Toss the blouse

And try a little harder, old chaps, unless you’re okay with looking like a biddy in a slack suit, warns Jeremy Thomas

HEAVEN knows enough evidence exists to disqualify me from dissing my fellow geezers’ dress and grooming sense. But to hell with it: do as I say.

Why, middle-aged guy? Why bother? Three words: chicks dig it.

You in your given-up-on-sex tracksuit pants, sort yourself out. And don’t give me that “gay” tripe. If caring about your public image makes you queer, the entire male populations of Rome and Paris would putt from the rough.

If the only snug-fitting items in your closet are the indecent cycling shorts you wear out with your mates, say no more. Silly pejoratives like “metrosexual” went out of fashion 20 years ago. Do try to keep up.

What’s with the bagginess? Face it, china, you are wearing a blouse. Not just any blouse, it is one your mom would wear. Teamed with your flouncy top, pants with pleats make you look like your old lady circa 1974. Get a grip, man!

You do not want to resemble a biddy in a slack suit. No sir.

Jowls, wattles, boeps and bald spots make it hard to be a hepcat on the shady side of 40. So don’t even try, boet. But you might just make an effort to be vaguely attractive.

It is not easy. That doesn’t make it okay to dress like your mother never loved you.

You have to blame Dr Martens for the shoes (“like dead pigs’ noses” as Ian Dury sang). Chunky footwear was well and good in its prime, but why prolong it?

Londoners say they can spot a Saffer a mile off: those clodhoppers, billowy short-sleeved shirts and pale-blue denims pulled up nice and high. Time to put a stop to that, lads, for the national good.

First, your suit — or should we call it a twin-set? That sad-sack outfit makes you look like an auntie at a wedding. Go down a size, at least. Trousers, sleeves and lapels have narrowed since your grandpa got demobilised from the Great War. Imagine yourself in a Florence cafe, not the Edenvale KFC.

European capitals are not filled with rich people: like all tourist cities, most of their immaculately turned-out denizens work in shops, bars, museums and restaurants. So you don’t have to blow your pocket- money to suggest you give a hoot about your appearance.

South African men hate shopping. We blunder in and out as quickly as we can, seeking something marginally utilitarian. No wonder we end up looking like a grudge purchase.

Instead of yanking something from the Markhams rack, venture further afield: Zara and TopMan made their global fortunes by not draping men in mini-marquees. And they’re cheap.

A tragic trend is to leave the shirt

The best-dressed bloke I know channels Who-era mod style with a hint of

casual rebellion

untucked as a weak nod to nonconformity. Tuck it in! You will not find an Italian with his tails out or flapping outside his horrible jersey, mainly because he will not be wearing a jersey. He does not want to be Bill Cosby. He will wear a coat instead.

Smart men pull on thermal undervests (Woolworths) or a no-frills Gap or Pringle sweater (Stuttafords). What’s with our fascination with fleece tops? Yes, they’re comfy but try walking straight past Cape Union Mart next time you’re chilly. You may find yourself outside Ben Sherman. Buy yourself a warm flannel shirt.

There are two ways to look at denims; neither is pretty. The first, made vivid by Jeremy Clarkson and George W Bush, is to wear them as some strange, regressive version of swaddling clothes. Levi Strauss would choke on a rivet if he had to see these feeble, ample-arsed pops in their dad jeans.

Second are the Rivonia rangers in their pre-distressed boot-cut duds, ragged hems dragging under the heels of their square-toed work shoes. Try spotting that look in Rome or Paris. If you have always worn 501s, try 511s instead: legs cut just that bit narrower, waist dropped just that bit lower than the camel-toe dead zone.

Much of our rotten dress code can be blamed on golf. How easy to chuck on a blouse from the last corporate day. We ought to be above that. And say no-no to logos. Compare Tiger Woods in his Chaplin-cut harem pants and horrid shiny shirt to any of the Scandinavian golfers who wear kit that fits properly. (Have you seen their girlfriends?)

