Look, I’ll admit it: I’ve feared the death of the British high street as much as anyone. I’ve endured the depressing procession of Topman closures and House of Fraser downsizings like everyone else. Oh, and don’t even get me started on how Covid-19 “savaged” physical retail.
I’ll even concede that, just maybe, parts of our retail landscape seemed a bit indefensibly gauche before everything hit the fan. But while the corporate chains have been dropping like flies in a vat of corporate insecticide, another menswear retail revolution has been bubbling quietly away in the basement. Across the country, independent menswear boutiques are popping up in the most unlikely corners: modestly sized, hole-in-the-wall operations run by obsessives who care so much about clothing and customer service that they make barely any money.
The scene is so robust that it practically demands its own colourful subway map. Not so long ago, I didn’t know any of this.
Which is quite funny, when you consider that I spent eight years working as an editor at Men’s Health.
Here’s what happened: Back in 2017, I somehow found myself with a spare three hours in Norwich. Norwich! Of all the godforsaken places to get stuck in…Anyway, while travelling to some relentlessly beige press event, I decided I didn’t want to spend my free time curled up on a sofa in a chain coffee shop sipping lukewarm Costa and catching up on emails.
So I went for a walk. Down some little alleyway so narrow that two people can barely pass each other without mocking coughing at each other, I discovered Dogfish, a menswear shop so quaint it should be illegal. Japanese denim organised by weight?
Scottish knitwear in colours I didn’t know were real? It was like being in someone’s wardrobe, if their wardrobe was curated by Jugaro gods. The owner Paul spent the next hour discussing the lineage of each brand stocked as though I was an old buddy stopping by to say hello, rather than some muck-kneed hack who clearly didn’t understand chorewgorns vs dassogawns.
I left empty-handed apart from a heavy wool overshirt I could barely afford on my proof-reader’s salary but still wear on rotation seven years later. But more importantly, I left with my mind blown. The holy shitmakers of menswear weren’t going to be found slinking around some lavish department store or branded mega-flagship – the magical ones were hiding in converted Victorian workshops and old greengrocers.
Staffed by tiny armies of obsessives who could reel off the entire manufacture backstory of your jacket buttons whilst offering their opinion on how well it pairs with your heritage chinos. It was around this point I vowed I would never again enter a new city/town without dedicating at least part of my trip to find the local menswear shop. Not just so I can gawk about excitedly and then maybe write about them, but purely because it gives me genuine joy to spend time in a space built by people who genuinely care about what they’re doing.
Not-underpaid Associates counting down the minutes until their breaks so they can go post about which faker slut is doing what with another faker slut on Instagram. The polar opposite of taking your rubbish corporate know-it-all bullplop into any Topman and being wolf-whistled at by a bored-looking assistant who’d rather be on Facebook. Independent shop owners are the kind of people that will happily bore you for hours about selvage fabric quantities and stitch counts if you let them.
And believe me, I ALWAYS LET THEM. Oi Polloi has been trading in Manchester since 2002 and is something of an institution. A bricks-and-mortar Medici (minus the creepy chapel where they used to lock up assorted Maddonas).
Now, don’t get me wrong – I love their stock. Co_op tees, Tinbergen knitwear, German jeans that are neither Naked nor Levis…they just know how to strike that perfect balance between everyday and exciting. But what truly sets them apart is their point of view.
You know how you can sometimes put together a nice outfit but still feel vapid and, well, like everybody’s wearing the same thing? Every brand Oi Polloi stocks feels connected by this distinctly Northern thread – from terrace-casual to Japanese workwear to timeless American sportswear. Co-founders Steve and Nigel have curated a singular take on everyday dressing that only guys from up north could really appreciate.
Spend enough time there and you’ll feel like you’re part of some vaguely masculine Silver Shack ATTACK jacket society. I once tried on three variations of the same blue overshirt for about two hours whilst the ever-patient team explained the nuanced differences between each one. (“Mate this one has a softer hand feel but the other one has reinforced elbow patches. Depends if you’re gonna be lifting heavy shit like?”) Who else bothers over one button details on basically the same garment? !
The Hambledon could easily win awards for their converted three-storey Georgian town house/shop. Which currently houses an effortlessly stylish collection of modern menswear that will never feel trendy or dated. As.staff remember your name, what you bought previously and how it may work with something they’ve just received in the post.
I once casually mentioned I was struggling to find trouser’s in a specific shade of sage green. Three weeks later I get an email to say they found a pair. Not as part of some pushy sales technique, just because they wanted to help.
These shops aren’t all just bearded chaps selling expensive jeans and Red Wing boots in market towns (although God bless them if that’s all you’re into). Indie badassery London-based S.E.H Kelly is basically a studio, churning out small runs of beautifully-designed clothes all made completely in the UK. Their East London showroom is by appointment only, ensuring their customer experience is more tête-à-tête than tills.
