026 / 027 Above, from the top Private VC Bremont Begg & Co Ettinger Opposite 1960 Aston Martin DB4. The classic Burbery tartan scarf and trench. Below Paul Smith dog collar.
Walpole British Luxury
Mount Street Printers. The biscuit I am chomping as I type this is from Fortnum’s as is the tea in the cuppa I’m chasing it with. (Bone china: William Edwards of Stoke-on-Trent.) As soon as I’ve finished typing this, I’m off to take the dog for a walk. It’s a bitter afternoon so I’ll be putting on a pair of cashmere gloves from William Lockie, of Hawick in Scotland, alongside a worsted cashmere scarf from Begg & Co, founded in Paisley but now based in Ayr, and a woolly hat from the great Richard James. The raincoat I’ll be pulling on is from the excellent Private White VC, of Manchester. It’s made of cotton Ventile, the stuff developed to keep downed RAF pilots alive when crash landed into the North Sea. Which ought to be sufficient for a brisk stroll into Shepherd’s Bush. The hound will be wearing her Paul Smith leather collar and lead. Spoilt dog. Tonight, when I turn in, I’ll put on my Derek Rose jimjams, though not before filling my Hackett hot-water bottle. (You think I’m making this stuff up; I’m ashamed to say it’s all true.) All of which makes me sound completely mad and jingoistic, the Nigel Farage of the lifestyle pages. I’m not, really I’m not. I also love Italian kit, and I have lots of it. And I have plenty of French stuff, and some American gear too, sportswear mostly. But it is perfectly possible to dress oneself, and to accessorise – to coin an ugly phrase – in homegrown-only. Not only is it possible, it is desirable. When we Brits do something well, we do it better than anyone. A few years ago, at Esquire, the magazine I edit (that’s British Esquire, by the way, not the American edition) we published a special issue devoted to celebrating the best homegrown products. We had an Aston Martin, from Warwickshire; Catcheside cutlery, from Hereford; a Bremont watch, made in Oxfordshire; Corgi socks, from Ammanford, Carmarthenshire; a Dualit toaster, from West Sussex; a John Smedley polo shirt, from Derbyshire; a weekend jacket from Oliver Spencer, made in London; a Roberts bicycle, from Surrey; a Burberry trench; a Thomas Pink dress shirt; an umbrella from London Undercover; a suit from Thom Sweeney. On the cover? Croydon’s finest, Kate Moss. The message: all across the country skilled craftspeople are designing and fashioning and manufacturing some of the very finest products in the world. (And in Croydon the genes are stunning.) We also had beer from Suffolk, doughnuts from Bermondsey a terrier from Yorkshire, a motorcycle from Leicestershire, fish and chips from Hammersmith, and I could go on but you’re getting the picture, I think. There are other areas of course, where British products might not be one’s first choice. Or perhaps the choice is not offered. My TV is from South Korea. (I had to look that one up.) The laptop I’m typing this into was designed in California and assembled in China. (Though it was a Brit, Jony Ive, who did the designing.) The same goes for my phone and tablet. My fridge is German, as are my dishwasher, washing machine and tumble dryer. I don’t know about you but I find it hard to get excited about white goods. I appreciate what they do, but my emotional connection to my tumble dryer is remote, to say the least. It doesn’t speak to me, and I try not to talk to it, except on those occasions when it develops a fault, at which times I’m afraid I speak to it in the harshest possible terms. (You have to show these things who’s boss.) My clothes, on the other hand. My wallet. My pen. My notebook. These are my companions, my friends. I feel a kinship with them. They say something about me. They say I’m British. ►
