing aficionados, and iGents would even notice such a detail. The Trads and iGents, were they to spot it, would likely erupt in a fit of priggish rage and demand I button it up at once. To which I have my own unique reply. It is important to have a bit of fun and to maintain a spirit of mischief, a crucial posture under present circumstances. Because there are more than enough other things to turn up the heat under one's collar.

Sent from my iPhone

Genuine Housewifing

http://dixerwear.com/

Tartan Tuesday

Game On

A brace of pheasants napping

grandes choses

"Donnez-nous de grands hommes et de grandes actions pour que nous retrouvions le sens de grandes choses."

- Pierre Drieu La Rochelle (1893-1945)

Vic Loves Harris

Beagling

Brasserie Encounter

On my way home from the office last night, I stopped by a local brasserie for a cocktail. A G&T, to be precise. The bartenders are all friends of a friend and know exactly the way I like it.

I stood at the bar and calmly surveyed the talent, downing three drinks in 15 minutes. The place held a smattering of office workers, couples, Persian players, cougars, and escorts.

It was only then I noticed the people sitting next to me.

Tall, tanned, blonde, bloated, affluent-looking, the sort that probably attended USC and get annoyed when I pointedly assume they spent their college years in South Carolina.

"Oh, you went to the other USC..."

These people were staring at me with the same bemused, stupid, smug incomprehension the Indians must have had when the Spaniards landed upon these shores.

The head douchebag, an older man with red face, untucked stripey shirt, and denim, smiled at me and said: "Why are you wearing a tie?"

I turned and slowly looked him up and down.

"So I don't look like you people".

One of the advantages of being a tall muscled chap is that I can say such things and get away with it.

A younger guy wearing a baseball cap immediately stepped in, introducing himself as John, and offered to buy me a drink, which I accepted.

The evening ended without violent incident.