This is a lesson I learnt the hard way last April. My friend Jamie messaged me about meeting up at The Orchard – a cracking little pub near me in Didsbury, whose garden is magical on a sunny day. I checked the forecast.
18 degrees. Sunny. Eighteen fucking degrees in Manchester!
It was the Nigerian weather belt! So I wore light cotton trousers, my new linen shirt (the one I’d been waiting for summer to wear) and my favourite pair of Superga plimsolls, freshly cleaned and detailing-free because they’d been through three summers now and were finally broken in just how I like them.
Half an hour later, I was crouching under the busted patio umbrella with my jumper/cardigan equivalent of a turtle shell up around my ears, watching hailstones bounce off my pint glass.
My linen shirt clung to me teasingly. I could hear my nipples whimpering with cold. Jamie sat next to me, completely dry aside from the light waxed jacket slung over his shoulders. “How,” he said, offering me a bar napkin to dry my face with, “how do you not know this yet, Alex?
You’ve lived in Manchester your whole life.” He was right. It wasn’t like I hadn’t built up three decades worth of expertise on how to dress to sit in a beer garden come rain or shine, drought, deluge or the belting Yorkshire rain/hail/sleet/cherry bomb that the Manchester sky likes to chuck at us Brits sometimes. But that soggy day I was determined never to let myself get caught out like that again.
So I scarfed down my half-frozen pint while hyperventilating to keep warm (very sage advice, I know), gave Jamie my pathetic salute and went inside to vow that come hell or high water, I would never be defeated by British spring/summer weather ever again. So pour yourself a drink. Pour yourself two.
One for me too, coward. You’re about to hear about every weather contingency known to man, all in the name of mastering the elusive British beer garden outfit. Behold my catalogue of lessons learnt, spanning everything from mistakenly wearing shorts in May during a surprise snowstorm to wearing winter boots because September turned out to be the hottest month on record in global history: sunny days, rainy days, British pub garden days.
First things first. Layers. I know, I know.
Nobody likes a LAYERREC but hear me out. Start with a proper T-shirt. By proper, I don’t mean an ASOS basic that disintegrates after one sweaty commute.
I’m talking actual material. These Sunspel cotton T-shirts will set you back £75 and I admit that’s a hell of a price to pay for what essentially amounts to underwear but holy shit does it feel good. Cotton this thick actually retains its shape and doesn’t ride up your arse.
It’s ludicrously comfy in both 28-degree sunshine and when that bastard breeze comes screaming out of nowhere like it always does. They also fucking last forever. Order yours from Sunspel here.
If thin cotton ain’t your thing, Uniqlo do some impressively good Supima cotton T-shirts for £14.90 that actually don’t twist up like Mr Blobby’s eyebrows after two washes. A shirt. Most guys go mad at this stage and chuck on a white short-sleeved number the second Doom Monthly hits double digits.
Don’t do that. Invest in a good Oxford button down that you can roll the sleeves up and down depending on your needs. I have this lightweight blue one from Drake’s that I swear to God has been to every beer garden from Harrogate to Hastings with me but I’ll be honest, I probably got my mum to buy it for me.
One Christmas, she left their stupid catalogue on the coffee table face down and ejaculated discreetly when I “accidentally” left the page with the shirt I liked most clearly dog-eared. In non-covenant prices, Arket do a nice-ish one for £65 or Morrisons’ “ultimate Oxford shirt” is not terrible at all for £35. Roll those sleeves up nice and snug.
Not scrunchy looking like a dipsomaniac who got caught in the rain, and definitely not too neat and full-manual-job looking like you think you’re Johnny English. Go for three defined folds, stopping just above the elbow. Trust.
Okay. Now we’re getting into it. Layer number three, my friends.
The layer you’ll thank me for later. The BEER GARDEN GAME CHANGER. The mid-layer.
Guys. I used to hate gilets. With a white-hot burning passion.
They were for Tory MPs off on shoots or dickheads who called Manchester “town”. Then one day I wore a quilted gilet to Dunkeld for a stag do and it was life-changing. Absolutely bloody marvellous for sitting outside drinking.
Warms your midriff without restricting your arms should you find yourself gesturing wildly during a rendition of Brown Eyed Girl. So saddle up and cough up the cash for a Barbour gilet like a grown up. Mine was about £90 from the outlet but looks great over an Oxford shirt and doesn’t look totally gilet-y because it’s quilted.
