Naughty Forty

On Wednesday the 27th of March, I hit the big four zero.

Only a week before, I'd driven home through Headingley, closeted in my refined Germanic bubble of leather and walnut veneer. With misty eyes I smiled at the fancy dress wearing students, heading out for a night of Jägerbomb and M-Cat fuelled thrusting and merriment. Bless them. I was young too. Once.

Twenty years, gone in a flash. My ponytail, Danny Rampling tape, and king sized Rizla replaced by a Whangee umbrella, Borsalino fedora and Mulberry briefcase.

And then, I got all WH Auden and the grey clouds moved in:

"Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Forty. Blumming Forty. I was supposed to be retired and living in the South of France by now. When I grow a beard it looks like a badger is humping my face. How on earth did this happen? What's next? Have an affair, buy a Porsche and get my nipples pierced?

Get a grip Michelsberg. And so I did. I turned off the Blackberry, went 'off grid' and headed down to my spiritual home in Croyde Bay, North Devon. There with family and friends, I spent a wonderful week of surfing, eating ribs, drinking Thatcher's Gold and rejoiced in the cards that life has dealt me.

Yesterday was my first day back at work and it ended with a dose of retail therapy at my neighbours Jeffery West. Here I am with Charli, flaunting my new pair of Rosewood Calf Brogue Gibson's.



I returned home with a spring in my step, my 'new wheels' the perfect excuse to get busy with the utterly awesome birthday present from my brother Edward. Introducing, "La Cordonnerie Anglaise Intendant Valet Box."



La Cordonnerie Anglaise (which means the English Shoemaker) are a French company responsible for producing some of the finest and most luxurious shoe care products in the world.

One thing I have to say about Edward is that he knows his stuff. Whether it's cigars, fine wine, or, coffee machines, the "OCD Geek" gene that festers within his chubby little body, ensures that anything he pens his name to, is usually the best.

This fella is finished in rosewood coloured beech wood and contains the finest brushes, lanoline cream, beeswax polish and mink oil that Aussie Dollars can buy. Cheers bruva - I love you really :-)

For those of you interested in looking after your shoes, click on this blog I did earlier.

Yes, as I sit here at home in my study, a pile of my daughters Easter eggs to my left and a malt whisky to my right, life at forty feels pretty god damn good.

The road ahead will no doubt have its twists and turns. Maybe one day, it will end up on the Côte d'Azur? One thing I can be sure of is that every step of the way will be done so in immaculately presented footwear.

Joyeuses Pâques!

Flower Power

I've just read the biography, "Shopping, Seduction & Mr Selfridge" and it's an absolute belter.

Harry Gordon Selfridge, founder of Selfridges department store in London, was the ultimate showman. A risk-taking visionary with ambition, self belief, unbridled energy and boundless enthusiasm.



Sure, he had his demons (girls and gambling), but here was a man driven to succeed, with the charisma to inspire others to follow him. I devoured every page but it was how he started his day that really made me smile.

After arriving at work, the in-house barber would give him a hot towel-wrap, wax his moustache and eyebrows, whilst a manicurist buffed and filed his nails.

The menswear department would then deliver freshly laundered cream silk shirts, and finally the florist would offer a selection of orchids and roses for his buttonhole, or, "boutonnière."

Wearing a flower in your lapel hole is the final flourish to a gentleman's outfit. It came about during the late 18th century when men dressed with extravagance. Think "Dangerous Liaisons" and you're on the right lines - wigs, tricorn hats, elaborately embroidered coats in luxurious fabrics and large buckled shoes.



Then along came 'Beaux' Brummell, one of the great dandies of the age, with his 'less is more' approach to dressing and it all went to pot. It was black coats in the day and dark blue suits at night. Clothes became more practical but there was light at the end of the tunnel for the man who still had the peacock lurking within.

It had become fashionable to leave the top two buttons open on your frock coat. This allowed the fronts to fall open (laying the foundations for the modern day lapel) and in doing so left two empty button holes on display. The perfect place in which to pop a flower and inject a splash of colour.

