My Accidental Primark Triumph at London Fashion Week

The first time I wore Primark to a fashion event was completely unintentional. I spilled coffee down my shirt fifteen minutes before I had to head to a presentation during London Fashion Week in 2014. The brand was something along the lines of “aggressively minimalist Japanese workwear distilled into an eBay-ready capsule collection at mortgage-impacting prices,” so naturally I had dressed with utmost seriousness: button-up shirt, blazer, broken-in-but-not-too-much selvedge jeans, and a pair of nondescript-but-definitely-cost-me-£350 shoes that let other fashionable people know I was part of their exclusive club.

Sitting miserably at my kitchen table with said broken-in-but-not-too-much selvedge jeans peeled halfway down my legs in a futile attempt to blot the worst of the stain out of my now-white shirt, I quickly rifled through my ‘less-obviously-white’ shirts and realised I had nothing. Desperation set in and, in a final act of surrender, I threw on a plain navy blue Oxford cloth button-down my sister had gifted me from Primark one Christmas. It sat, forgotten, in the “maybe someday for painting outside/everyday gardening” pile of my wardrobe.

It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with the shirt itself; it was just Primark. I know what you’re thinking but please contain yourself while I finish this story.

Bear with me.

I cannot stress enough how incredibly unfashionable wearing something that costs less than a drink at the bar where you’re attending your trendy clothes party feels. I threw it on, splashed water on my head, and raced out the door only to arrive half an hour later at the presentation hot and covered in my own sweat, convinced I would be noticed from across the room and kicked out for being a fraud. I stuck it out for what felt like hours nursing a tiny glass of who-knows-what-passed-for-fruit-juice while giving whatever was on the runway respectful-but-not-too-brief glances and making sure to hum thoughtfully whenever someone said “ écru ”.

It was then that one of the buyers from a household name department store wandered over to talk merch to the designer. She was one of those intimidatingly cool Scandinavian women who drink only sparkling water and look like they sleep on Nordic geometric knitwear. Still sweating profusely and regretting every life decision that led me here, I jumped at the chance to try and look like I knew what I was talking about. “That shirt,” she said nodding towards my Primark purchase which was still hanging off my shoulder like a makeshift hospice blanket, “It’s good.

Gitman Vintage?” For a shameful second I considered flat-out lying. Instead I took a deep breath and said: “No actually, it’s Primark. Fifteen pounds.” If her eyebrows didn’t shoot up into her hairline, I didn’t see it.

I waited for her to analyse my pathetic attempt at fit and fabric but she just smiled and said, “Oh really? I’ve got the same one in white.” Let me stop you there. “The same one”? As in the Primark Oxford cloth button up that cost you enough for a large flat white and three pork pie hats? “…Is good?” She nodded enthusiastically, running a perfectly manicured finger along the stitch detailing at the cuff. “The Oxford cloth is really nice quality actually.” And just like that she was gone, stalking off to haunt the dreams of some other poor soul.

What ensued was a lengthy fascination with what I’ve since coined “Primarks that other fashion people wear”. The unicorn-like pieces of clothing that are actually decent enough to wear with some semblance of pride amongst the community that would otherwise never knowingly touch them with money on. Once you’ve found your holy grail pair of cheap trousers or that miraculously well-made top from Forever 21, you spend the rest of your life trying to relive that validation – whether it’s out of genuine love for that particular garment, obsession with poking holes in prestige price tags or because your spending habits resemble a flea market_DEPENDANT_ON_HOOKS’ diet.

In my years of searching, I’ve found countless bits that fly beneath the radar of most seasoned thrifters and wage earned fashion editors. None have given me quite as many astonished raised eyebrows and compliments as Primark’s £15 linen-blend overshirt in olive green. I first discovered it last summer whilst aimlessly browsing the store for what should have been some socks and underwear.

As we’ve all discovered at some point during the global domination of Primark, you waltz in for one thing and leave three hours later with a £100 haul and the overwhelming feeling you should never speak about clothing with anyone ever again. I noticed it hanging in a group of about twenty different shirts, all in beige, navy, black – your quintessential men’s workwear-inspired overshirt. At first glance, I didn’t think much of it.

