In the course of my wanderings around Southern Africa in the late '90s, I met a young man who lived with his family at the foot of the Soutpansberg mountains in the Transvaal in South Africa. Jannie was 21, with long blonde hair, and managed the family farm. Discovering I was from London, he said he wanted to immigrate there for work. He grew up on his uncle's farm. His uncle was an eccentric who liked to hide in the bushes and take pot shots at the black farm workers with a homemade slingshot. The family kept as a pet a tame warthog which they had raised from a piglet. The warthog behaved just like a dog, chewing on an old tire hanging from a tree and swinging from it by its teeth. It also chased cars, the sound of which would cause it to run clickety-clack into the kitchen, its little hooves invariably slipping out from under it as it slid on its back across the smooth wooden floor. It was eventually run over by one of the big 18-wheeler trucks rolling north towards Zimbabwe.
"The average age for a man in the Bronze Age was eighteen. In the Roman era, twenty-two. Heaven must have been beautiful then. Today it must look dreadful. When a man reaches forty, he has no chance to die beautifully. No matter how he tries, he will die of decay. He must compel himself to live."
A snaphot of Gerolf Annemans, an officer of the Vlaams Belang party in Belgium, wearing a bow tie, checked shirt, and navy blazer. Unlike Mr. Annemanns, I am not partial to bow ties; indeed I have been specifically requested not to wear one. Exhibiting a bow tie, one could argue, can be construed as a controversial, even radical, act in today's sartorial environment. However, it is images such as this one that cause me to reconsider.
Whenever I hear the phrase light in the loafers, I can only assume the speaker is referring to my Gucci snaffle-bit loafers. These shoes are a true friend. I have been wearing Gucci loafers in one form or another since I was a very young man. 
The English writer Bruce Chatwin (1940-1989) was a devotee of OCBD shirts, which numerous photos can verify. I include just two here, including one featuring him in an OCBD and tick-weave jacket with a 3/2 roll. The other shows him in a white OCBD and boat shoes. A masterful writer and engaging character, he is missed.
Pink is my signature colour. If you consult my family and associates, you will discover I am known for my pink shirts. Brooks Brothers OCBDs, to be exact. I own three in the non-non-iron, slim fit style. In certain circles, these shirts are a veritable icon. For me, they are like a second skin. 
In my closet, pink is not limited to just shirts. I occasionally don a well-worn pair of pink twill shorts from Vineyard Vines. And should you rummage round my wardrobe, you will uncover a pair of pink cashmere socks from Paul Stuart. In addition, I will admit, I also have two pairs of pink boxer shorts, whose colour is a result of a laundry mishap. 
As you know, when the summer season finally arrives, I greet it like a happy puppy. And that means going sockless. Warm weather is a perfect time to de-accessorise. I often can be spotted this time of year going bareback in a pair of horsebit loafers, tassel loafers, Weejuns, or boat shoes. Of course, my feet sometimes attract looks from passersby, but I like to imagine they are admiring my tanned and shapely ankles.
Just recently, during an outing to a neighbourhood dining establishment, I went sockless whilst wearing a pair of black Gucci horsebit loafers and charcoal worsted trousers. I concede, maybe this was a step too far, as my dining companion vigorously chided me over the ommission. But, I simply can not help it. When I slide my naked foot inside a warm loafer, the sensation of leather on skin heats my blood and invokes memories of ivory sands and azure seas.
"You all know the wild grief that besets us when we remember times of happiness. How far beyond recall they are, and we are severed from them by something more pitiless than leagues and miles. In the afterlight, too, the images stand out more enticing than before; we think of them as we do of the body of a dead loved one who rests deep in the earth, and who now in his enhanced and spiritual splendour is like a mirage of the desert before which we must tremble. And constantly in our thirst-haunted dreams we grope for the past in its every detail, in its every line and fold. Then it cannot but seem to us as if we had not had our fill of love and life; yet no regret brings back what has been let slip. Would that this mood might be a lesson to us for each moment of our happiness.
A brief tribute to Ian Fleming, in his centenary year. As a schoolboy I developed an imperishable curiosity about him. I spent hours perusing Fleming first editions in the book shops off Tottenham Court Road in London. I devoted one summer to reading every Bond novel and Fleming biography I could lay my hands on. The Hollywood glitter of the Bond movie franchise failed to impress me.
