Prepare yourselves for a personal joyride through my coat sleeves. You know what else is bonkers? I once went away for three days to Milan and had brought more clothes than I own in Britain.
OK, so I like my clothes. But hear me out. I’m not bragging (ha! say that to my ex) but rather trying to make a point about how our absurd weather makes it necessary for us to pack our closets like we’re expecting to experience all four seasons every damn day.
It’s Wednesday and I’m writing this during what will probably be a classic British morning: frost at dawn, 21 degrees Celsius at lunch and now thunderstorms. Cheers Britain, you beaut.
I shot a look-book with an up-and-coming British heritage brand last Tuesday in Hackney.
At 5: 30am, departing from my flat in Manchester I was wearing a light mac, a wool cardigan and an Oxford shirt. By the time I arrived at Euston station the sun was blazing. By 4pm when we finished shooting – outside, might I add – the rain came.
And poured. Thank you very much British rain; you bastardised all of my hard-style machinations in seconds. It wasn’t enough that I looked like a drowned rat sauntering around East London –the Italian photographer – who shall henceforth be named G* because he gave me a very British rant about our fickle weather – looked like he was about to physically assault me when I tried to explain that yes Britain really does do this kind of thing quite frequently. “But Alex, we checked the weather!” he screamed at me while waving his phone foremphasis. “I literally live here,” I shrugged. “Welcome to Britain bucko.” Since the age of about 24 weeks I’ve been trying to perfect the art of dressingBritish.
And I mean that in every sense of the phrase. Afteryears of trial and error I feel like I have things nailed down to a pretty science. Not bulletproof T#=================================================================loader style science; anecdotal, coffee-swallowed-through-bywear-it-every-day science.
Here’s how I roll. Like with most triumphs of British excellence, it’s not actually about having the right gear. Although that helps.
Layering properly means nothing is sacred. Everything you own should be able to be removed or added depending on the weather within seconds. Time spent procrastinating because you can’t be arsed to take your coat off means you miss the half hour where it isn’t raining and you’re fired up.
I learnt this the hard way back when I was working at Dazed (side note: did you know they’ve hired TWO new writers? They are Adam J. Goddamn Levin AND Meaghan Garvey.
THE DAMN LEGION ARE HERE.) interviewing a tailor on Savile Row on a day that started off brisk but ended up scorching. By lunchtime my shirts sticking to my back and I couldn’t take my coat off, there was nowhere to hang the fecking thing. The tailor – mid-eighties, had clearly seen it all – politely offered me a glass of water while stifling a chuckle. “You always gotta dress like an onion in this country lads,” he said.
Lesson learned. OK, fast forward to today. This is how I really layer.
Step one: base layers and by that I don’t mean slutty sports leggings (though if that’s your jam, please yourself). I’m talking literally base layers. I wear merino t-shirts pretty much all year round.
Yes they are pricey, but if you Google the benefits of wearing them you’ll change your mind. They are breathable, wick away moisture (even if you’re stuck sitting at a desk all day giving offsexy businessman vibes) and they come in such thin fabrics you can wear them under pretty much anything. I own about 8 in grey, navy, white and black.
They’re boring but they work. For mid-layers I always opt for a classic wool cardigan. Now I’m not talking about one of those crappy ones you get from Forever 21 that pill after two wears.
Invest in a nice heavyweight one in lambswool or cashmere if you can. I picked up this baby from Anderson & Sheppard about five years ago and it still holds up. Despite costing me a full weeks rent I use it all the bloody time.
Buttoned up it can work as a waistcoat under a jacket on cooler days, or open over a t-shirt when we’ve been blessed by the sun. British men and jackets. Am I right?
We’re too scared of venturing anywhere between a stupendously heavy-duty parka and a puffa jacket. Try getting an old-school cotton unlined jacket or Harrington. Something that’s water resistant, not necessarily waterproof, warm but not insulated, dressy but not formally dressed.
Trust me, it’s a minefield. I also like to keep what I like to refer to as a “British Essentials Kit.” These consist of; a packable mac that weighs about as much as a sheet of paper, collapses down to nothing and covers you like an actual mac. A compact umbrella that won’t turn inside out at the hint of wind, and a thin pair of leather gloves.
All of which can be stuffed into my work bag and stay in there all year round. Seriously, they’ve gotten me out of some seriously windy meetings. Jamie.
