by Kate Fox
So, if you see an English woman with thick legs in a short skirt, she is probably working class; but a woman with elegant legs in a short skirt could be from either the bottom or the top of the social scale. You will have to look for other clues, in the details described above such as cleavage-display, visible bulginess, make-up, tanning, matching, shininess, fussiness, jewellery, hairstyle and shoes. All of these indicators can be used in judging work-clothes – suits and so on – as well as casual dress. English dress codes and sartorial class-indicators may have become somewhat less formal and obvious since the 1950s, but to say that it is no longer possible to judge class from dress is just nonsense. It is more difficult, certainly, but there are still plenty of clues – particularly once one has grasped the difference between higher-class and lower-class notions of smartness and, perhaps even more importantly, between higher-class and lower-class types of scruffiness.
In genuinely tricky or borderline cases, where you cannot simply ‘sight-read’ the sartorial class-statements, you may have to focus on other aspects of dress, such as shopping habits and dress-talk, to determine an Englishwoman’s social position. Over a certain age, only the upper-middles and above, for example, will readily and cheerfully admit to buying clothes in charity shops. This rule is not so strictly observed among teenagers and twenty-/thirty-somethings, as hunting for charity-shop ‘vintage’ bargains has become a fashionable pastime, endorsed by glossy magazines and working-class supermodels, and some lower-class young females have followed their example. But among older females, only those at either the higher end or the very bottom of the scale buy clothes from Oxfam, Cancer Research or Sue Ryder shops – and only those at the higher end want to tell you about it. An upper-middle female will proudly twirl and flounce a skirt at you, and announce gleefully that it was ‘Only four pounds fifty from Oxfam!’, expecting you to admire her for being so clever, so thrifty, so charmingly eccentric, Bohemian and un-snobbish.
In some cases, she may be genuinely hard-up and, knowing that class in England is not judged on income, she won’t be ashamed to admit it. But upper-middle females will often buy cheap clothes in charity shops and second-hand shops on principle (exactly what principle is not entirely clear), even when they can perfectly well afford new clothes. And boast about their purchases. But have a bit of compassion: this is the only chance these women get to break both the modesty rule and the money-talk taboo in the same breath – surely they can be forgiven for getting a bit over-excited? Their delight would, however, be incomprehensible to the women at the bottom of the social and income scales, who shop in charity shops out of dire necessity and get no social kudos or sense of pride from doing so – quite the opposite: many of them find it deeply shaming.
Two factors, the economic recession and the rise of eBay, have given women in the higher social ranks more reason to boast about their thrifty purchases, and more opportunities to do so. Extravagant spending on clothes has always been frowned upon as rather vulgar by the upper-middles and upper class, but the recession allows them to ‘frame’ their disapproval as moral rather than social. And their own second-hand purchases can be displayed with even greater self-righteousness. In these hard times, it has become customary among higher-class women to claim that any designer-label or expensive-looking item they are wearing was picked up for a fraction of its value on eBay. I know for a fact that some will say, ‘Well, yes, it is Marc Jacobs [or Chanel, Marni, Chloé, etc.] but I got it for half-nothing on eBay’ even when they have in fact paid full price for the item in a fancy shop.
Although they are proud to shop in charity shops and on eBay, the more class-anxious of the upper-middles are often reluctant to admit to buying clothes at certain high-street chains, such as Marks & Spencer (except for underwear and the odd plain T-shirt or man’s jumper), or the supermarket clothing ranges, such as George at Asda or Tu at Sainsbury’s (both no-go zones, even for knickers). If they do buy something more important, such as a jacket, from Marks & Spencer, they do not normally twirl and flaunt it and exclaim over how cheap it was, but if a friend admires the garment and asks where it is from, they say, ‘Would you believe M&S?’ in a high-pitched, surprised tone, as though they don’t quite believe it themselves. The friend replies, ‘No! Really?’ in the same tone.107 (Their teenage daughters might have much the same conversation about some of the cheaper high-street chains aimed at their age-group, such as New Look or Claire’s Accessories.)
The more secure upper-middle shoppers, those with little or no anxiety about their social position, will cheerfully admit to buying supermarket or ultra-cheap high-street clothes. These confident upper-middles will often even flaunt their virtuously thrifty ‘discoveries’ with pride.
