Like a traumatised clown
it is a measure, no doubt, of my near-total absence of emotional intelligence, my frightening out-of-touchness with my own feelings, that, for all the vicissitudes of the past months, much of the time I remain convinced that I am unaffected, an island of insensitivity in a sea of suffering. Then I catch sight of my feet.
At the risk of sounding like the froth-mouthed bumpkin from The Fast Show — look it up quick, kids, before they take it down — this summer I have been mostly wearing a pair of Nike Tailwind running shoes. They have the retro Nike waffle tread on the sole, while the upper is nylon and suede, in competing shades of cry-for-help burgundy. They have a tangerine swoosh on one side, and a royal blue swoosh on the other. The laces are Day-Glo green.
Those who are easily spooked need not attempt the following, but readers of a steelier disposition might care to pause here, close their eyes and try to conjure the Technicolor hues of my footwear in all their kaleidoscopic, seizure-inducing glory: an explosion of clashing colours, red and orange, green and blue, as if a plain pair of sneakers had been vandalised by a toddler with a box of highlighters, and only then attached to the legs of a 47-year-old media executive, alabaster ankles exposed to the breeze by his neurotically rolled-up trousers. Yikes.
You’ll be shocked to learn I bought my Nikes at a dramatically reduced price (weird, no?) in the online sale at a trendy shop. The End is an outfitter that specialises in flogging ultra-hip clothing to cash-rich young people, and others who wish they were at least one of those things. Since I am none of them —ultra-hip, cash-rich, young — I look less like a switched-on style obsessive, my fashion antennae alive to the humming vibrations of Right Fucking Now, than I do an escapee from the Big Top. I look like a traumatised clown.
The rest of my outfit — navy chinos and a khaki T-shirt — is less obviously needy, although on my head, as I type this, I have positioned what the young ones call a dad hat. Since I am a dad, I feel it’s my right. (I also feel it’s my right to call it a baseball cap.) It is a pre-faded denim number, embroidered with a picture of a dodo, and it sits comfortably over my self-inflicted lockdown buzzcut.
As with the Nikes, I bought the cap online — where else, in 2020? — during the early days of the Great Withdrawal, from the pastiche-preppy brand, Rowing Blazers. The dodo, in case you’re interested, appealed because it is, for some unknown reason — can anyone think why? — the official bird of the print magazine editor.
None of this would be worth remarking on, clearly, but for the fact that I am, as I write this, at work. Not “technically” at work, or “notionally” at work, or any of those tedious qualifiers people use. I’m “actually” at work. It’s Tuesday morning, I have a number of meetings scheduled, and plenty of writing and editing to do. I’m “definitely” at work. But I am also at home. Again, not “technically” at home, or “notionally” at home. Just at home. I am at work, at home. Or the other way around. One of the two.
There’s nothing new or unusual about this. Ask Esquire’s freelance contributors, many of whom have been working from home since before Nike patented the waffle sole. But for me, an office boy in my 27th summer as a fulltime member of the fourth estate, the situation is exceptional. I know I look laughable in my high-vis sneakers and my check-me-out cap, but
what in the name of Marcello Mastroianni am I meant to do? More specifically, what am I supposed to wear? I wouldn’t suggest for a moment that it is the most serious side-effect of Covid-19, but confusion on this question is widespread, and quite possibly catching.
I get a kick out of wearing fancy duds, always have done. They make me feel better about things, chiefly about myself. I don’t want to slouch around all day in crumpled tracky bottoms and a threadbare hoodie. That would make me feel worse about everything, especially myself. I need all the help I can get; clothes supply it, or at least some of it.
I know exactly what I’d be wearing if the coronavirus pandemic had not struck. I’d be wearing my summer work uniform, the one I’ve been wearing for years: Jermyn Street shirt, silk knit tie, sober Italian suit, suede loafers handmade in Northampton. (My winter uniform replaces the shirt and tie with a roll-neck, and the loafers with lace-ups, but is in every other respect the same.)
Occasionally, I open my wardrobe and catch sight of these items, neatly arranged on their hangers, a tone poem in navy and charcoal, cotton, cashmere, flannel and wool, and I marvel at the man I used to pretend to be. And then I wonder if I’ll ever be able to get back to him, now that I’m pretending to be a different man, one who wears infantile footwear and bogus headgear, and, just an hour ago, on his phone over breakfast, was eyeing up an egregious slogan T-shirt from a niche buzz brand aimed at men and women not even half his age. Is there not, I wonder, a happy medium, a man who sits somewhere between these two cosplaying sociopaths?
As much for my own entertainment as any other reason, way back in April I asked the impeccably turned out young men of Esquire’s style desk for a list of the most lusted-after clothes of the moment, among the cognoscenti. Not the bestselling items. Rather, those that caused most envy and excitement in a particular, influential corner of the menswear universe, the corner where they and their peers reside. I didn’t want a list of current trends — Cuban collars, tie-dye, Nineties’ sportswear — because, in my job, you get to hear about those early. I wanted specific items. I wanted shop stock.
A truncated version of the list they sent me: New Balance x Casablanca trainers. Dad hat from P Johnson. Baggy shorts from Patagonia. Backless loafers by JW Anderson worn with white Nike Dri-Fit training socks. “Beater” watch: Seiko 5 Sports or Timex Navi on a Nato strap.
Barbour x Supreme Bedale jacket. Tie-dye sun hat by Loewe x Paula’s Ibiza. Printed shirt (Hawaiian, but not floral) by Jacquemus. Seersucker chore coat by Officine Générale. Preloved half-zip sweatshirt by Champion.
As I may have mentioned, I usually consider myself fairly well insulated from this stuff, cosy in my classic tailoring and my early-onset formal footwear. Like a benevolent paterfamilias, I look fondly on these studly young bucks, remembering my own misadventures in inadvisable menswear, decades ago. And yes, some of what they told me sounded like fluent fashion gobbledegook. But it also sounded like fun.
In this issue, Esquire reports on a new mood in menswear. Contrary to the times — and also as a direct consequence of the times — it is light and bright, confident, upbeat, witty, colourful, unstuffy. It is suitable for work, and for home and for plenty of other places and activities.
This is our style issue, so you’d expect a certain amount of writing about schmatta. As well as our salute to the new menswear, we have an interview with perhaps the most influential fashion designer currently working, Kim Jones, of Dior; and with one of the brightest new stars on the scene, Samuel Ross. We have 18 pages of new looks from the catwalks and showrooms of Paris and Milan, as interpreted by the maestro of cut and paste, designer John Gall.
Our cover star, the wonderful Josh O’Connor, photographed by Simon Emmett, is the star of Peter Morgan’s Netflix megaseries, The Crown, which will return in the autumn for its fourth season. Elsewhere, we spotlight the work of the American painter, Louis Fratino; investigate the weird world of hypercars; meet London’s king of pies; and consider the grooming industry’s new requirement that one’s living space smell as fragrant as one’s body.
We welcome back from furlough our Market section, which this issue focuses on suede boots, salt and vinegar crisps and cycling jerseys, among other things.
Also making a comeback: Journal, where Will Self declares his lust for Elon Musk; Mark O’Connell has a microscopic revelation; Joe Dunthorne confronts his wandering Welshness; and Will Hersey explains why, like Jules from Pulp Fiction, he don’t dig on swine. All that, and an exclusive sneak peek of the novel of the season, Andrew O’Hagan’s Mayflies.
Did I mention my supercool new shoes? ○