I’ve just completed what can only be described as an anthropological expedition through the more reputable shirt shops of London. Four shops. Roughly a hundred bays of shirts. And, out of all that, just four bays offering anything described as classic fit.
Clearly, the obesity epidemic is officially over. Britain has collectively morphed into a nation of sinewy, flat-stomached, Pilates-powered Joe Wicks-a-likes who all wear extra slim fit as standard.
The rest of us? We’re apparently extinct.
Shop one — let’s call it Louie — was wall-to-wall slim fits. When I asked if they had anything more forgiving, the assistant looked at me as though I’d just requested a smoking jacket and a monocle. “We used to,” he said wistfully, “but no one asks for those anymore.”
Shop two, Roddy, was more encouraging. “Ah yes, classic fit,” the assistant said, vanishing confidently into the rails. Several minutes later he reappeared, triumphant, holding what looked like a parachute. “Relaxed fit,” he said, as if unearthing an ancient relic from 1980’s excess years.
By shop three, Charlie, I’d stopped pretending to have standards. “Just show me anything I can breathe in,” I said, defeated.
And then, in shop four, came a moment of redemption. The assistant gave me a full, head-to-toe scan and said, “I think a slim will be fine for you.”
I was bloody flattered!!
The drugs are working.
Then came the sting: “But we don’t actually have your collar size in slim, so it’ll have to be classic. In pale blue or white.”
Ah yes — the palette of resignation. The two shades issued to middle-aged men who have long since surrendered the dream of Italian tailoring.
So no, I didn’t buy anything. I went to Greggs instead.
Because in a world where every man is now apparently extra slim, it’s comforting to know that a good old sausage roll still fits perfectly.
Now. Where’s the cheeseboard.