Why Wear Work Wear

Real men do not own a suit. No. Real men own bits of suits, which can, if required, be corralled together at the last minute like an auxiliary fighting unit, and moulded into something like the finished article.

I am of this one almost suit mantra. Despite the best efforts of GQ this is how it should be. My wardrobe holds three pairs of trousers, of which only one pair ticks the two key boxes of a. fitting and b. having no hole in the crotch. Also in the wardrobe are two suit jackets, of which only one almost matches the one good pair of trousers, and four smart shirts. One has a faint irremovable stain somewhere which is untraceable until I am at least one mile from home and then it usually materialises somewhere obvious like front centre. One of the three remaining shirts requires cuff links, which I do not own and none of these shirts were purchased in the last three years.

Men were not meant to dress smart, they have been corrupted into doing so over time. There was no formal wear amongst cavemen, no concerns at being under dressed as you dragged your woman over to the neighbour's cave for supper. And more to the point those men who do dress smart (back in the present now) are often not worth knowing. The Venn Diagram which contains circles entitled 'suit-wearers' and 'wankers' is practically an eclipse, saved only from total silhouette by Barack Obama, Stephen Fry and Terry Wogan.

The whole make-up of a suit just does not make sense. Uncomfortable shoes, long sleeve shirt which means no accountability has been taken for anything approaching a pleasant temperature. And most pointless of all garments, the neck-tie. The tie of course falls foul of all three requirements of men's' clothing; firstly it is not a layer, it keeps you neither warm nor cool. Secondly it does not hold anything up, or on, and thirdly, but for the odd stain or loose button, it does not cover anything.

It serves no purpose, it is just something else to spill coffee down, to dip in your soup, and in the worst case scenario, to trap in a lathe or train door. Remember this. And don't say you weren't warned as you're dragged along face to gravel by the 7:37 to Paddington.