Film stars such as Grant, Niven, Connery, and designers like Tom Ford have worn them to great effect.









To wear a boutonniere today takes confidence. Getting away with it on the gentrified streets of Mayfair, Paris, or Beverly Hills is one thing, but to do so on Boar Lane in Leeds is another.

Nevertheless, I took a deep breath and trotted off to Alan Brown Flowers in Kirkgate Market and demanded the finest lapel candy they could muster. The skill in its preparation was incredible and the finished white rose was a bargain for £3.50

Rather than damage the cloth by securing it with pins, I just put the stem through the button hole, slotted it down behind the flower loop and Bob's your uncle. Boutonnière, sorted.

A flower loop is a feature on every Michelsberg bespoke coat and is made with a chain stitch using silk thread, as can be seen in the photo below.



Another option is to use a solid-silver flower holder which has just enough water in it to keep the flower from drooping. One such fan of this divine accoutrement was the TV Detective, Hercule Poirot. Now there was a snazzy dresser.



Problems can arise when using a lightweight cloth / soft canvases etc, because the lapel then struggles to cope with the weight of the flower / holder. I was wearing a fourteen ounce Prince of Wales fabric from Dugdale Brothers of Huddersfield which is so meaty it could keep up a triffid.

Here's the result below ;-)



I strutted back to the showroom with a spring in the step and a grin on my face, the little grey cells on overdrive with the possibilities of using Mother Nature's finest to compliment the colour in a tie, or, a pocket square.

Unlike Harry Selfridge, I don't yet have the financial fire-power to drop a grand a year on pimping my lapel, but as spring and summer approaches (hurrah!), the Michelsberg garden is going to get well and truly pillaged.

A final word to all you chaps out there with a Michelsberg tailored jacket. Yorkshire Day is the 1st August. What a perfect opportunity to rock that flower loop, wear a white rose and celebrate the greatest county in Blighty!

Hairy Times

The beard is back. Even my brother is growing one. A face full of fur smacks of swashbuckling "derring-do." It's testosterone on a chin. The hirsute marque of heroic daring.

Beloved by World War two fighter pilots and pipe-smoking chaps who raced along country lanes in their Morgans, a bristling moustache embodied the spirit of British invincibility, but like many things, it's often hair today, gone tomorrow.

Facial fuzz is no longer a foible of the few. The birthright of a geography teacher has been embraced by the many, with varying degrees of success. What starts off in the mind's eye as a dead ringer for Tom Ford, can quickly transmogrify to Jeremy Beadle in the mirror.

The meterosexual male has given way to something altogether more manly and this trend for all things hairy has been reflected in the world of cloth.

If a relaxing wet shave with hot towels is cashmere, then heavy stubble, or a set of mutton chops is Harris Tweed.

To qualify as genuine Harris Tweed, the cloth must be hand-woven (or warped) by islanders at their homes in the Outer Hebrides of Scotland. Weavers are self-employed and can work for any of the three mills who spin and dye the woollen yarn from which the fabric is made.

The fabric is then finished (cleaned and made stable) and stamped with the official Orb Mark trademark as a seal of its authenticity.



Designers such as Paul Smith, House of Holland and Vivienne Westwood are huge fans. To give you an idea of its popularity, production has soared from four hundred and fifty thousand metres in 2009 to over one million metres in 2012.

The picture below is of Lee Price in his Michelsberg wedding suit. He's worked for Vivienne Westwood for twenty years and they supplied the Harris Tweed cloth (woven exclusively for Westwood) and we did the rest.



Vivienne has got to be one of my favourite designers, and like herself I enjoy working with tartans. I'm currently making a three piece suit for a customer in 'Buchanan OC' that will knock the balls off a mighty elephant.

'Black Watch' in particular is all the rage at the moment. Here's Sam, from Church's shoes in Leeds with a pair of Michelsberg 'och-aye-the-noos,' and below that is a shot from Valentino's latest Autumn / Winter collection.





