Tom of Finland

Image by Tom of Finland

My dad, in all sincerity: 'I think you should bodybuild. You need to bulk up'. In the same way he'd say 'I think you should wake up before 11am'. But I'd have to do it perfectly. And I don't think I'm genetically predisposed to perfection, because this is perfection:

These guys are so big, you just know the only thing they can't screw is a lightbulb.

The suit on Liverpool Street

The apex of urbanity is too oft regarded as universal expedience. All we've wanted since the beginning of the industrial revolution is to have it all, and to have it quickly. As I make my way to central London for evening drinks, I am surrounded by hordes of besuited people. Avoiding eye contact, as all seasoned users of the Underground do, I only understand the travails of an city banker's day when a heavy lapel wafts into my face, or when a damp shirt presses against my hand as I keep a firm grasp on the rail.

Just as high fashion filters down to high street, by the mid-90s, spending like a mid-80's banker was par de course. So we clamoured for logo t-shirts, for name-dropping and the accolades of popularity we'd gain from becoming walking adverts for our favourite brands. In the late 90s into the early 2000s, we turned to minimalism for minimalism's sake. We dressed how old films perceived the post-apocalyptic future. Robotic, dull, wipe-clean man-made fabrics and two-tone, spiky hair, as if the looming Y2K disaster was a mandate to adorn ourselves with celebrations of technological disaster. The boho look was a flirtation; with pathetically loyal Sienna Miller and anorexia-inducing Rachel Zoe credited as pioneers of this look, the gypsy outfits and their ideologies were insincere . The freedom of the draped fabrics were throwbacks to the liberating late 60's, but discredited women and fashion alike by being exclusively created for the fairer sex, blockading much development of male couture beyond a Hedi Slimane suit.

Now, thankfully, men's couture is just as relevant as women's. We're retching at logos and shiny synthetics, real fur and flares. We're choosing sleek lines, neat and sturdy tailoring, natural fabrics used with increasingly more ecological responsibility. All of this serves to not only recapture classic beauty, but to maintain its timelessness. To be cutting edge now is to pay tribute to everything good that has come before, not to create from a vacuum. We're Dali these days.Each item is perfectly formed, but the combinations are where we break the rules. Summoning the most highbrow of postmodern referencing, we are coming home to ourselves in brogues and trenches, ankle boots and blouses. Short backs and sides and quiffs, shirts fastened and never any factory-made wear and tear.

Fashion flourishes in urbane environments: London, Milan, Paris, New York, because this is where people come together for ideas to accelerate. Compressed, we are saturated with inspiring imagery. But when we are literally pushed underground to make our high-tech conurbation easier to traverse, given less space than the average battery-farm chicken, our preening must be sacrificed. Clothes become hindrances, obstructions in the furious race from A-B. If this commute is a quotidian requirement, it is all too easy to desire practicality over beauty.

This movement towards unrelenting progression isn't to be desired. Not only is the applicable to our cities, but our selves. We are pushed so hard to compete that we forget to take time to look around, to enjoy what our eye beholds. The difference between a street and a road is that the street has its obstacles. Obstacles, in all aspects of life, provide character.

On London's street level, our urbanity is palimpsest; blitzing, fires and boom-time development means that no one street is constituent of one form or aesthetic. And this is reflected in people's sartorial choices. Out of the commuting mindset of unfettered achievement, we can not only breathe, but idle our eyes upon the most silent, yet most beautiful forms of self-expression; clothing. It's not that the suits don't look good, it's just that the context stinks. A suit on a Monday on Liverpool Street reeks of greed. That same suit on the same street on a Saturday is suave.

