I’m sitting on my bed with one-half of my suitcase unpacked. I’m experiencing what my friend Jamie refers to as “the great summer delusion”. You know the feeling.
That pleasant deception that occurs when British men pack for holidays abroad. There’s us – that enhanced version of ourselves we aspire to be on holiday; the linen-shirted lover of life nursing negronis by the pool with his feet kicked up, smelling faintly of sea salt. And then there’s us – sunburnt, beer bellied, and clad, like every other day of the past week, in the same faded Superdry t-shirt because it’s the only thing that doesn’t cling mercilessly to your back.
For fuck’s sake, I’ve been writing about men’s style for twelve years and I still autumn for this trick every goddamn summer. Last year I took five button-down shirts to Greece.
FIVE.
REAL shirts. With collars. Not for eating bacon sandwiches poolside– though goodness knows I attempted that more than once– I packed those shirts because I genuinely believed I’d be shooting cocktails with businessmen on yacht infinity pools.
Spoiler: they remained neatly folded in my suitcase the entire week. Similarly bulletproof was my packing strategy for said shirts: fold them. Yes, FOLD them.
Sailor trouser folds, people. Because nothing says “British guy on holiday” like clothing with crippling angular creases that never quite dry from being unfolded on day three. In fact, my whole holiday packing list was a tour de force of arrogance and/or insanity.
Seersucker shorts. Shorts (plural). Linen shirts in neutral tones that somehow all coordinated.
Knitted ties for dinner (TIES, PEOPLE! ON A BEACH HOLIDAY!). Canvas espadrilles.
Tanned suede loafers. A fucking panama hat that fucking took up about a third of my suitcase just because, “it can’t be crushed.” Halfway through packing, I even broke out the pocket squares. Y’AND, Lads.
I actually believed – TRULY HONEST TO GOD believed – that I’d be wearing lightweight blazers and popping pocket squares on some Greek island while everyone else was wearing shorts and t-shirts in 35-degree heat. Spoiler: I wore those navy board shorts pretty much every day. With one pair of chino shorts on rotation when I needed pockets.
And a number of progressively grimier t-shirts. AND THOSE FUCKING FLIP-FLOPS I BOUGHT FROM THE SHOP NEXT TO OUR AIRBNB BECAUSE I FORGOT TO PACK SHIT THAT WAS ACTUALLY COMFORTABLE TO PUT MY BARE FEET INTO ON SAND HOTTER THAN THE SURFACE OF THE SUN. Don’t @ me – I’ve seen your Instagram Stories.
I know you live down the road from John Lewis and popped those loafers and linen trousers on Day 2. Hell, I have some footage of me doing exactly the same back in Portugal two years ago. We’re all guilty as sin.
It’s just something we British men do. Holiday nirvana lies so temptingly within our grasp that guys who would otherwise wear slate-grey zip-up fleeces with their Gap yoga trousers at home suddenly think they’re guests at La Mamounia when they step through airport security. Look at Steve, my brother- in-law.
Stocky nice guy. Works in IT. Lives in north London.
On an average week he’ll dress exclusively in some variation on the blue button-down shirt and “non-iron” trousers from Next uniform that we British office workers have worn since time immemorial. Despite having never knowingly owned a pair of linen trousers prior to holiday, for their holiday in Tenerife Steve apparently packed not one but TWO pairs. Several, even.
Of LINEN. trousers. Day One: Linen trousers. Day Two: “These stupid trousers are so weird and crinkly!” Days Three through however many: Dansung baggies purchased from the beach side tourist shops.
Part of the reason Steve’s story kills me is that his is not unique. I see friends and family members do this year-in, year-out on beaches from Malaga to Mykonos. The wonderful, wonderful tragedy of British men on holiday. “I’m not overpacking this time!” my friend Vijay texted me before jetting off to Italy on honeymoon last summer.
We were standing in his closet as he spoke, watching him roll (Roll, Vijay, for God’s sake – he watched a youtube video on “space-saving packing hacks” THE NIGHT BEFORE!!!) Seven outfits’ worth of trousers, colour-coordinated down to the box- tie he rolled up and put into a tiny fabric pouch to “keep things organised.” THREE FUCKING PAIRS OF LOAFERS. “Just the essentials,” he said as he pulled the zip. His wife sent me pictures of him wearing the same rumpled polo three weeks later in nearly every photo from Venice to Capri. “He ruined everything else after coming down with crippling Portuguese flu on day two,” she messaged me. “And now he refuses to leave the hotel because ‘Italian stuff is too small. ‘” The loafers had blistered him so badly by day three that he allegedly spent the rest of the holiday shuffling around the Amalfi Coast in Adidas slides.
It’s why I do this research, guys. I’ve spent years unspooling the mysteries of why the shit we pack and the shit we wear are two different universes. And over years of asking fellow sweaty sandal wearers and hundreds of tweets later, I think I’ve cracked it.
Here are the main reasons why we British men are tricked into this underwear basket Hawaii Five-O routine every summer: The Great Holiday Delusion. AKA “Who I Want To Be vs Who I Actually Am” Holiday brings out theBestVersionOfOurSELVESin most British guys. It’s why we suddenly believe that just because we’ve physically gone to Spain, we will miraculously start behaving like the type of Boundary-pushing style adventurers that ogle at in seasoned-holiday-road influencer Instagram feeds.