Whilst caber-country is the obvious place to go in search of tweed and tartan, ten minutes walk from my home in Otley, West Yorkshire, is Marton Mills. Introducing Duncan Watts, their Chairman, and Hannah Slater, their designer.



Established in 1931, it's a family business, employs forty eight people and turns over six million pounds a year.

The yarn comes from M.B. Appleton in Bradford and the cloth is finished at Roberts Dyers in Keighley which they part own with the SIL group.

They also offer a personal bespoke design service and will produce as little as thirteen metres of cloth which is just about enough for six blazers.

So, if there's a gang of chaps out there who want to cut a dash in Michelsberg blazers made-up in their own bespoke tartan / striped fabric, these guys could be just the ticket.

In my mind the vibe would be 'Reservoir Dogs' meets 'Three-men-in-a-boat.' A martini soaked fusion of Ralph Lauren and Jack Wills, minus the Tarquin.

Perfect for terrorising Henley, owning it at the races, or, simply being the best dressed stag-do on the planet.

London Calling

It's Saturday morning, I've just done my last fitting before Christmas, there's a brass band playing carols in the Victoria Quarter and I'm feeling simply bloody marvellous.

Whilst the bling-tastic Christmas tree outside is impressive, it's nowt compared to the bright lights of London.

Last Thursday I spent twelve glorious hours in our throbbing metropolis.

Most of it was out and about on the streets of Mayfair, a perfumed playground for the privileged, where delicate noses safely sniff, far away from the fetid stench of despair and poverty that lies beneath this truly great city.

My first port of call was to investigate a new workroom which I'd heard made-up for the great and the good down South.



I've seen quite a few operations in my time and this one hit the spot. Run by a lady with real passion for the trade, I was impressed not just by the quality of their work, but the fact that the atmosphere was jovial. People were enjoying their work and the focus was on quality rather than quantity.

Here I am modelling one of their smoking jackets made-up for one of the outfitters on Jermyn Street who holds a Royal Warrant.



It's a bit "Captain Peacock" for my taste. I'm not really a fan of all the frogging around the button holes and cuffs but at last I've found a team who are happy working with velvet. The uber-cool Michelsberg smoking jacket will be a reality. Get in!

After that, I had lunch with my friend Flynny at The Hawksmoor on Air street. Now that's a steak joint. Slightly art deco in style it's a mahogany and leather temple to man-food. A place where the dreams of carnivores collide with the nightmares of the bovine massive.

After my cholesterol raising car-crash of rib-eye, bone marrow, triple cooked chips and red wine, I stumbled outside and paid homage to my spiritual home (after Croyde Bay) - Savile Row.



If tailoring is part theatre, then this is the ultimate stage. Just being here fills me with pride, joy, a sense of hope and fuels the dream of what might be.

My favourite bit in "Masterchef" is where they get to cook for some of the best chefs in the world and meet their heroes in the flesh. Being on Savile Row is just like that for me.



First port of call was Huntsman, pictured above. Now these guys are busy but I was still given a warm welcome by their head cutter, Patrick Murphy, and Johnny Allen, their Sales Manager. Then who tapped me on the shoulder? Steve from Yorkshire Textiles. It seems us Northerners get everywhere.

After that it was over the road to Spencer Hart, tailor of choice to the coolest of cats.



Here I am with Theo Gould in the inner sanctum where fine threads have been commissioned by the likes of Robbie Williams, David Bowie and David Beckham. Eight years ago, when I first started my own tailoring business, I remember entering this cavern of dark wood and even darker suits, meeting Nick Hart and being blown away with the set-up. Inspirational stuff.

Then, it was down the golden mile and off to Lock and Co on St James's street to pick up a Christmas present to myself - a new hat.



I adore this place. It's understated, charming, devoid of all pretence. The gentleman above is Andrew Baselgia, their retail manager, and twenty minutes later, armed with a spanking new 'Borsalino,' I headed to my final destination - a Christmas party thrown by Scabal on Savile Row.