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This piece was commissioned by a London College of Fashion magazine, title TBC

Let's go round again

I really like rounded glasses at the moment. Now that Harry Potter's a distant memory to me, they serve as items of beauty as opposed to reminders of hammy child actors. Chuck out your Rachel Zoe-endorsed bug-eye-glasses, smash up your WAG-inspired frames, and say hello to titchy circular frames. You don't have to be a boy wizard to do it, as all of these ocular icons will prove:

To the exclusion of The Machinist, where he dropped to about 110lbs, Christian Bale is sexy in anything he stars in. In American Psycho, he plays Patrick Bateman, whose whole existence revolves around successfully fitting into homogenised 1980s banker aesthetics whilst his morals asphyxiate in his rotting soul. The Dorian Gray of the Reagan years, I think a lot of his charm is down to his tortoiseshell Oliver Peoples.

I know, right. I'm hardly the first person in the past few years to point out that circle-rimmed glasses smaller than one's own head are where it's at. Michael Kors, Ralph Lauren and Dries Van Noten both showed these anti-Raybans back in SS 2007. Caroline Herrera did the same and this was lauded by some as the return of the circle-lens, but I think the magic of this 'new' shape is that they don't fool anyone. Whereas any fat yob can be redeemed by a pair of what we've come to know as 'aviators', it takes grace to pull off circle lenses.

Maybe it's a continental thing. Jean Reno starred in Leon back in 1994. Playing a stoic, mysterious assassin, the glasses helped to maintain his inscrutable demeanour.

If you've watched Amelie, or even pretend you're Amelie as you make Hummingbird Bakery cupcakes and wear twee socks when you do your daily cycle through Hackney, you'd love A Very Long Engagement. Not only is it directed by the fabulous Jean-Pierre Jeunet, but it stars Audrey Tatou, features a pitch-perfect cameo from Jodie Foster and is all about the absolute futility of war. I won't tell you what Marion Cotillard does with the glasses here, but it's brilliant.

I have never fallen in love with a film like I have with Benjamin Button. Amongst his extensive back catalogue, David Fincher directed Madonna's Vogue. He presents nostalgia with the perfect balance of realism and romanticism. And with Brad Pitt, Cate Blanchett AND Tilda Swinton on board, the film was worthy of all praise and accolades. Benjamin wears a few sets of glasses in this film, and although he looks disgracefully pretty in the scene where he's all decked out like George Michael in the Faith video, I really hope Brad Pitt ages into this man. Nice bloody coat, too.

I'm afraid to say I find John Lennon almost as annoying as Paul McCartney. In the case of the former, it's not his fault. It's the Gallagher Brothers'. I remember in 1996, I bought myself a pair of John Lennon sunglasses. But the only reason they were being produced at that point was because of the success of 'Britpop', a cultural phenomenon which was actually invented by Tony Blair so as to get people on his side. A bit like WMD's.

This is taking the essence of everything that's good about Tim Burton films, and condensing it into one pair of macabre, quasi-surgical glasses. There's this movement of people called Steam Punks, who are really into the aesthetic of steam-powered machinery. As a concept, I like this. The latter half of the 19th Century is full of some of my favourite literature, and there is something unquestionably romantic and simultaneously scary about a time before electricity. However, most Steam Punks have unsightly facial hair and like things like Download festival.

I think Lady GaGa could be the catalyst behind the most recent resurgence in circular glasses. Apart from dressing like a slag, not many of her looks have made it into the mainstream. I don't even think GaGa deserves credit for women dressing like slags; as long as Newcastle exists and stupid men get paid too much, women will dress like slags. Most importantly, if there's anything we should copy from this woman, it's not the lobster shoes, it's not the firework tits. It's these glasses.

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Style is such a subjective entity. I don't profess to have much authority on it. If you're looking for that you should probably go somewhere else.

Confessions of a Shop o Phobic

Sophie Wilkinson tells all. Or at least tries to.

