I mean really...

I am afraid I have to talk to you about a... a rather embarassing matter. Dashed delicate. The fact is...well, the fact is that the male population of the United Kingdom has become damn slack of late. Downright shabby. And it’s not on.

One has only to consider the sight of a tube carriage full of Londoners going to their place of work to realise something is Grievously Wrong. I look at the un-pressed, ill-cut suits of the men, shiny from excessive wear, matched to cheap and shapeless shirts sans tie (because they have been told it is perfectly acceptable to wear a suit without a tie but they have never been shown how) or set off by the crumpled wreck of a polyester tie they wear every other day.

Affluence, indolence, and a desire to express one’s individuality (by refusing to make an effort) have done their evil work. They look, if I may be blunt, as though they have spent days trapped in the carriage and are on the cusp of reverting to cannibalism. I very much regret to say that some of them may even smell as if this were the case. It pains me to admit this. But we must be brutally honest here.

And it grieves me because there is No Excuse. Look at their damn shoes, for example. Scuffed and shabby horrors, mostly. I don’t subscribe to the view that one must wear good shoes (although I do subscribe to the view that one misses a rare and beautiful experience if one does not). But I see no reason why even cheap shoes should be left unpolished for the bulk of their life. It’s like neglecting to hang up and brush one’s suits.

These are habits I acquired in times of crushing poverty that have served me well. I would never give my enemies (you know who you are) the satisfaction of seeing me for what I was, a man brought to his knees by a vast and malign conspiracy (and a tendency to drink his wages). I retained my self-respect, even in cruellest adversity... But I suppose this sort of thing eats into the precious hours one can spend watching reality television, playing asinine computer games, or downloading hardcore pornography from the internet. So of course I appreciate the magnitude of what I ask.

But nevertheless, I do ask it. And let’s have none of this nonsense about these things being inappropriate for a hedonist or bohemian. If William Seward Burroughs could shave and wear a suit and tie whilst nurturing an oil-burning Eukodol habit, if Errol Flynn could indulge his voracious physical appetites and yet look impeccable, if John Barrymore could drink himself to the point of collapse and yet still appear to be en route to a garden party, then we drones can surely aspire to a small portion of their panache and elegance.

So, There is No Excuse; dress matters. I'm not saying it is the stuff of life itself - let us remember (always) Balfour’s Rule (viz, nothing matters very much and few things matter at all). I do not assert that one should devote one’s life to one’s appearance: that is the mark of a fop, which is a terrible thing to be – and dangerously close to the habits of the French and the Italians. One need not be a clothes horse or a popinjay, but neither need one go round looking like an impoverished actuary or...a provincial Walloon!

It is true that some Britons (Damn their eyes) might like to live in tracksuit bottoms and t-shirts, but are denied that dubious pleasure by the exigencies of commerce. No doubt this explains the grudging manner with which the suit and tie, those hated badges of oppression, are so often worn. But if the oppression offends, do something about it. Leave that well-paid, unchallenging job. Take a risk: Go and traffic orphans in Mongolia, or invest heavily in Tblisi real estate. Do something to justify your swashbuckling self-image- but don’t express your contempt for the system that you lack the courage to challenge by slouching around en dishabille. It irritates me. And let’s try to remember that I am the important one here.

So, if it's not too much trouble, young man - if you wear a suit, take the trouble to keep it reasonably clean and tidy. Polish your shoes. Take 5 minutes to run an iron over a shirt – or buy non-iron shirts (if you truly are a yahoo). If you have an iota of poetry in your soul, wear a God-damn tie with a suit - or take the trouble to wear button-down collars if you really cannot bring yourself to do so.

I mean, in the name of all that’s holy, don’t you people look in a Bloody mirror in the morning? EH?