The wine flowed (heavily) and here I am with the guys from Kilgour - Michael Smith, their Senior Cutter, and Martin Crawford and Andrew Skillen on the sales floor. We talked shop and I loved every moment.

As I pulled out of Kings Cross (drinking yet more wine) I reflected on the words of Samuel Johnson - "When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life" - and after living the dream for a day, I couldn't agree more.

So that's it. "Out of office" on. Shop Shut. Here's wishing you a truly magnificent Christmas and a fabulous 2013 for us all.

Festive Finery

Christmas, to me, should be a Dickensian schmaltz-fest of ruddy faced joy and conviviality.

The clatter of a carriage on cobbled streets. The crunch of snow under stout leather boots. An Inn with a crackling log fire where bearded men swill porter and supp mutton stew.

No Sky Sports. No games of pool. Just raucous laughter bathed in the warm glow of gas-lamps, as wenches with flaming locks, heaving bosoms and velvet dresses behold the swelling scene.

These days it's Michael Boublé, frilly knickers, half price scotch and flights out to Tenerife. Don't get me wrong, I love Christmas, but oy vey, you've got to work at it.

To me it's about family, friends and a time for reflection, reaching out spiritually and giving the liver a good kicking. The latter usually involves a charity ball, dinner dance, or, back-slapping industry awards bash, where more often than not, the dress code is Black Tie.

Formal wear is to the dandy what formula one is to a racing driver. It's the ultimate show. The Big Kahuna. The dinner suit is the dark knight in your wardrobe, a creature of the night, just a DBS and PPK short of 007.

One of my coat-makers is constantly telling me to 'keep it simple' and I get untold grief for my love of doing something different.

I want a Michelsberg jacket or lounge suit to turn heads. Contrast coloured button holes, velvet top collars, flower loops, secret pockets and flashes of silk behind the working cuffs are all on the menu. The trick is to balance these with the cloth to create something stylish and elegant. Go overboard and you've got a costume, not an outfit.

Mark Ronson was recently lambasted for wearing red socks at an Amy Winehouse Foundation fundraiser.



I love red socks but not with a tuxedo. Whilst I believe clothes should be an expression of who you are, when it comes to formal wear I am a purist. There is a time and place for everything and certain events require a modicum of decorum. As such, you need to find the Methodist within and show restraint.

Nothing beats the understated beauty of a tuxedo. Done right it is minimalism at its finest, a monochrome work of art. The fit must be perfect and it must be made using the finest materials.

To start off with you need pure silk facings for the lapels and pocket jets. Outrageously expensive and a nightmare to press, what they lose in practicality is more than made up for in downright gorgeousness.

Then the cloth. The very DNA of the suit itself. I've just delivered a stunning creation using a Super 150's and cashmere blend from Scabal. It's incredibly light and feels like the mons of an angel.

Here's one below I made for Andy in cashmere & summer kid mohair produced by Taylor & Lodge of Huddersfield. It was used to make Daniel Craig's tux in Quantum of Solace, is stiffer than the Scabal fabric and tailors very sharply.



When it comes to colour you've got three choices. Black, noir, or, schwarz. That said, Ralph Fiennes wore a beautiful midnight blue number for the Skyfall premiere and so will my customer Lesley (pictured below) for his Christmas party.



When it comes to styling it's very simple. The jacket should be single-breasted with a peak, or, shawl lapel (as above), have one button, jetted pockets (no flaps), side vents and a four button working cuff with silk covered buttons.

The notch lapel on a dinner is the work of the devil. An absolute shocker. It's up there with 'novelty' dress-shirts and Bruce Forsythe inspired waistcoats.

Double-breasted coats can look great. Prince William wore a fine specimen on his wedding day but the downside is that you have to keep it buttoned. Traditionalists would say no vents on a dinner suit, but god help if you've got a fat arse, or, want to put your hand in your pocket.

Trousers should be worn higher on the waist with braces (from Albert Thurston, or, Trafalgar), flat fronted or forward pleats, silk down the sides and plain bottoms.