My oldest friend and unofficial style godfather from university who now runs his father’s successful menswear business thinks I’m bonkers. “Check the weather app before you leave!” he laughs, oblivious to the fact that those tra*ors are lying to you every time. The same Jamie – God bless him – who showed up to our annual Christmas lunch wearing suede Chelsea boots. Said restaurant conveniently located a fifteen minute walk through thick pea-souperrrrrrrrrr snow from the carpark.
I will never forget his bloodshot glare as he hissed, “these were bloody expensive, Wright, don’t you dare laugh” upon realising his shoes weredestroyed. Reader, I laughed. Very loudly.
Colour blocking, that’s the key. Everything I own needs to go with everything else. That’s why I tend to stick to a fairly minimal colour palette.
Navy, grey, brown, white, green. You get the gist. Not only does it make me boring (shocking, I know!
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The ex would enjoy that), but it also means if I need to take layers off, or add, I don’t suddenly look like a jalopy threw up on me. Last year I actually did an article that broke down how many times I changed my outfit ‘configuration’ in one day. 8am-8pm ‘typical’ British Tuesday: Seven complete outfit changes.
T-shirt/cardigan jumper on the way to work. Removed cardigan due to central heating nightmares. Added mac for lunch outside.
Removed mac but kept cardigan for afternoon meeting – boardroom was glacier-like. Back down to t-shirt because I was-STEW-MING inside my blazer ruined any chance of professionalism on my commute home. Put full ensemble back on when we got home – dipped below 15 degrees.
Finally ditched jacket for pub – OVERHEATED. Absolute madness. My colleagues nearly died of embarrassment when I asked them to keep track of theirs the following day.
Talking about the weather is our national sport. On more than one occasion, I’ve sat in meetings discussing whether or not it’s going to rain later that day than we have about the business we’re actually there to talk about. Sounds mad?
Tell that to the guy one person brought it up to who was able toleave early to avoid being rained on during their commute home. Layering, like many great British pastimes, is something we do both excessively well and excessively terribly at the same time. We have coats for every occasion but still can’t be bothered to grab them when we need them.
I own three goddamn umbrellas and can’t find one when it rains. Who knows where my trusty pair of waterproof trousers are? Bought them for a rainy music festival back in 2014.
Never seen since. It’s rained on average 847 times since. Ok so you’ve got the gist.
Packable Jackets >Mac shirts > Lightweight gloves and you’re halfway there. Truth is, as soon as you leave these bloody shores, we lose all sense of british.Layer up in July in Greece? Piss-freeverse nakedrrrrrrrrrr because YOU LIKE THE SUN ON YOUR TANNED BODY.
Know someone who did that? Me too. Skyped him to write this bit, as I’m too embarrassed to say I’m basically that guy.
Went to Copenhagen for work two years ago. Checked weather app – 19 degrees all week. Pulled into hostel parking lot and what do you think the temperature was?
15 degrees. Bought a f****ing Danish jumper that cost £200. Where’s his ruler when you need him,Eh Stewart?The Dan swept past me sarcastically congratulating me on my jumpersolo as I handed over my credit card. “English?” He nodded.
Proud. Am I right, guys? I could go on all day.
I think the moral of the story is that nobody has it sussed. Mother Britain will never let us have it totally figured out. But as someone who’s basically made clothes their entire personality for the best part of thirty years, I’ve cracked it about70% of the time.
Fill that 30% with snow days and God knows what else. As for a failsafe jacket? Go waxed.
Proper waxed cotton, not the gimmicky kind that just LOOKS waxed. Barbour’s the obvious shout but there’s a few other brands out there now that stock them without making you look like you should own a Labrador. Breathing, packable, water-resistant and yet still smart enough to wear in the city but dull enough not to look out of place rambling around the countryside.
Brilliant. Oh and did I mention they have pockets?SO MANY POCKETS. Gloves, hats, phones, snacks, you name it.
Started doing the whole hangry thing recently. Old age I swear. Turns me into the crazies.
Maddest I’ve layered up?
Went straight from shooting an outdoorsy brand photoshoot in the Peaks to a black tie dinner in Manchester. Wore thermal long johns under my bloody tux because I was too lazy to change when I got back to my car and my central heating…leaves something to be desired.
Obscene? Maybe. But I looked fancy as hell and kept my bo*din warm.
Nobody had to know but now you do. Don’t judge me. British layering is all about expecting the worst and hoping for the best.
You could be sipping espresso in the sun one minute and waiting for a delayed train home in a pool of your own sweaty panic the next. It’s about looking like you gaveafuck when everything that’s possible to go wrong, does. You live, you learn.
But goddamn it if you don’t at least look like you tried.
