Playing the Gent in London Town

Back in London after two years in the colonies (North America), it was time to check out the shops and bag some new mufti. 

 

Plaid. Gingham. Seersucker suits with dicky bows. Yuck. Men's fashion in America is too meh-meh-meh for me (h). Can't get no Tacchini. Can't get no Diadora. No Lyle and Scott neither. It's not just my quasi-football hooligan/Liverpool Scally choice in fashion labels. For a noble blooded gent, an expat toff, or a lesser Englishman, a trip to Jermyn Street, in the heart of the St. James district of London is best advised. Jermyn Street dates back to 1664 when King Charles II authorized Henry Jermyn, the Earl of St. Albans, to develop a commercial area near St. James's Palace. These days it has a global rep as home to some of England's finest bespoke men's tailoring, prêt-à-porter, shirtmakers and bootmakers. 

 

Not to mention gent's barber shops. The old barnet had not been scissored and sheared since summer at Mar-a-Lago with the Contessa, and I was keen to check out Briggs in Ormond Yard. Usually, if I want a haircut, or wet shave, I book a treat at Geo F. Trumper. But Briggs I happened upon, quite by chance, in the autumn of 2015. Run single-handed by a 92-year-old Greek national called Philip (no surname was ever offered, was he the Duke of Edinburgh un coiffeur déguisé?) would he still be in trade after two years as a plantation gentleman in the colonies?  

 

Another gent's haunt, a more familiar one, is the Harvie & Hudson store on Jermyn Street. It's a creaky, wood paneled, old school English outfitters. And I still have fond memories of the first acquisition in the early 1990s: a beautiful blue cotton shirt with French cuffs. The last trip to H & H, in 2015, I bagged two fantastic lambswool scarves and three pairs of black socks to go with my aged, quarter century brogues. Would H &H have any bargains pour moi this trip round? 

 

If you are flush, and on the market for a ritzy chemise, the best port of call is Turnbull & Asser, Prince Charles' favorite shirtmaker. You can usually get three shirts for £250-£300. That might seem exorbitant but there is nothing quite like a Sea Island cotton number from "the Royal Warrant Shirtmakers". My first incursion was in the summer of 1995. My one (and only) shirt acquisition: a cream Egyptian cotton number (since purloined by the lil bro). It was a hot, blistering day and Jermyn Street was unseasonably light. I wandered into the dark wooden shop and eyeballed the American billionaire Robert Warren Miller (the co-founder of Duty Free Shops and champion yachtsman) berating staff with a giggling suntanned brunette in a tight red dress. Billionaire Miller was fussing and growling about returning an item if he didn't want it. With elegant sangfroid, the gentleman's gent behind the counter said, "Don't worry, sir, we are always here. We shan't be going anywhere." He's bloody right. The Turnbull & Asser store on Jermyn Street is as permanent a feature in England's capital city as St. Paul's Cathedral or Tower Bridge. On this visit there was no Billionaire Bob Miller, or Ghost of Billionaire Bob Miller, abusing the polite as flannels staff. And, alas, no bargains to be had for the perennially cash-strapped Male Trailing Spouse. 

 

Check out this bronze of Beau Brummell the patron saint of the English gent. Brummell was a colorful, controversial and popular figure who rocked the Regency establishment with his upstart manners, cutting wit and sharp fashion choices. Little wonder that there's a statue of him on this sartorial lane. I first heard about Beau Brummell in a History class at Dog Kennel Hill School in South London (a ghastly seat of learning in the late 1970s and early 1980s). He was the bloke wot gone and popularized wearing a whistle and flute. And callards. And they always used to show the old Beau Brummell movie from the 1950s on rainy day Saturday afternoon double bills on BBC 2. Stewart Granger excelled in the title role as Brummell (Elizabeth Taylor was his Belle). The BBC recently did another Beau Brummell pic. But it was directed by some posh bird called Philippa and Brummell was depicted as a bit of a twat.

 

But where was the other Harvie & Hudson shop? Jermyn Street has two outlets, you see. I found the starched new white shirt-smith but where was the old curiosity shop? Was it... the bombsite where this big red crane is? Yes. Unfortunately. There goes my little scrap of fashion history. Were there any lambswool scarves to be had this trip round at the brand spanking new place that I'm not too keen on? Nay. Time to get the barnet chopped at Briggs down the way. 

 

Unfortunately, Mr. Briggs, aka Phil the other Greek, passed away just before Christmas at the age of 92. I took these pix of the closed up premises. Note the uncollected garbage. There is no one, I gather, to replace the famed Greek barber. Briggs was a one-man biz with no heir apparent groomed and prepped in the wings. What will happen to the old barber's shop? Will someone step in or will it turn into something else entirely? Things change. Things change all the time in a city and we don't even notice it. It's back to Trumper up the road. Oh plughole, they're funny about walk ins. Best to book a chop in advance of the next trip back to London Town. 

 

Round the corner, is Lock and Co. Founded in 1676, Lock's is the oldest hat shop in the western world. The firm moved into its current site (above) on St. James Street in 1765. Famous patrons include the Duke of Wellington, the Duke of Edinburgh, Admiral Lord Nelson, Oscar Wilde, Sir Winston Churchill and me. Lock and Co. is also famed for creating the bowler hat in 1850 for the Earl of Leicester. 

 

 

My first acquisition from Lock's was a Gill flat cap in 2013. It gets a lot of compliments in Trumpland, usually from African-American chaps, who seem to be the only males in Trumpland with any semblance of style. Small, creaky, boxy, and rich with history, Lock and Co. is an amazing store for posh headgear. I didn't want a Gill this shop round and settled for a Mason flat cap instead. It came with a booklet of instructions on how to keep and maintain it. I must get round to devouring it whole. 

 

 

Closer to HQ in Notting Hill is a quirky toffs outfitters in Kensington called Hornets which has been going strong ever since the turn of the century. This is another spot for headgear. They always have great deals on Panamas (handy for Henley) and top hats (handy for the races); racks of dead gents' shoes, suits, blazers, overcoats, raincoats, club neckties, school and collegiate scarves; 1960s tracksuits... a vast, stylish, and eclectic, collection of duds new and old. I always feel guilty visiting this amazing store on Kensington Church Walk and not leaving without something in hand. This trip round I did, however, need a pair of cuff links. I settled on a pair of gold plate jobs coz I was dining out that night at the Wolseley in Mayfair.

 

But that's not the end of playing the gent in London town. Or anywhere else, for that matter.

 

Until next time...

 

The Male Trailing Spouse  

 

Every Gent should have a Coat of Arms