I wear a double-breasted marcella waistcoat with a silk lapel but the 'horse-shoe' is particularly popular at the moment and certainly something I'd pen my name to.

Final flourishes.

A crisp white Michelsberg bespoke shirt with fly front (concealed buttons) or studs. I'm not really a fan of wing collars and cummerbunds and think them best left to Transylvanian Counts and matadors.

A white linen, or silk, hanky tucked into the out-breast-welt. Check out Turnbull & Asser on Jermyn Street. Their shop is an Aladdin's cave for anyone with a serious silk fetish.

Invest in a pair of long black silk socks, preferably to the knee. The flash of a pasty white calf covered in hair is not a good look. I'd recommend Pantherella, or, Bresciani.

Finally black patent shoes (try Church's, or, Jeffery West) and most importantly a self-tied bow tie.

So there you have it. The perfect tux, Michelsberg style. Here's one below that is being collected today by my customer Sean.



Christmas is going to be great this year. It's less than four weeks to go until my Mother's roast goose with prunes and Armagnac hits the table.

I've got all sorts of little treats lined up including a night out at the Bierkeller and dinner with my old school friends Jedoir, HotBongDaddy (don't ask) and the Bainer.

There'll be a trip to London, Bournemouth and of course a stroll down Savile Row.

Wishing you all the best for the build up and here's to the ringing of Rudolph's bells and the Michelsberg cash register.

Tinker, Tailor, Shoulder, Spy.

007. Three digits, one man, five billion dollars in revenue. James Bond is the ultimate brand.

After the front page of Google, Daniel Craig's pecs must be the most valuable space on earth. Pay per nip advertising - his agent's missing a trick.

A third of Skyfall's £100million budget was paid for by product placement deals and who can blame them. Bond is a living god: the Father, The Son and The Holy Spirit of all things cool.

I can't wait to see it. The 'intelligent' and 'ambitious' girl will still no doubt have legs up to Orion's belt. There'll be a fuel guzzling Aston Martin leaving Jeremy Clarkson slobbering for metaphors, an Omega watch, extreme violence, all washed down with a swig of Heineken.

The other thing that's guaranteed is sharp threads. I've blogged about the Bond tailors in a previous post. If your business involves a needle and thread, then kitting out Fleming's finest has got to be the ultimate gig.

Anthony Sinclair (Sean Connery), Doug Hayward (Roger Moore), Brioni (Piers Brosnan) and Tom Ford (Daniel Craig) all have got their 007 wings. It might mean sacrificing a hundred suits during filming but imagine the payback? A honey pot the size of Canada faced with a hurricane of fifty pound notes.

Whilst the saviour of Gucci dines out with the Broccoli massive, at least a few crumbs fall from the table to tailors like myself who are still scratching our way up.

Even before the hype, one of my customers was at my doorstep, a feverous look in his eye, thrusting the picture below into my hands and muttering the 'Little Britain' catchphrase, "Want that one."



Single breasted, two buttons, straight pocket flaps. Looks rather classical. Then you spot the gorge on the lapel. It's higher than usual. And check out the fronts. They're more cut-away than normal. As for the jacket length, it's on the short side. Not 'Top Man' freeze your bum to death short, but certainly more contemporary in length. Finally the shoulder.

The shoulder is to tailoring what terroir is to wine-making. It's shape and character sets the tone and silhouette of everything below and is the first thing somebody notices because it's in their line of sight.

Essentially there are two types of shoulder. One that is 'natural', often soft and unstructured, and one that is straighter and more constructed.

Style forums are full of posts declaring the Italians as the godfathers of the "natural" shoulder. It makes sense that in a hot climate, a tailor would want to offer his customers lighter weight cloth, and as such need to use light-weight scaffolding underneath.

The hallmark of a Neapolitan shoulder is one of little (if any) padding and canvas. They also cut the sleeves wider at the top, and this excess cloth is sewn, or 'eased' into the shoulder / armhole.