Expect them to wax lyrical about how their clothes are made down to the particular shuttle used to weave the fabric or what stitching machine was used on each individual seam. I know dudes who live in Aberdeen and still make the trek up to Kafka just to stock up on hard-to-find Japanese brands and American workwear. Tucked away underneath an flat block, the interiors make Seoul-based Hwareombi look like your garden shed.
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But proprietor Dave’s encyclopaedic product knowledge and reassuring lack of shop attendant attitude means he’ll happily school you on the differences between all of his brands without so much as a sniff of condescension. Watch him help some middle-aged woman who clearly has no idea what she’s doing try on five different pairs of jeans, patiently explaining fabric weights and fit before she finally walks out with the perfect pair. Oh, and he’ll do the same for you.
Ok, so they stock amazing clothes. Hell, the curation often makes the biggest flagship stores look like they randomly threw garments at the walls and called it vogue. But beyond that, these guys have created incredible spaces and carry immense passion for the clothes they’re selling.
From Dick’s Victorian warehouse shop in Edinburgh with wooden floors that creak satisfyingly underfoot to The Sporting Lodge’s former Olney hunting hut (complete with shelving units that were once home to rows of shotgun shells) to Birmingham’s Liquor Store who still have the old beer pumps hanging on the wall from when it was a pub. These shops really are bastions of Britain’s living history, tiny islands of individuality you’d be lucky to find anywhere else. Granted, Covid-19 hit most of them hard and fast.
But with downtime came innovation for the resilient ones. Most quickly developed fully-functioning online sites should you not live within commuting distance of one of these lovely menswear meccas. Offering the same attentive service you’d expect in store, translated through concise product descriptions, meticulous measurements and actual human beings replying to your enquiries.
Many also took to Instagram Lives walking followers through new drops. Now, I know what you’re thinking – sounds like all these years of putting together flashy editorials/zillion-dollar ad campaigns has taught you guys a thing or two about online content, right?! Er….
No. What happened was far more magical; watching real-life independents upturn their entire businesses in an effort to help you, the customer, from bedrooms and basements across the country. Frantic livestreaming of brand-new merchandise with the odd shoe beingSat on the capture ring as they desperately typed up product descriptions and measured every single item that had just been delivered.
There was something so wonderful about watching shop owners haphazardly hold up shirts at weird angles on Instagram, picking apart questions about specific collar spreads and praising the virtues of bare-eyed jeans. Humans being excited and passionate about products, discussed intelligently and helpfully with you on the other end of a screen. Sign me up.
Independent menswear boutiques don’t have it easy. They’re bucking against years of the high street being dominated by corporate chains, then years of everyone just buying clothes online. They can’t offer the discounts or buy-now-wear-now delivery service everyone’s become used to.
What they offer instead is something you just can’t put a price on: Knowledge. Experience. Actual bricks-and-mortar shops that feel like going to someone’s house rather than popping to Sainsburys.
So what happened to us that we stopped valuing places like this? That we became obsessed with chasing the never-ending rainbow of discounts online only to be statically scrolled into submitting the smallest amount of personal information in return for some not-very-personal recommendations? Somewhere along the line we forgot the joy of discovering something that truly speaks to you, forgot how lovely it can be chatting to someone who’s genuinely excited about what they’re selling.
Small independents fill that gap and remind you what shopping for clothes should be. An experience. Of course I’m not saying we should all book Fridays off to go trawling weird little market towns looking for vintage Beanboys and secondhand beanies (although tbh there’s worse ways to spend your time).
But maybe when you do find one of these shops nearby, take the time to actually visit them sometimes rather than defaulting to Type History + ‘stash prompt. Ask questions. Engage with the people who’ve dedicated their working lives to obsessing over clothes so you don’t have to.
If you’re travelling, make a slight detour to see what hidden gems the town you’re staying in has to offer. Trust me, you’ll feel a lot better about buying something from a real live shop than one of Neon’s line samples.. Strangers opened in Newcastle a few years ago and quickly became one of my favourite discoveries.
Nestled at the end of a wobbly incline so steep it had me red-faced from hyperventilation by the time I reached their door, inside was a joyfully curated mixture of classic menswear staples and modern-day twists on age-old staples.
The owner Rob – a softly spoken Northern gentleman – spent an hour showing me round and filling me in on the stories of each brand Strangers stocked. I hadn’t actually been planning on buying anything – I had wedding clothes bulging out of my suitcase as it was – but walked out with a navy cotton jacket from some small Japanese brand I’d never heard of.
Overpayed for by today’s standards, sure, but four years and hundreds of wears later it’s still one of my favourite things I own. And every time I wear it I’ll think of that moment, that shop, that lovely human who spent an hour chatting with me about random shit I didn’t understand but loved hearing all the same. You can’t put a price on experiences like that…but oh wait, technically you can because they did, I bought it and I had to stare at my credit card bill glaring ‘what the fuck Mate’ at me for the next three months..
But you get the jist. Go visit your local independent if you’ve got one. If not, seek one out.
They’re fucking everywhere. Build relationships with the guys behind them. Heck, if you’re really lucky you might even find yourself a new favourite jacket in the process.