Fleming was noted for his dark blue suits and bow ties. He was one of those men who settles on one style and sticks with it. On his estate in Jamaica, he wore unusual belted shirt affairs. My favourite Fleming photos show him in Jamaica wearing a plaid shirt and khaki shorts. Of course, for me, it was not his clothing but his life that inspired.
Some men love people. Others have a fondness for things. And then there are those who love places most of all. I think the English explorer Wilfred Thesiger (1910-2003) probably fell into the last category. Born in Abyssinia (Ethiopia) and educated at Eton and Oxford, Thesiger spent a lifetime exploring Africa, the Middle East, and Central Asia. His many books, such as Arabian Sands (1959) and Marsh Arabs (1964), are testament to his wanderings and keen insights. He was a talented photographer. Thesiger twice crossed the Empty Quarter of the Arabian peninsula by foot and camel. An aristocrat who maintained a flat in Chelsea and who wore impeccable three-piece suits and tweed jackets from Savile Row, he sympathised strongly with savage peoples untouched by modernity. I highly recommend his outstanding autobiography, A Life of My Choice (1987). Great and unsusual men like Thesiger are increasingly rare in a shrinking, homogenised world. I doubt we will ever see his kind again.
There was a time several years ago, in London and New York, when I wore double-cuffed shirts almost constantly. Not only to the office, but to the pub as well. With suits, khakis, moleskins, and jeans. Often without a tie. In casual situations I wore silk knots. On dressier occasions, a pair of sterling silver knots. I never gave it much thought. Most of my colleagues and friends on Wall Street and in the City did the same. Later, I entered a phase where I thought double-cuffed shirts and cufflinks were awkward, and I eschewed them. The phase has passed, I am pleased to report, and I am again wearing the cufflinks that I squirreled away in leather boxes in my closet years ago. Today, I would be thrilled beyond words if someone were to present me a gift of vintage cufflinks from Turnbull & Asser.
In hot weather, my thoughts turn to cool shirtings. My summer shirt portfolio features polo shirts, short-sleeved madras shirts, checked shirts, and a variety of twill bush shirts that have been in my possession for years. I pair them with different combinations of khaki shorts, reds, boat shoes, and loafers.
My wardrobe includes a pair of tartan trousers in a Black Watch pattern. An autumn and winter garment, tartan pants look wonderful with a blue OCBD, turtleneck sweater, and black tassel loafers. For me tartan trousers evoke memories of winter cocktail parties with the neighbours in Greenwich or New Canaan, sipping a whisky in front of the fire and making small talk with the cute Wellesley grad who works in M&A. 
I would like to acquire a tartan suit similar to the one in the photo (above), but I suspect it would only look complete with turban, beard, and sabre.
Around this time of year I make a special effort to wear socks in bright colours. Hosiery in red, pink, lemon yellow, sky blue, and lime green are guaranteed to turn heads and raise eyebrows. You might even get a favourable comment or two, as I generally do from older women, who, I try to convince myself, use the socks as an excuse to flirt. 
Drinking is a ritual, I like to think, with unspoken sartorial traditions. When I began my drinking career in London at age 15, my imbibing attire consisted of standard Sloane kit: jumpers, Barbour jacket, Viyella shirts, double-cuffed dress shirts, jeans, cords, moleskin trousers, black chelsea boots, and horsebit loafers. Over the years I settled on two or three favourite sport coats to fulfill the role of drinking jacket, or, when I reached for a cigar, smoking jacket. I imagine I have spilled more drinks down my front than most people consume in a lifetime. However, today, I feel my drinking days are nearing an end, and before long I shall have to designate a new function for my odd jackets. The chelsea boots have long been retired.
Many aspire, few achieve. When it comes to loafers, however, the Weejun penny loafer can be counted amongst the latter. First introduced in 1936 by G.H. Bass & Co., who derived the name and moccasin design from Norwegian shoes, it became popular with the prep school crowd and college students. It is an American classic.
"Le conflit : tel est l’ordre du monde. La philosophie présocratique, fondamentalement organisée autour de l’acceptation de la vie, de ses lois, et plus généralement autour de l’idée d’harmonie avec la nature et le cosmos, plaçait le conflit comme principe créateur et le constituait comme pôle de toute une conception-du-monde."
