Staying cool
Alex James
Iwas outside the Wolseley smoking after dinner, just lighting up my second and peacefully contemplating the relative merits of banana splits and chocolats liègeois. It was raining in fine speckles, not enough to spoil things, just enough to add a glamorising shiny glow to the brightly lit business end of Piccadilly. I was in a good spot. The whole situation was perfect. There were no further requirements. Then a Bentley drew up and a doorman practically fell over in his rush to cover the area around the opening rear door with a huge umbrella. Bob Geldof sprang nimbly out, smiling, brushed the umbrella aside and sashayed across the pavement like a handsome wizard. People so rarely look cooler in real life than they do elsewhere. The lighting was pretty good, as I mentioned, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone look as cool as Bob did just then. He was wearing black mainly, I’m pretty sure there was a hat but I may be wrong — it was all over so fast but it was well beyond the realms of the banana-splits class of experiences, and prompted my smoking companion to ask, ‘Is Bob real or is he magic?’ Bob’s often described as scruffy, but his style is all his own, and it fits him, perfectly. I think Prince Philip may be in the same league of elegance but there aren’t very many men who can dazzle like that, with effortless panache. My heart always sinks a little bit when I see a man over 35 in jeans or trainers. Once a man turns 35 it’s time to forget fashion and embrace fine tailoring.
Whenever I go to John Pearse’s shop on Meard Street, I am the only person there. It’s not clear whether Meard Street is an annexe of heaven or hell. It’s a beautiful pedestrian thoroughfare of Queen Anne façades between two of Soho’s main arteries. It’s long been a favourite street of mine, but it does double as an alfresco love hotel, toilet and vomitoir once it gets dark.
John’s a proper old-fashioned tailor. His shop, like his clothes, doesn’t shout. It quietly suggests calm, dignified sophistication in a world of stickiness and clamour. I had to knock on the door this time. It’s kind of a secret place. Despite there only ever apparently being one person at a time in the shop, there are usually two people there to help you, John himself and his brilliantly cast demure French assistant. They don’t fuss. They merely assist graciously. It is ennobling to be looked after by more than one pair of hands. Peace and uncluttered shelves and rails add to the sense of luxury. There are never very many things on display, but I always want about half of them. There are rolls of fabric, too, and drawers that hold little surprises: neck wafters, handkerchiefs and sometimes socks. He’s made things for me, too. Obviously, it’s not cheap to have a bespoke suit fitted there, about half as much again as an off-the-peg one from a big-brand store in Bond Street. I think that’s pretty good value, really. It’s a no-brainer if you can afford it. Actually, there are still tailors at the top of staircases in Soho who will do it quite cheaply but it’s still unusual to have a fitted suit made. Most people I know don’t own one. It should be the norm. It’s far and away the best way to be dressed, by a tailor who can guide you a bit. It’s nice and it gets better and better as you get to know each other. I trust the guy, and it’s a really nice feeling.
I think John gets to know most of his customers quite well. Sucking the end of one of the side-pieces of his glasses as if it were a pipe, he showed me a smock. I raised my eyebrows and shook my head. He smiled and said it was for Julian Schnabel, anyway. There was a tie with sharks on. ‘I’m going to send this to Damien, I thought he’d like it,’ he said, thoughtfully. I picked a tie with penguins on it, a chemise made from rustic French cotton, and yet another one of his subtly detailed crispy white shirts. He sells a few shirts in Tokyo, and I think he has a concession in one of the big New York department stores, but he’s not an empire builder. I’m sure he could have created one, but he probably enjoys his customers too much to lose that part of his life. They all seem to be fabulous and they all look after him. His life wouldn’t be any better if he were a billionaire and he knows it. He loves what he does and he’s good at it, and that’s the coolest thing there is.
Previous page