Male Class Rules
One way or another, it is usually possible to gauge English women’s social class from their dress. Men, however, pose rather more of a problem for the class-spotter. There is far less variety in adult male clothing, particularly work-clothes, which means less choice, which means fewer opportunities to make either deliberate or inadvertent sartorial class-statements. The old blue-collar/white-collar distinction is no longer reliable. The decline of the manufacturing industry and the casual dress codes of many of the newer companies and industries mean that a suit per se no longer distinguishes the lower-middle from the working-class male. The young man going to work in jeans and a T-shirt could be a construction-site labourer, but he could equally be the managing director of an independent software or internet company. Uniforms are more helpful, but not infallible. Yes, a shop assistant’s or bus driver’s uniform is probably a working-class indicator, but a barman’s or waiter’s is not, as middle-class students (and struggling graduates) often take jobs in bars and restaurants. Generally, occupation is not a very reliable guide to social class, particularly in the ‘white-collar’ occupations: accountants, doctors, lawyers, businessmen, teachers and estate agents can come from any social background. So, even if you could tell a man’s occupation from his dress, you would not necessarily be any the wiser regarding his class.
Although dress codes are now more relaxed in some occupations, the majority of ‘white-collar’ men still go to work in a suit – and at first glance, be-suited male commuters catching their trains in the morning all look pretty much alike. Well, to be honest, they all look pretty much alike at second and third glance as well. If I were a menswear expert, and could distinguish between an Armani suit and a Marks & Spencer’s one without grabbing the commuter by his collar and peering at the label, I would still only have information on the man’s income, not his social class. Class in England is no more determined by wealth than it is by occupation. I know that an upper-class English man, with sufficient money, is more likely to choose a tailor-made Jermyn Street suit than an Armani one, and that if he is broke he might prefer a charity-shop tailored suit to a new high-street-chain one, but this is not really a great deal of help to me as they all still just look like suits.
Jewellery and accessories are a better guide. Size is important. Large, bulky, ostentatious metal watches, especially gold ones, are a lower-class signal – even if they are frightfully expensive Rolexes (or those James-Bond-wannabe gadgety ones that tell you what time it is in six countries and will work at the bottom of the sea and withstand a small nuclear attack). Upper-middles and above tend to wear more discreet watches, usually with a simple leather strap. A similar principle applies to cufflinks: big, flashy, show-off cufflinks are lower class; small, simple, unobtrusive ones are higher. Again, the cost of the items is irrelevant.
Any rings other than a plain wedding band indicate that the wearer is probably no higher than middle-middle. Some upper-middle and upper-class males might wear a signet ring, engraved with their family crest, on the little finger of their left hand, but these are also often sported by pretentious middle-middles, so they are not a reliable guide. A signet ring with initials on it rather than a crest, and worn on any other finger, is lower middle. Ties are marginally more helpful. Very
brash, garish colours and loud patterns (especially cartoony/jokey ones) are lower class; ties in a single, solid colour (particularly if pale, bright and/or shiny) are no higher than middle-middle; the upper-middles and above wear ties in relatively subdued, usually dark colours, with small, discreet patterns.
But I’ll come clean and admit that I rarely, if ever, manage to identify be-suited males’ class by dress alone: I have to cheat and look at their body language or their newspaper. (Whatever they are wearing, only working-class males sit on trains or buses with their legs wide apart; and most upper-middle-class males do not read the tabloids – or at least not in public.)
Casual clothes are a bit more revealing than suits, in both the physical and class-indicator sense, as there is more variety and men have to exercise more choice. The trouble is that when allowed free rein to choose what to wear – without the rules and constraints of the suit – adult English men of all classes tend to dress rather badly. The vast majority have no natural sense of style, and indeed no wish to be stylishly dressed – quite the opposite: to describe a man as stylish, or even just well dressed, is to cast doubt upon his masculinity. A man who is too well dressed is automatically suspected of being gay. English men are concerned about being correctly or appropriately dressed, but this is because they do not want to stand out or draw attention to themselves. They just want to fit in, to blend, to look pretty much like any other unquestionably heterosexual male. The result is that they all look very much alike. When they are not wearing the work uniform of suit and tie, they all wear more or less the same undistinguishing and undistinguished dress-down uniform of jeans and T-shirt/sweatshirt or casual trousers and shirt/jumper.
Yes, I do realise that all T-shirts are not created equal, and that there are casual trousers and casual trousers. So it should be possible to spot class distinctions between different styles and fabrics and brands and so on. And it is possible. But it is not easy. (I’m not whining here – well, actually I am: I just want you to know that this has taken a lot of effort, not to mention a lot of funny looks from men who misinterpreted my attempts to scrutinise the label on the back of their trousers.)
