Slipping on a skirt like Brad Pitt? I felt like Rab C. Nesbitt in drag
HENRY DEEDES tries the latest celebrity fad in male fashion
DOne builder gave me a weary shake of the head
RESSING for work in sweltering weather can be pretty hellish for us men. I know, I know. You ladies have your uncomfortable bra straps and your bunion-squeezing high-heels. I admit none of these things sound much fun. But have you ever tried boarding the London Underground in 40c temperatures in a wool suit with a starched collar melting around your neck? Believe me, it’s no picnic.
Removing one’s trousers after a long day in July can feel like peeling off a wetsuit. But has Brad Pitt finally found the answer to men’s woes?
The Hollywood actor sent the paparazzi into overdrive this week when he arrived at the Berlin premiere of his new film Bullet Train wearing — shock horror! — a skirt.
Asked to explain his sartorial choice for the evening, Pitt replied casually: ‘I’m going to say, it’s all about the breeze, the breeze is very nice . . . very, very nice.’
TMI, Bradley! The khaki, Tarzanesque design, by modish couturier Haans Nicholas Mott, naturally caused a sensation. Not since David Beckham stepped out in a girly sarong have lavender-scented fashionistas erupted into such a frenzied tizzy.
Not that men in skirts is anything new, mind you. In Ancient Greece and Rome, men exposed their legs as an expression of youthful virility.
The Scots have been wearing kilts for centuries due to the freedom of movement it afforded them in battle.
In our modern world, gendered fashion is supposedly dead, with everyone raiding the same dressing up box with merry abandon.
Fashion giants Burberry, Gucci and Louis Vuitton have all sent models down the runway in skirts in recent years. Lewis Hamilton is rewriting the menswear rulebook with netted skirts and kilts. Libidinous pop star Harry Styles never seems to be out of one.
So in the spirit of old-fashioned public interest journalism, the Mail’s fashion department thought it’d be a fun wheeze for me to try one out, to see how the British public take to a man going about his business in a knee-length skirt.
Mine was from designer Thom Browne and, although it also came in a dark colour much like hunky Brad’s macho loincloth, the team insisted it was not available and got me one in a salmon pink/peach, instead. Do I believe them? I’m not sure.
The design was suitably malefriendly. Rather than having to yank the thing over your hips as a woman might, it fastened just as a pair of trouser would.
Mr Browne’s seamsters being such thoughtful types, they even included a flyhole in the design. And yes, before you ask — undergarments were worn.
This thing wasn’t for keeps you know, and a gentleman can never be too careful if there is the slightest chance of an updraught, particularly when there are photographers around.
Oh, and the skirt’s cost? A trifling £1,600. Never let it be said that being a mould- breaking fashion pioneer is cheap.
First thoughts as I emerged from the dressing room: ‘Yuk!’ My hairy legs dangling out of a skirt looked horrid. I felt like Rab C. Nesbitt in drag.
‘Fabulous!’ squealed the stylist. But they always say that, don’t they? The acid test came when leaving the studio.
After enduring a few titters from colleagues as I walked — sorry, swept — through the office, I decided to gauge the reaction on the not- so-mean streets of London’s fashionable Kensington.
Walking down the High Street, I won’t lie — I felt a bit selfconscious. A couple of old dears out walking their dachsunds did a little double take. One builder sneaking in a crafty cigarette gave me a weary shake of the head.
Following those early embarrassments, no one really seemed to notice. Most barely gave me a second glance. But then, I suppose there isn’t much we Londoners haven’t seen down the years. We have our punks, our goths, our mods, our rockers. Seeing a man in a skirt really isn’t all that crazy.
After a while, I forgot I was even wearing it. Then a gust of wind would kick up, providing my legs with some welcome ventilation.
As Pitt inferred, it produced a sensation which was not altogether unpleasant.
At lunchtime, I headed off to Boisdale, a smart restaurant popular with the well-heeled residents of snooty Belgravia. I thought the staff might turn their snouts up at my outre garb. Not a bit of it. True professionals, they barely batted an eyelid as they showed me to my table. ‘I love it!’ said my waitress.
As I sat down to peruse the bill of fare, things started to get properly uncomfortable. There may have been a nice breeze up there but, for the most part, I began realise how woefully impractical skirts are. I had to keep crossing my legs to protect my, ahem, modesty.
I felt awkward, vulnerable and utterly ridiculous. I longed for the sanctity of my trousers, where I could manspread all I liked.
Sorry Brad, this skirt thing isn’t for me. I admit a kilt can sometimes give Scotsmen an air of mainly ruggedness. But skirts? On men? Well, they look absurd.
Pitt feels confident the trend will catch on. Who knows, maybe he’s right. Come the next heatwave, perhaps us men will be waxing our legs, slapping on the fake tan and taking to the streets in our latest skirts, complimenting one another on the neatness of our hems.
For now though, I’ll happily carry on perspiring into my sweaty suit, thank you very much.
I had to keep crossing my legs to protect my, ahem, modesty