It’s 12pm and I am in a changing room with a ruinously attractive man telling me to get naked. Actually, it’s not so much a changing room as an elaborate, tennis-court green suite. And there’s that chic shroud of mystery in the air you can really only achieve by entering a space with an escort via secret wall button.
My suitor, happily, is a tailor: Ozwald Boateng, the six-foot-and-some Savile Row resident. He helms one of the eight menswear heavyweights — joined by the likes of Tom Ford, Thom Browne, Prada and Giorgio Armani — bringing their bespoke suit services to this land of lemon shopping bags.
So no, this is not a quickie before hitting the tills. And thank God. The 0.01 per cent who get to design their custom suits are treated altogether more favourably. ‘We’re going to spoil you this morning,’ Boateng says, as two men repeat how great I look and faff with tape measures around me. Another produces a flat white.
Nothing, I find, triggers that internal ASMR buzz more than a team of fully grown men with the shared goal of putting my exact measurements to paper. Mortifying, of course, when I struggle to respond to the simplest of questions. (‘Do you prefer flared, narrow or classic-fit trouser legs, sir?’ Urm. Painful seconds pass. Obviously classic, Joe.) Traditionally, punters would have headed to Savile Row for this service. The centuries-old home to tailors and an immovable pride of Britain. Hearts must go out to the Row, too. It’s in a relentless cycle of press abuse matched only by the Duke and Duchess of Montecito. Every six months, like clockwork, the poor sods and their cloth-cutting livelihoods are declared extinct. Per the headlines, office casual is in. The nation’s finest have now fully succumbed to the lure of track pants and polyester. Forever.
Nothing, I find, triggers that internal ASMR buzz more than a team of fully grown men with a shared goal of putting my exact measurements to paper
But much like London mice, the bespoke suit is no easy target — in fact it seems to be growing in popularity, if Selfridges’ buyers are anything to go by. The department store has upped its tailoring offering 75 per cent for the new season. ‘We wanted to make a bold statement, one that encourages our customers to rethink suiting,’ says Bosse Myhr, Selfridges’ director of menswear.
The pinnacle of this is its new, pop-up line-up of master tailors dropping by in person. Boateng will be joined by Zegna, Eleventy, Corneliani and others delivering their made-to-measure services within these green, personal shopping suites.
The travelling tailor concept is comparable to the trunk shows Savile Row’s businesses have long executed on their tours of America. But the bonus here is that the best of Italy and New York is available for bookable slots, too.
I’m changed now and any buzz has subsided to more pressing decision-making. Suits start at a hefty £3,000. Picking the wrong shade is a mistake that promises cold sweats at night.
I’m directed, quite seriously, not to think about the final product. Duly, I clear my mind and start selecting the fabric I’m drawn to out of pairs. It all started easy. Light grey or dark? This black or that midnight blue? The gears shift. Crimson or purple? Pond green or turquoise? I hesitate. ‘Don’t think about the final product. Just go with what you feel,’ comes my refresher.
This little exercise was all well and good until I was set to have an orange velvet suit splashed with a black octagon print in my wardrobe. Time, then, to think about that final product. ‘Can I see the navy ones again?’ Here comes the joy of custom. On-demand came: ‘Great choice, sir.’ A fulfilling response to sartorial wetness.
We’re done. And in eight weeks’ time I will be back for a second fitting. It strikes me then, this is not the kind of shopping for which I’d imagine your average Selfridges shopper to be game. Are they even keen on suits? I decide to harass a few and find out.
First, meet Paul, a 53-year-old retired banker, sniffing around the Brunello Cucinelli rail with his wife. ‘I have had bespoke suits made before, work ones for the City,’ he tells me. ‘Bespoke in Selfridges is an excellent idea. Men are more and more interested in fashion, I think.’ I concur!
In the Gucci jewellery corner is a younger clientele. Doni, a 24-year-old, PVC puffer jacket-clad Albanian man of few words, is trying on rings. Does he wear suits? ‘Not that often.’ Do you think they’re cool, though? ‘Of course,’ he says, like I’m stupid. ‘The suit is never going to die. It’s going to live. I love it.’
Leaving, I approach a final avid shopper, their head buried in the menswear rails. Emma Corrin going incognito in a cap, as it happens. Would they get a tailored suit made in Selfridges’ secret back rooms? ‘How could anyone say no to that?’ they say. My thoughts exactly.