It looked like your standard high street cotton number, but something caught my eye. The material looked slightly more textured than your typical polyester blend shirts Primark tends to favour. Cotton?

Linen? Cotton-linen? Hm.

Closer inspection proved that it was indeed a cotton and linen blend – 55%/45% to be exact. It had a reassuring thickness to it and felt more rugged than your chest hair catching basic crew neck. The sleeves were slightly wider than I expected but still tapered enough at the cuff not to look like I was wearing dishcloths.

It even came in my favourite colour: green. But more importantly, it didn’t autumn into either the “cheap army surplus” or “trying WAY too hard look-at-how-basic-I-am-green” camp. Opting to take risks with both sizes rather than returns, I bought the shirt without trying it on and swiftly made my exit, socks, underwear, and a novelty egg timer I still haven’t used in tow.

Fast forward a few washes and I actually really liked how it looked on. But, best of all, it fit. Now, it’s not like it fit in a “barely okay for £15” way I’ve come to expect from most fashion kills.

It fit me really, actually well. It somehow managed to avoid looking boxy and had quite a strong oversized-yet-intentional vibe that I’d otherwise pay top dollar for from my beloved Japanese basics brands. The slightly cropped length meant I could wear it buttoned up and untucked over a t-shirt without sacrificing comfort.

It also didn’t pull up my sleeves when I rolled them up like some cheap shop options tend to do, giving me that hot AIDS bandage sleeve look. Even the buttons were made from what looked like.corozo nut instead of the usual cheap acrylic ones that traditionally come apart after three wears and have approximately zero texture. Its debut outing was at an industry end-of-season drinks do with some friends who work in menswear.

The brand-less apparel fam who can identify within five steps what factory your jacket is made in by how your lapel rolls. I wore it open over a plain white tee with some basic navy chinos. About as fashion incarnate as an outfit can get.

Ten minutes in, my friend Max – who is so fiercely loyal to Japanese fashion brands I’ve never heard of he only wears Carhartt WIP ripped jeans as bottoms – sidled up beside me and asked where I got the shirt. “It’s nice, that. Universal Works?” he replied when I told him, referring to one of the original princes of overshirts; the progenitor of “British workwear”, if you will. Oh yeah, Universal Works – the guys that do those exact same shirts for between £120 and £250.

Swallowing my pride, I told him where it was from and, surprisingly, asked him if he wanted to feel the material. He obliged, inspected the stitching with the intensity of someone verifying the authenticity of the Hope Diamond, and said – handed down from sartorial kings to fashion peasants for generations past – “Huh. Looks expensive.” Now it’s safely in its second year of wear and coming out for summer three, it’s quickly become one of my most worn items.

It layers nicely over a t-shirt in the hotter months but works equally as well as a mid-layer under a blazer when the temperature drops. It’s even heavy enough cotton mix to pass as a jacket on one of those perfect 19 days London and throw it on without looking like I’m wearing a towel. I’ve worn it to conferences, on dates, even to interview the CEO of a luxury fashion brand who happened to compliment it while wearing, I’m fairly sure, a handmade shirt that cost more than my monthly rent and groceries combined.

It’s been washed so many times that it’s only got better with age, the linen giving it that worn in look high-end brands actually pay people to distress their clothes with. Sure, the stitching isn’t as dense as some of the more high-end brands I’ve owned – but then again, it’s not cheaply done by any means. The collar is starting to fray after about thirty washes, yes, but to be fair that’s only because I literally wear this shirt every time I leave my house.

It gets washed more times in a month than most of my other clothes do in a year. Don’t @ me. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt from turning my fiercely-fashion-literate friends’ high horse brittle with poorly made mystery-brand tee-shirts from the likes of Primark, H&M and Zara it’s this: fit is everything.

Budget fashion rarely lets you down when it comes to simple garments that donLuckily for us, this shirt ticks all of those boxes. The material blends were well thought out; cotton-linen blends are near-impossible to get ‘cheaply’ as the natural weave of linen hides all manner of sins and actually gets better when tossed in a washing machine like your cheaper clothes tend to. Synthetic materials break at the sheen and feel immediately, but the cotton and linen hold up enough to fake a higher price tag with ease.

