Monday, 23 April 2007


What the bloody hell do you mean you don’t own a trench-coat?

Unless you were raised by wolves – and even in this case I am dubious, as there is no doubt that Mowgli knew what he was doing when he chose that rust coloured loincloth that so set off his dark hair and complexion – and have never read a fashion magazine, ever, you will know that the trench is so chic that it’s almost ridiculous. When flapping open it makes the wearer appear waiflike and nonchalant. When fastened – viola, a waist! The collar, turned up, puts one in mind of a spy, or a woman in Paris with a dark past who is possibly not wearing knickers. It has even been name-checked by Syd Barrett. I am a hardened trench wearer and have just ordered one in PVC, and at the risk of sounding belligerent I suggest you fuck off and do the same, even – no, especially – if you are male. It’s very David-Bowie-in-Man-Who-Fell-To-Earth-meets-Vincent-Gallo-in-Purple-magazine chic, innit? If you’re bored with wearing your bog-standard camel mac roll the sleeves up once or twice to show your wrists – if they are slender already they will appear practically cadaverous and people will be offering to hold your coffee cup out of fear for your general wellbeing.

Francoise Hardy accessorises a trench with cheekbones you could slice a lemon on; Images by fashion photographer Wendy Bevan; Our namesake the inimitable Bowie turning up his collar for aforementioned “not wearing knickers” chic.

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