The ultimate golf icon is ’60s Arnold Palmer in flat-front trousers and a fitted white shirt. So you don’t have to go punk-stupid: leave Puma’s lurid teals and limes to the young ones. And turf away those Adidas sunglasses. Be a man and buy some Persols.

The best-dressed bloke I know channels Who-era mod style with a hint of casual rebellion. Slim-cut Paul Smith khakis, a classic Fred Perry tennis shirt and black-leather Converse high-tops. He turned 60 the other day. Mutton, yes, but no pretence at lamb.

You do not have to visit Milan to buy decent gear. The best plaid shorts I ever found were at a skateboard dealer. Not everything needs to come from the Pro Shop.

Feet? The surest way to doofusdom is to wear Jerry Seinfeld takkies. Leave the Nikes at home, preferably near a window. Find something simple by Asics Tiger, Jack Purcell or Superga.

Few of us like mooching through a mall. So go online. Check out British high-street brand All Saints. Click click.

And here we veer into the wretched realm of the hipster. No mature man should try too hard. The trend these days in street fashion is normcore, another sardonic twist on making ’80s nerd tics into high style. Laugh it off, pal. You can do better.

The outer limit is where irony has crossed into sarcasm. No socks with brogues and pants at half mast? Don’t take it too far, old boy. Act your age.

Johnny Depp and Samuel L Jackson may be our vintage but the suburban oke who tries to mimic their sartorial eminence is doomed to be the butt of unkind jokes — mainly from the very folk you were hoping to impress: the ladies. Back off from that batik scarf, the funky bandana; remove those bangles, that necklace,

Chapped, saddle-sore faces need TLC — maybe that way you’ll even get someone

nice to sit on it

the earring: there’s a good chap.

That hat? Leave it off, John. You are not Pharrell Williams. Or Frank Sinatra. The fewer the details, the less chance you have of buggering it up.

Read the US versions of GQ or Esquire. Ignore the fashion editorials; adverts tell a better story. Calvin Klein, Burberry and Dolce & Gabbana make a virtue of simplicity that looks like a million bucks.

You don’t have to be a dandy or a fop or a poseur. Dial it back. There is a safe area between being a yokel from the sticks and Karl Lagerfeld.

It is common cause that the best haircuts hark back to when gentlemen did not put on airs: short back and sides, please. By all means muss it up a tad, but do not use gel. You do not want to be a pouchyfaced version of your ’90s self, with a head full of prickly tinder. Think what your father would do if he saw you. He’d give you a clip across the ear, that’s what.

If you have to use something on your hair, it’s probably best not to slather on Brylcreem or Vitalis. Only George Clooney can get away with it. A bit of matte wax is okay.

The coolest head of hair I know belongs to a 50-year-old yahoo who hasn’t washed it in anything but water for three years. His barber reckons it’s the best barnet she’s ever worked on: thick, glossy and free of residue from shampoo or styling goo. That could be taking it too far, but ease up on the detergent: once a week does the trick, giving the hair a chance to find a balance between grease-trap and dry veld.

Next: that scrotal mug of yours. All leather needs Dubbin, or the next-best thing. Cheap Nivea or dear Dermalogica: just do it. Chapped, saddle-sore faces need TLC — maybe that way you’ll even get someone nice to sit on it.

And careful with that grey stubble, Eugene. The quickest way to turn a suave billionaire into a hungover vagrant is to stop shaving for a week; just ask Johann Rupert.

There is a dainty line to be trodden with beards: too shaggy and you lurch into hipster territory, get too finicky with the trimming and shaping and you look like a pansy.

And deodorant. Stop that. See the fogeys spraying it all over, making them pong like the men’s room they’ve just left. Odourless anti-perspirant is what you want; in fact scent-free everything apart from a scant dab of something female-approved on your wrist. Any more cologne and you will cause the gorge to rise in everyone who shares a lift with you. And it’s not exactly manly, is it, chum? Pull yourself together.

So there: neaten up, clean out your drawers, make all the bad things disappear — poof!

But then again, maybe you just don’t care what women want, hmm? LS