This combined with a clever manipulation of the seams when sewing the sleeve and the shoulder together will often create a slight 'puff' or pucker. Some of this can be shrunk away by pressing, although many dandies declare it a thing of beauty.

This is often referred to as a shirt shoulder, or "spalla camicia," a picture of which is shown below and made by Napoli Su Misura.



Italians don't have a monopoly on the less is more school of thought. Anderson and Sheppard's soft 'drape cut' is very similar. Here's Karl, one of their ex employees and now running his own show, wearing a coat with a typically soft, rounded shoulder.



Military and horsey Savile Row tailors such as Dege & Skinner, Gieves & Hawkes and Huntsman tend to go for a bit more welly in the shoulder. The same can be said for Brioni and Caraceni. It's probably why they do so well in the States as the Yanks, like myself, prefer a more imposing shoulder line.

An example can be seen below in what I consider to be one of the finest and most iconic suits ever made.



The shoulder is straight, there's certainly some padding and I think it flatters and draws attention to his naturally broad shoulders.

Piers, in his Brioni, also has a more constructed shoulder, however his are 'roped' at the end.



The Roped Shoulder, or Con Rollino, is named as such when the sleeve is higher than the shoulder line, as if it has been draped over a rope. I think it looks more formal and is what my customer wanted, similar to the Tom Ford special in my first photo.

As far as Michelsberg is concerned, we've always used padding in the shoulders including a 'sleeve-head,' which sits between the sleeve and the shoulder and is shown below.



I explained to Jon, Debbie and Sandra in the workroom that a 'rope' was the goal and we got busy. It wasn't easy, but then doing new things never is. We cut the crown (top) of the sleeves with more fullness (so there was extra cloth to create the rope) and added another layer of construction in the head-roll, which I'm pointing out with my stitch-cutter below.



With some scratching of chins and clever sewing we achieved the following.



There are still a few things to sort out but that's what it's all about. Pushing the boundaries, being open to new ideas and not being afraid to fail.

I've made my peace with the crushing blow that I'll never get to be James Bond. Which leaves the next best thing. Dressing him. Velvet collar, Daniel?

A swellegant, elegant party.

At my wedding, my best man and college friend Paul said in his speech, "over the years we've shared many highs together, some legal..."

Whilst this might be true, I doubt many were better than the one I got from hosting my customer party last Thursday evening.

After a last minute flood of "sorry we can't make it" texts, the clock struck six. Within minutes I was surrounded by friends, family, suppliers and grinning customers, adrenalin and alcohol pumping through my arteries.





The sound of popping champagne corks and laughter filled the air, melding perfectly with the smooth, sexy tones of Matt Anderson on saxophone, Aubin Vanns on guitar and Stewart Garden (who played at my opening party) on keyboard.





Ever the show-off, I decided to take centre stage and make a speech.



The key thing I wanted to get across was the fact that the evening was not about Michelsberg tailoring, but a thank you to everyone who makes it possible for me to do a job that I love.

People like the weavers from the mills of Yorkshire who provide me with beautiful cloth, and those in the workrooms who make it up into something truly special.

I expressed my gratitude to other tenants in the Victoria Quarter who have referred customers my way, with a special thanks to Patrick of Church's shoes who generously provided a dozen bottles of Church's Champagne for the bash.



The final doff of my cap was, of course, to my fabulous customers. Many of them have become good friends over the years and, as ambassadors of my brand, had made the effort to come and support me on a school night, their continued patronage enabling the Michelsberg tailoring show to go on.

What a buzz to see all those "Michelsbergs" under one roof - a glorious cacophony of tweed three piece suits, jackets with velvet and moleskin top collars, flashy waistcoats, double-breasted numbers with uber-peak lapels, sharp Mohair specials with creases like razors and man-about-town covert-coats.

As the clock struck eleven, my driver (and long suffering wife Nikki) called time at the bar, and on the way back home, I wallowed in the passenger seat, a smile on my face, looking forward to a cunningly planned day off.

Here's to the Christmas bash!