But linen wasn’t the only reason this shirt passed for much more. The actual cut was slightly oversized but not baggy, with a small dropped shoulder that actually looked intentional rather than unintentionally lazy. And, much like my Banana yellowstripe jeans , it fit really well.

Are there some giveaways that it’s cheaper than your average high street retailer? Of course. But then again, what isn’t?

Ask my mum. The stitching isn’t as tight or as dense as some of the cheaper stuff I’ve had before, sure, but on close inspection – and we’re talking Bond villain-style-looms-from-space close – you’ll notice that. Same goes for the fabric itself; it’s not as rich or interesting as a 100% linen blend, granted, but then we also live in London whereActual linen gets confused for linen-cotton blends all the time).

But aside from that nitpickier than a head lice exam at a primary school, the shirt works. And it’s not the only shockingly good shirt Primark have knocked out. Their basic cotton t-shirts ranging from £2.50-£4 are usually bought in bulk by stylists for fashion shoots.

Often used as layering pieces under knits or jackets they’re not meant to be seen, but are still made well enough to not look noticeably worse than the branded items they’reThrown with. Their canvas tote bags retail at £10 and are indistinguishable from many of the ones high fashion brands give away at events. Popularized by environmentally conscious but income-restricted fashion folk as reusable alternatives to plastic bags, these humble hoops have become some of the most steals BY FAR sold by Primark.

Finally, their basic £8 poplin shirts show up on fashion shoot moodboards all the time with the brand meticulously cropped out of photographs. What do all of these quality-approved-by-the-factual-shirtlords shirts have in common? They’re all simple, almost rudimentary garments made from natural fibres with very little design input.

Think about it: where are brands going to cut corners on a basic cotton t-shirt? At what point do you start to deviate from the ‘template’ of a plain white shirt in order to justify charging £50+ for something any reasonably competent garment factory can churn out? Pretty much nowhere.

Same goes for a plain white linen-blend shirt. There’s no real wiggle room for customization on a garment this primitive. Compare that to a slim fit cargo shirt with triple padded shoulders and a bum bag under the cargo pocket somehow trending on Instagram.

You’ll notice those cheaply-made-design-details MUCH quicker. I could rant about this all day but lets not forget about the million other brands that have had their own ‘whispers on the insider spreadsheet’ moments. I own a £12 cotton-cashmere scarf from Matalan that gets complimented more than the Burberry one I used to own pre-blog.

A colleague swears by H&M’s occasional dip into very well made unlined cotton blazers, saying he only buys ones from their luxury denim line that allegedly source Italian fabrics. Get into the weeds with enough of these “it’s actually good for X amount” finds and you’ll find people guard them as fiercely as their luxury equivalent.

Amusingly, most people who own these pieces have a very similar, defensive-but-secretly-pro level way of letting you know where they’re from. “Oh this?

It’s actually from Target”, or “Yeah but this is thrifted,, you know?” As their tongues click metaphorically over their teeth waiting for your perception of them to plummet, they watch, heart in hand, as you scrutinize their ‘badge of honour’ for telltale signs of fraud. And that, my friends, is the real beauty of these fashion editor-approved budget buys. You’ve got all the bragging rights of someone who could legitimately buy that luxury version sans-stamped-with-H winning number tag, but without spending the small fortune yourself.

Wearing a luxury item and proving you knew enough to get the same quality from something a fraction of the price is the modern equivalent of kicking someone’s Pokemon Go streak. Honestly, my olive green overshirt is barely recognizable from when I first bought it. Natural fading and wear and tear along seams and areas of high friction have lent it a wearability that high-end brands spend months dulling their tracksuits to achieve.

If anything, wearing has only made it look more authentic than when it was brick fresh. Who knows, maybe by this time next year it’ll be hanging in that terrifyingly stylish blazer you got from Your Mum’s Jumble Sale for £4.95. Three colours in and they’ve become a uniform for me in Spring/Summer.

Items I grab when I need to look put together without trying too hard. And while I still firmly stand by my belief that you get what you pay for 95% of the time when it comes to clothing, I’ll always have a small section of my wardrobe dedicated to proving myself wrong.