When it’s not minus degrees and sleeting sideways, my scenic route to work takes me right through the middle of London city, swarmed with finance bros making their way to close deals or whatever it is they do all day. After months of weaving in and out of these surly-faced crowds on a Lime bike, I’m well acquainted with the uniform: navy suits, Third Space smoothies and, to top it all off, an immaculate Barbour jacket.
Now, I don’t condemn these busy workers for wanting to stay dry, but seeing a preened man in tailored trousers and a wax jacket deeply unsettles me. Despite my obsession with all things metropolitan, I grew up in what some may describe as true Barbour country, surrounded by muddy fields and sheep. To me, the jacket will always be synonymous with drab dog walks in freezing temperatures and worn out of total necessity rather than any stylistic inclination. Up there in the same camp as pristine Wellington boots, unless you are Alexa Chung at Glastonbury, I can’t see the reason behind dressing like you’re off to the Young Farmers AGM when you could dress like a normal person.
I’m aware that this country cosplay is nothing new. The Schöffel gilet – a much memeified constant in the finance bro wardrobe – is so ingrained in the Industry-core brand that presumably they’re handed out on day one at JPMorganChase. But something about the recent onslaught of Barbour jackets feels particularly theatrical and bizarre. Not to single out a single demographic, but if I had to, I would attribute the problem largely to West Londoners. Perhaps the proximity to the Paddington fast-track train to the Cotswolds makes them feel more spiritually aligned with wax jackets, but the density of Wellington boots per square foot is much too high for a cohort that spends most of their time at The Westbourne rather than tending to livestock.
I’m not alone in my observations, as my friend Isabel summarised: “The only thing worse than spotting a pair of Hunters in the pile of Birkenstocks at Blok (Clapton) is witnessing a fully grown man wriggling into said pair of knee-high rubbers – instantly shattering the safe space and replacing it with ‘weedy men who dress like their divorced dads and think smoking Parliaments is a personality type.’”
There are, of course, exceptions to the rule, and I can look the other way for the Sloane Ranger-adjacent horse girls. A Balmoral-coded look on the streets of East London? I love to see it! And there’s always a time and a place for a HRH-style headscarf to keep those locks in place, but seeing full countryside regalia in the queue at Pret will never fail to set my teeth on edge.
British Vogue’s Mahoro Seward weighed in on the Cotswolds fever-sweeping our streets, adding: “I was recently in a notoriously ritzy nook of the English countryside – the part where most of the residents are W postcode exiles. It’s the sort of place where you’d think a waxed jacket and a tweed flat cap might seem fitting – or so I thought until I actually saw someone in one. There was something both disquieting and demoralising about seeing an otherwise passably hot 30-something-year-old man in a houndstooth tweed blazer and a flat cap at a restaurant that exclusively serves a farm-to-table tasting menu with £25-a-glass wine pairings. While I get the appeal of contextually-appropriate dressing in theory, just wear a nice cashmere sweater, a trench and a pair of Asics and be done with it.”
As I sit typing this, I’m aware that tweed searches are up this time of year. There’ll be plenty of people pining for that Queen Elizabeth-style floor-length wax jacket come Christmas time. Still, I must implore you: choose a wool coat, a gorp-core bomber, even a Paddington Bear duffel coat if you value not looking like a reluctant father at Pony Club Camp,.