Disrobed

When playing hide and seek as a child I used to always head for the bottom of my mother’s wardrobe. Bed linen at the bottom, skirts and trousers descending, it was dark and secure yet easy to escape. If the seeker was to open the doors with an "aha!" I would not be seen deeply buried underneath the newly laundered linen, the excited pile cleverly concealed by the long skirts hanging, brushing the top of my head. Shadows and fabric playing smoke and mirrors.
 

Becoming a teenager was awful, I was the sad teen, eating the sadness away. And golly can I eat! My wardrobe became a magician’s suitcase, its contents of colourful fabric, various weights and dimensions were relied on to conjure a presentable person.

 How to use my box of tricks required learning and practice, a deft hand with a silk scarf, fine manipulation with the tie (half-Windsor knots are preferred) and a clever eye for fabrics took time and energy. I studied hard, eyes becoming blurry with images from past, and then, present. The history of items, their politics, society and invention were read and understood. The only thing one can't learn is style, this comes with time, growth and liberation.

Great individual style can only be achieved when letting go of society’s constraints and the mind, now emancipated, can think with the colour and texture it innately has. We all have preferences, naturally, but the emancipated mind sees everything and tries everything at least once; it may not be enjoyed but how was one to know? And never is it a wasted opportunity for we get ideas all the time; inspiration doesn't always have to come from the good.

And so with my liberated mind I decided to see if I could retain style whilst disrobed of my clothes of illusion, though losing the adolescent weight and discomfort with my physique has rendered me dependant on the magicians compendium.

Being far from an acceptable nudist beach (well are there any?), I resorted to a day spa, polite, refined and therapeutic. Recommended by a regular, I booked and attended.

Those first minutes of being in a locker room had me returning to school. Undressing whilst never being undressed, I can get changed into a nylon P.E. kit whilst wearing a polyester blazer, acrylic sweater and polyblend shirt in no time, it's all in the flick of the wrist. Oh and as a byway, all that polyester on teens is not good, the sweats, the grime, the hormones! Its not acne, its an allergic reaction.

However, once I saw the middle aged spread around me disrobing, though not a bad thing, I started to feel comfortable. I may not be the waist 26 of the Dior Homme model I always wanted to be but I'm a 30-28 and that's not to be scoffed at; no one was scoffing at all. No sneering or jeering, maybe because I was out of the east, away from aesthetes who consider anyone either not like them or of their circle worthy of instant derision, I felt a sense of belonging. Men together, nothing but our masculinity and that's style in itself.

Walking through the spa with only a towel, the least amount of fabric worn away from my bathroom I began to straighten my posture; no longer reliant on my wardrobe to give illusions of a flat stomach and a moob-less chest I attempted to retain the style known for with a excellent posture and a nonchalant gait. Well it is rather difficult to strut on a wet, tiled floor; one slip and the shame would certainly kill.

This being a place of notable repute, the clientele was polite and well mannered, no leering, no ogling, no errant hands in the sauna's gloom. However as I took some respite in the sitting area outside, the sweat freezing in icicles from my nose and elbows, a mature gentleman engaged me in conversation, discussing the many benefits of the sauna and how one can't beat a good Turkish bath. He asked what I did for a job. "Yes that makes sense, you do have a presence."

Was having a presence a good thing? Something advantageous? On many occasions I have been told I have a presence, which has always been a polite alternative to "you look like no one else in you zebra stripe leggings and crocheted jumper". It’s never a positive; people don't like people who don't assimilate to a genre. It appears I don't assimilate, there happens to be no genre for my general aesthetic, though I refute this vehemently – I promise you I don't dress that left field.

Asking for an explanation, "you make yourself known when you enter a room, you have a style to your person" – his words not mine.

"My mother was strict with posture, I could never slouch or lollop."

"Yes, posture is important but it’s more than that; either you have it or you don't. Something within, the French have it, Italians have it."

I think I was in love; being compared to the French has been my dream since 15. It is undeniable the French have style, Parisians certainly monopolise the term. I was undecided about Italians but each to their own.

Donning clothes I returned to comfort; concealed in fabric I am able to play tricks and conjure the person I want to be, but when I was shed of them I tried to understand the concept of style from being myself, only myself, warts and all. I remember reading an article about tailoring that said when seeing the slight imperfect puckering along the edge of a collar, one knows it has been hand sewn and is therefore a bespoke suit, of superior quality and individual.

I too have come to that conclusion, it is the imperfections of one and how carried that give one style. Think of great individuals who have the tag of style swinging from their neck – Leigh Bowery with his size, Klaus Nomi with his receding hairline, Twiggy with her waif-like physique, Bette Davis and her beaky nose and thin lips. All had presence but they had style too because they knew their flaws and worked with them. Davis smoking and blowing smoke through her nose is still devastating as are the Freud portraits of Bowery in all his glory.

I, we, create a presence with clothes, but one must never forget the person wearing them because that's where the style originates. And whether concealing or playing with our flaws with a persona or couture, one should not, cannot hide that particular style innate within each person.