It is in times like these, as the darkening horizon draws near, and as notions of loss occupy my thoughts, that I seek solace in literature. The Leopard, by Giuseppe di Lampedusa, is a classic story of aristocratic decline in an age of revolution. Set in Sicily at the time of the Risorgimento, it centers on the character and views of Don Fabrizio Corbera, Prince of Salina, a Sicilian aristocrat of German extraction. 
Similarly beguiling is Lampedusa's short story, The Professor and the Siren. For me, it is an even more haunting tale than The Leopard. It has certainly stuck in my mind all these years since I first read it. I think of it often.
When the times get tough, it's time to get going. To Mexico, that is, for some much-needed rest and relaxation. 
Gianfranco Fini, president of Alleanza Nazionale (AN) and recently-elected President of the Chamber of Deputies in Italy. Note the tweed sport coat, white dress shirt, solid knit tie, and sunglasses. It does not get much better than this. Perfection. I am currently in consultations with my Turkish tailor to produce an odd jacket in a lightweight district check tweed similar to the one Signor Fini is wearing.
A troubled career as a schoolboy may for some be cause for shame, but for me it opened up an unimagined world. Following my expulsion from school due to my involvement in what later became known as the Mayonnaise Affair (about which I have written elsewhere), it was decided I would complete my studies with a private tutor. Mr. Regelous was an ex-Jesuit priest from South Africa who specialised in the academic rehabilitation of wayward boys from the Catholic public schools. 
Mr. Regelous was a large, blonde-haired chap with a broken nose and the physique of a rugby player, which, considering he played at school and at university, made perfect sense. After coming down from Oxford (Campion Hall) he had spent a few years on assignment in Rhodesia. His duties gave him enough time for other pursuits, including an interest in native wildlife. Mr. Regelous became somewhat of an expert on reptiles, I later discovered, and his detailed observations of the Cape Cobra (Naja nivea) in Southern Africa were published in the scientific journals of the British Herpetological Society. The rigors of ministry and missionary work, however, eventually alienated him from priestly life. He returned to England and took up tutoring.
Based at Marlow, Mr. Regelous had under his guidance several boys in the area. He followed a traditional curriculum with a focus on the Classics. I thrived in his care. Studying under him ignited a lifelong affinity for the works of Thucidydes and Xenophon, amongst others, writers that still bring me delight in the quieter moments. English poetry was another area where Mr. Regelous excelled, and he introduced me to minor poets with whom I was unfamiliar. I was encouraged to commit my favourite works to memory. Even today I can still recite on demand large chunks of Byron, Brooke, and Donne ('Seal then this bill of my divorce to all/On whom those fainter beams of love did fall...'). 
Mr. Regelous was always well-dressed. His normal attire consisted of an immaculate tweed jacket, checked shirt, knit tie, and flannels or cords. In winter he would don a quilted jacket, lined Barbour jacket, or a camelhair overcoat. His predilection for brown brogues was notable. On visiting his cottage, where he lived with his wife, a lovely woman of Italian extraction, I was surprised to find he had in his collection twenty or thirty pairs of brogues, of different qualities and in various states of repair. He explained to me the history of the brogue, the proper way to care for new brogues, and how to pair them with other items of clothing. When I think of Mr. Regelous now, I picture him sitting at the table, glass of claret in hand, going over in considerable detail the virtues of the semi-brogue in relation to the full brogue. 
Those early lessons were not lost on me. Today I am known for my brogues; they are my signature footwear. With Mr. Regelous, discussing fine clothes, and English shoes in particular, was an education in itself, and one for which I am extremely grateful.
We live in an overwhelmingly nice age, where a plastic politeness abounds, and where people are afraid to speak their mind for fear of offending others. In such an age, the truth suffers and dishonesty reigns.
The only solution in these situations, I have determined, is to shore up a Hadrian's Wall of coldness and detachment, to keep the barbarians at bay, while adopting a more resolute policy with the ones who somehow make it through. At the same time, taking a cue from nature, it might make good sense to sport more distinct clothing, including bolder emblematic ties and more colourful madras shirts, as if to say: approach with caution. I will let you know how it all works out.