You are not that person, guys. Go home. RELATED STORY: Forget Fuck Funds: This Season, It’s All About The “Dry Clothes” Budget “We MIGHT Need This” “What if we get invited to dinner by the people we’re staying with?” “What if it rains?
What if my claredjian fades after two wears and I want a replacement?” What if SOME HORRIFIC SUNDRY EVENT happens that requires me to have a linen shirt that weighs approximately nothing but somehow also keeps me magically dry and classy looking?” No, Steve does not wear linen trousers in England. But god forbid he runs into that situation where he needs a pair of linen trousers! This is wishful (read: delusional) thinking at its finest.
The truth of the British holiday is that you spend 90% of your time EITHER barely-moderately drunk by a pool; very drunk making bad decisions about dinner; or so horrifically hungover you can’t be seen in public without at least pretending to partake in “culture” to justify the price of your flight. Most situations only require one of three items of clothing: Shorts. T-shirts.
And something between your thighs and sand that isn’t going to burn your feet off. I didn’t exactly learn my lesson when I visited Lisbon last summer. I’ll give myself that much.
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Technically I was there for work – I was reporting on Portuguese style for GQ – but let’s be real. Who goes to Lisbon and doesn’t eat pasteis de nata? Who goes to Lisbon and doesn’t take way too many photos of brightly coloured buildings?
I would’ve brought shorts and a tee, but…I was working! I packed “proper clothes.” Proper clothes, people. Sure, they were billed as “summer ready,” and “lightweight,” but THEY WERE NOT SHORTS.
No, I would be exploring Lisbon IN STYLE, thank you very much. Navy blazer? Cheque.
Chinos? Cheque. Those goddamn boat shoes that you can’t actually walk more than like 200 metres in before your feet scream at you?
Double-cheque. Day One – I rock the whole ensemble. Full sherbert.
Blazer. Button-down. Chinos.
Boat shoes. Flared socks. The whole kit and kaboodle.
I felt great…until about thirty minutes in, when the temperature inevitably reached “why the fuck did I think this was a good idea” and I started sweating through my shirt so violently that I looked like a hotlinechemicalcompany advert. By eleven AM my blazer was hanging off my shoulders, increasingly wrinkled by the minute. By lunchtime I’d changed into a hastily purchased Zara t-shirt and cheap cotton shorts.
By dinner we were sitting on a terrace restaurant with my shirt pulled so far over my belt line that I basically qualified as Public Nudity, watching strong Portuguese men amble by me in slim-fitting trousers and shirts that didn’t appear to cause them malfunctioningly sweaty distractions while I sweated myself into defeat. And yet… Day Two found me ironing a shirt. Why?
Who knows. But amidst my pile of unused linen shirts sat one that I was suddenly determined to wear, come hell or high water. Hell got pretty damn hot, eventually.
But I rocked that shirt for two whole days. It’s a struggle we’ve all been fighting for years. But since embarking on this deeply personal journey of discovery I started calling “holiday style realities.” The concept is simple: pack for who you are, not who you imagine yourself to being while on holiday.
I know, right?! REVOLUTIONARY. For our recent week long trip to Barcelona I limited myself to three pairs of trousers (navy, khaki, grey), five plain t-shirts in breathable whites and creams, one casual linen button-down for dining out, comfortable walking trainers, and rubber flip-flops.
That’s IT. If we found ourselves in an impromptu fancy trousers situation, we could’ve arguably thrown on a blazer I own that’s summer-friendly. But why risk it?
Part of what made me ACTUALLY USE what we packed was because I knew I DIDN’T HAVE ANYTHING “Just In Case.” The result? We wore everything we packed. Literally everything.
And while we certainly didn’t feel the most put together on La Rambla – I AM NOT CURTIS PUNK AFTERALL – we also didn’t feel underdressed. In fact, because what we did wear was functional and suitable for what WE WERE ACTUALLY doing on our holiday, we felt cooler. Freer.
Lighter. And goddamn it feels nice to shake that “I look like a complete British dickbag“ feeling once in a while. Look – I’ll never be that Italian guy I saw sitting at the bar near our hotel one night.
The one wearing the cream linen suit, blue shirt, and no tie. Vintage Ray Bans. Well-worn brown loafers.
With a spritz of cologne delicately draped across his chest like a scene from The Talented Mr. Ripley. I’m British.
I sweat. We all do. In humidity adverse Britain, that’s why most of our style revolves around not looking like a sweaty alcoholic who downed twelve pints of English cider the second he stepped outside.
But here’s the thing: Italian guy was Italian guy. Me and my husband were us.
There’s no need to pretend otherwise.
We British guys have different needs on holiday than the rest of the world. The second you start sweating in that cute linen blouse? You’re not gonna wear it.
Again. And that plotenuous linen trousers you forced your girlfriend to buy you from Merci because you “WON’T BE ABLE TO FIND LINEN TROUSERS LIKE THESE IN THE UK”? They stay in the bottom of your suitcase until the day you fly home, at which point you’ll probably upload a photo of them to Instagram wearing the caption: “Ah holidays, who needs em?” So if you’re staring at your overstuffed suitcase right now thinking, “Yeah but what if I need THAT shirt?” Go through your stuff.
Take out half of what you THINK you’ll wear. Then take half of THAT out. Chances are you still have too much.
But it’s a start. And if you need me, I’ll be rooting through my closet for things I don’t own yet but refuse to live without just because airports love helping you believe summer delusion is real.