KTZ

I can tolerate many things – acrid cologne applied with a pressure washer is painful yet tolerable; overcooked fish may erode my molars to a blunt Uluru but is tolerable; over-sung R&B ruins what can be a beautiful voice and song but Aguilera is tolerated. However, some things are plain, downright, out and out intolerable.

ITV costume dramas and their incessant adverts for shampoo ruin the mood of the Regency; dandruff on the collar obliterates the beauty of a Savile Row suit and Abercrombie and Fitch sends me into convulsions of dégoût. But poorly fitted clothes on the catwalk are a surefire ire maker.

The hours of researching and design, the expense of sampling, the blood, sweat and tears over the months spilled is wasted all because of poor fitting.

Now don't get me wrong, I love Kokon To Zai (KTZ). Their oversized tees are a dream and the vision of its owners is always a revelation but to see zips buckling, an inch gap at waists, and wrinkling leather had me prostrate in tears. The collection was fine (if a little too much of a Givenchy pastiche); black leather and gold foil is nothing new. When Tisci paraded it seasons ago my heart skipped a pleasant beat but here I simply raised my glasses in disbelief.

Was it disbelief or sadness? The sheer comprehension of a stylist allowing a model to strut the runway with an inch gap at waist is beyond me. Seeing zips buckle had me wanting to cry at what was a relatively nice black leather embossed dress. Both had me wanting to leap forward and yank the dress down or exchange the ridiculously thin model for one who eats meals.

Perhaps here is the problem. A squeamishly thin 18 year old has no shape, she can wear skinny jeans and Converse to death but she can't wear a dress that desperately needs curves. Dresses are always best on a woman. But this is fashion, youth obsessed, so all I ask, quite simply, is to fit to your models. Select models with a little more on them, not a size 14 but one who is more than hip bones and a gaunt face.

Or if all else fails, make the damn dress smaller!

The East

What has happened to the east? I won't regale you with the annoyance of the posers, the disgust at the proliferation of drugs or sadness at the deluge of big name brands with big name price tags.

  This is anger. Ire at the violent hatred permeating its streets. The east has become swamped with hating youths who are guilty of causing a carnage where those who fall victim are sad, depressed and afraid. I speak for myself amongst this wronged group.

But it’s for my nearest and dearest whom I have been sent to the pen. I hope the pen is truly mightier than the sword.

Occurrences on the streets of the east are not random, solitary events that cannot be helped. They are regular and known. The culprits are known. To be honest they are not hard to find; in their nondescript hoodies and tracks they penguin walk with their rear on full view spitting bile at those who dare to clothe themselves in cloth and natural fibres. They are kids who are acting the big man when there is nothing big nor manly about them. Brandishing a poor vocabulary comprising of racist, homophobic and sexist terminology, they roam. Congregating in parks and on street corners they consider themselves the arbiter of acceptability: "you need to sort dem jeans out." Why should I? Since when did I take a fashion critique from someone wholly ignorant of the Paris catwalks?

  Mentioning fashion has me sounding trivial but let me inform you, it is by ones raiment they will begin their tirade of hate; violence will ensue. Physical violence to me and my friends, our person and property is simply unacceptable. When someone attacks my dog I will consider them lower than scum. They are the dregs of society and like all vermin, intense extermination must be carried out.

Here I sound like a supporter of eugenics and may I enlighten you as to my own lower middle-class, mixed ethnicity. This is not racial or class prejudice, this is the candid reporting of events and opinions held by my circle. A circle comprising of various ethnicities, class and creed, we are united with creativity, allied with freedom, a cohesive group accepting and respecting. We are being singled out for being such, subjected to the vileness of grotesque nobodies who will not amount to anything more than a drain on the government and a burden to the justice system.

I cannot tell you what is to be done with them; national service, education, financial support, social work – why give them more attention and money? Surely this could be used to fertilise new talent, young people who want to achieve something with their lives. Young people who don't go wielding vicious tongues and weapons cocked ready to harm.

I cannot either hypothesise as to the origins of their animalistic hating. Some may say it is a result of ingrained cultural prejudice, religious bigotry or an ignorance fuelled by poverty and lack of hopeful aspiration. And to that I say boo! Utter rot – we all have the ability to think, comprehend, take stock of our lives and yearn for better. For fear of sounding the ideal American, we all have dreams and we can all try to attain them. I know I did as have my friends and acquaintances and not one of us exited the womb with a silver spoon in our mouth, no cutlery in fact was to be found on our newborn person. We grew up with a handkerchief in tight grasp mopping a sweaty brow. Working and finally attaining what we longed for. To be a somebody.

Yet we are now being degraded to somethings, objects to be ridiculed and assaulted, by those unknowing of the toil we have made, the studying and expense committed so we could elevate our person, our minds.

Let these beasts be relegated to what they are, nobodies, nobodies of the east and as they try to degrade us let us stand together and with our success, degrade them. For that is what they deserve. Their just desserts of nothing as we gorge on the Eton mess, we the successful.