NB. If gilets really aren’t your thing, the Quilted Shirtduster from Belstaff will serve you just as well. It’s about £275 but you’ll wear the shit out of it.
Plus it’ll make you look RIDICULOUSLY GOOD walking to the pub. Trust. An outer layer.
And by that, I don’t mean your winter coat. Unless you’ve got one of those bespoke jobs with slots to put your arms through or something, you’ll regret wearing that bastard the second the sun comes out to roast your bitter carcass. So leave it at home.
What you need is… …the holy grail. A lightweight jacket that doesn’t feel like a duvet but actually repels rain should the worst happen. I’ve been through years of analysing my perfect beer garden jacket.
It’s got to have a cotton outer (stay away from the polyester ones, they are ghastly and cling to your back when you get wet), it can’t be too busy on the inside and it’s gotta have that rollaway collar beauty sleep hoodie feel about it when it’s zipped up. So: Harrington-style jacket with cheque lining. Baracuta do the OG G9 that started it all but will cost you as much as a Disney World holiday.
Take a slice off that price and brands like Ben Sherman do perfectly lovely ones in the sales for about £85-110. They might not be as nice as the G9 but tbh who cares when you look back at them ten years down the line and they’re falling apart but you still wear them anyway because fuck it, they’re comfortable. Rain jacket.
Now, this one is purely_optional. But in Britain, when does rain ever truly not factor into your weekend plans? If you know you’re gonna be baz-zing in some proper Welsh_FIELD_LAST_NAME_DELIMER_14Kddrv rainfall, please do yourself a favour and cop one of The North Face’s excellent jackets.
But please DO NOT WEAR THAT OUT IN PUBLIC. You WILL look like you’re about to rock climb Shuzzleberg fell. If you’re after a jacket that’s equally at home chilling in beer gardens and, y’know, going about your everyday life, Rains do some seriously minimalist waterproofs that won’t have you looking like “RABIUS STRONG-WILL RAIN HERE COMING!” but will keep you totally dry when Storm Dennis decides to rage.
I picked up their Classic Jacket for about £95 but they come with a handy little bag that it squashes down into; about the size of an unread copy of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. Dark jeans or trousers. Sounds obvious but you will spill a pint.
Three beers in, half a packet of pork scratchings later and someone’s told a funny story right as you take a sip. Boom. Chalk another ruined beer garden shirt down to experience.
Trust. White footwear is for amateurs. By the timeclosing time rolls around, your pristine white trainers will be coated in beer garden grime; a mix of mud, beer and the misery of everyone who pissed you off that day.
Invest in a decent pair of dark leather trainers that can take a beating but won’t look like refugees from a running shoe emporium. I’ve been shredding these Stepney Workers Club Dellow trainers in dark navy canvas recently. They’re about £75 and the canvas actually lets your feet breathe when Mother Nature decides it’s suddenly 25 degrees out, unlike leather which seems to fuse your socks to your feet with a personal steam room.
Trust. And finally…desert boots. When the beer garden has more mud than garden, or you suspect wellies just might not be out of place (hint: they’re attached to some chunky stiletto heels that are areas wearing feet), go full-on Clarks Originals beeswax leather ones.
They’ll be about £130 but come in black and brown and these guys grip wet surfaces like a mofo without you feeling like you’ve spent the day climbing Kilimanjaro. Trust. Accessories.
See above.
Rain mac and a packable hat. Get yourself one of these packable caps from Folk and it’ll literally flatten itself into your pocket and shield you from turning your hair into a drowned rats nest when that stormcloud suddenly appears and decides to unload.
And sod what your mates say, get one of these stupid little packable macs and keep it in your bag between April-October. Mine’s black and barely bulky enough to notice when it’s folded up, yet it’s saved me on more occasions than I can count. Jesus.
Jamie even apologised to me at The Eagle last summer when he saw me whip it out during a torrential downpour. LIFE CHANGER. Ta-da!
Got loads more tips and recommendations but you get the gist. Dress like you’re going to be sat out there all day enjoying the beers and the chat with your mates/family/cat, because that’s the fucking point! Stay sweaty/shaky/dry for longer, my friends.
