Noted by Colin McDowell

I hate getting dressed. I may be deeply submerged in fashion, but I’m too fat to be fashionable and I’m too old to care. As a result I have a default style that revolves around Ralph Lauren suits and shirts from the same reliable label or Brooks Brothers. I still wear shoes made for me 20 years ago. Around my neck, Charvet ties will do if I am feeling French and fancy, otherwise it is Richard James around my neck, if you see what I mean. 

I made a bid for fashion freedom some years back when I decided to always wear Marks & Spencer underpants, although Paxman is right about the new designs. I am promiscuous over socks, however, and seem to go through them at an alarming rate. They can be Calvin Klein, they can be Jaeger, they can be any label you like, but they must be clean. Unlike most men, I change them at least once a day.

Neither can I be arsed with putting scent on. No jewellery, no frills, no fuss. That’s my default front-row look. All the frills and fuss are in my tortured head. 

Talking of which, I was amazed at Danielle Scutt, who gave us just about everything there is possible to give on a runway in a glorious confusion, which more or less worked.

The highlight of the day was Margaret Howell, whose runway was full of the understatement of the confident designer and her clothes said exactly why she has been a pillar of London fashion for so long. Talking of which, the Fantastic Man party was everything that a bash from such an in-your-face title should be. But I did feel, looking at my fellow guests, that the emphasis was a tad more on the fantastic than the manly. But that’s London Fashion Week, non?

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