Resting on the laurels of a sensationalistic article in the Shag Mag, I’m afraid to say I’ve been stumped with what to tell the attendees of this year’s superb RAG Fashion Show about, well, fashion. I could tell you all how monotonous the blonde hair, Ugg boot and gilet combo has become, but we’ve all known that truism for as long as Exeposé has been in print. As you will find in this programme, it is remarkable how many different trends, styles, concepts and fads are displayed by a university that faces all too much unnecessary criticism for lacking in diversity. What we put on to brave the erratic weather, hills and slightly overheated library is so clearly an expression of our individuality. Despite my best efforts, I am not Karl Lagerfeld. So I’ve felt wary of dogmatically telling people what they should wear, when, without too much bragging, my Shag Mag article really did seem to have a strong effect upon some lucky readers.

I’ve been a purveyor of many a trend during my studies at Exeter; an outright obsession with stash has thankfully been phased out by an affinity for knitted jumpers, baggy t-shirts, skinny jeans and a pair of, ugh...Uggs. What is there to say about such a simple look that has been so demonstrably inspired by photos of myself at four years old? I was lost. I was bewildered. I was, quite frankly, worried. I lit up a Camel Light. As it burnt down to the tip, I thought, maybe, I could talk about how bloody cool I think smoking is. However, an article attempting to justify the stylish glamour of such a dangerous habit would be deleted from an official university publication faster than the ‘Lash, Banter, Bolt, EURFC’ vests got covered in vomity cider and black at their Timepiece debut. Perhaps my fear of fashion journalism stems from a self-righteous apathy towards consumerism? Recent attempts at shopping have been somewhat hindered by two things: a crippling fear of any shops beyond Sidwell Street during ‘these harsh economic times’ and the inevitability that anything from Topshop looks good for a couple of days before you turn up to a club wearing the same dress as an acquaintance. In the past six months, girls have, statistically speaking, felt more anger towards a friend who copies their getup than one who steals their boyfriend. How could I put my problems with fashion behind me and retrieve some semblance of style consciousness? Was I doomed to remain dressed ‘like playdays’, as a good friend once put it?

I turned to the internet for answers, and more importantly, eBay. I trawled around and found the most wonderful jumper; it looked exactly like one I’d found in a charity shop a few weeks back, the one which my male friend laid claim to, as he had £2.50 spare change, and I only had my card. And you really can’t pay for charity shop fare on card. The auction was in its last three minutes, and the highest bid so far was 99p. For one moment I worried my account was inaccessible after a deabaucle in first year. I’d refused to pay for a hideous bag which I’d bid for under the misguided illusion that anything described as ‘NU RAVE FASHIONBAG brandNEW (last year)’ would feasibly look better than a poached toad as a handbag. I eventually decided there’s little to go wrong with a jumper. But by the time I placed my bid, the other bidder outbid me. Filled with rage, contempt and disappointment at my loss, I swore off eBay for the last time. Soon, the word ‘bid’ eventually stopped swirling around in my mind.

I was losing at this fashion game. Princesshay was no longer an option. I needed something more. I needed to make a spontaneous, hungover decision to go to Bristol for the day. As I entered the West Country’s biggest shopping mall, I knew what I was headed for. My heart pounded. Meeting your clothes-store soulmate is a bit like hooking up with someone you’ve met through a friend months before. You both know the other exists, and you both know you like what you see. However good a potential romance would be, circumstance has it that any indulgence of your desires would result in catastrophe. But I forgot my friends’ previous claim on the shop, threw caution to the wind and all ideas of practical student budgeting to the wayside. I stepped into American Apparel and there were fireworks. If heaven had fireworks. Now that I own half of the shop, I feel like I’m in a position to give a few fashion statements:

1. Always borrow clothes. Keep them. Deny taking them.

2. Don’t read the writing on a t-shirt out loud. Never beg people to read your own t-shirt.

3. Sam Ronson and Lindsay Lohan are here to stay and they look fucking brilliant.

4. Hairspray and backcombing is not just for those from Surrey and does not cause follicular damage.

5. Trippy patterned jumpers are for life, not just Christmas.