The class rules of male casual dress are based on more or less the same basic principles as the female class rules, except that fussy over-dressing is regarded as camp, rather than lower class. The shiny nylon versus natural-fibre principle applies to adult males as well as females, but it is much less useful as a class indicator because men of all classes tend to avoid obviously shiny man-made fibres as they are both effeminate and uncomfortable. And although the working-class male’s shirt might not be pure cotton, it is quite difficult to tell just by looking, and you can’t go around pinching men’s sleeves to check the quality of the fabric.
There is also the same inverse correlation between amounts of visible flesh and position on the social scale. Shirts unbuttoned to display an expanse of chest are lower class – the more buttons undone, the lower the class of the wearer (and if a chain or medallion round the neck is also revealed, take off another ten class points). Even amounts of arm on display can be significant. Among older males, the higher classes tend to prefer shirts to T-shirts, and would certainly never go out in just a vest or singlet, however hot the weather – these are strictly working-class garments. Bare chests, anywhere other than a beach or swimming pool, are lower-working-class.
If you are wearing a shirt, the class divide seems to be at the elbow: on a warm day, lower-class men will roll their shirt-sleeves up to above the elbow, while the higher ranks will roll them to just below the elbow – unless they are engaged in some significant physical activity, such as gardening. The visible-flesh rule also applies to legs. Upper-middle and upper-class adult males are rarely seen in shorts unless they are playing sports, running/jogging, hill-walking or perhaps gardening at home. Middle-middles, lower-middles and some younger upper-middle and upper-class males might wear shorts on holiday abroad, but only working-class males exhibit their legs in public in their home town.
There is an upper-middle-class male summer uniform, also worn by some members of the upper class, and favoured especially by upper/upper-middle-class television presenters, consisting of a plain pale-blue shirt and pale-beige or string-coloured loose-fitting trousers. On a recent episode of the television show Antiques Road Trip, both of the male presenters, and one upper-class interviewee, were wearing this uniform. But the presenter of lower-class origins (judging by his accent) had got it just slightly wrong in that his shirt was boldly striped and slightly shiny, and he was wearing a black belt and shoes, instead of the ‘correct’ brown.
As a general principle, winter or summer, higher-class males just seem to wear more clothes. More layers, more coats, more scarves, hats and gloves. They are somewhat more likely to carry umbrellas as well, but only in cities: there is an old unwritten taboo against gentlemen carrying an umbrella in the country, except at the races or other occasions where chivalry might require them to protect dressed-up ladies from the rain. So, an umbrella in the city can sometimes be a higher-class signal – particularly if it is a very large, old-fashioned, sturdy-looking umbrella, with a proper solid wood handle – but an umbrella on a country walk is lower class. Unless you are a vicar, that is: for some reason country clergymen are exempt from the no-umbrella rule.
Upper-class English males generally take the ‘don’t stand out’ rule to extremes, dressing to blend in not only with each other but also with their surroundings: tweedy greens and browns in the country; sombre greys and dark blue pinstripes in town – a sort of high-class camouflage. Wearing inappropriate ‘city’ clothes in the country, for both males and females, is a serious social solecism. In some very old and grand upper-class country circles, this taboo extends to the wearing of anything even remotely fashionable: the more frumpy and out-of-date you look, the higher your social status.
There are, however, a few striking exceptions to this upper-class camouflage rule. These are mainly special-occasion exceptions, such as the dandyish striped blazers worn at regattas and garden parties, and the flashy waistcoats worn by members of exclusive university dining clubs, but some upper-class males also seem to have a penchant for wearing brightly coloured trousers in more everyday settings. Red in particular, to the extent that ‘toffs in red trousers’ have become a bit of a national joke, although a violent shade of mustardy-yellow is also quite popular. But if you wish to infiltrate this class by emulating the red-trouser look, do be very careful, as any old red trousers won’t do: the unwritten rules are complex and precise. Your red trousers must be matte, not shiny (stick to corduroy or heavy cotton) and always loose-fitting (tight red trousers are camp, not posh). Raspberry-pink shades of red are favoured, orangey-reds less so; bright is fine, but neon is forbidden. Red trousers must never be worn with black shoes or belts, only brown, and always with a shirt, not a T-shirt. The shirt must be in a pale, muted colour (pale blue is again the most popular), never dark or bright; fine stripes are permitted, but not big bold ones. Jumpers (knitted wool jumpers, not sweatshirts) may be any colour, but your jacket must be blue, beige, string-coloured, tweed or Barbour. To be safe, you should also add a soft woollen scarf – almost always a higher-class signal. But, frankly, upper-class red-trouser etiquette is a minefield, best avoided altogether by the uninitiated, as the loud trousers only draw attention to one’s faux pas.
Vivid exceptions to the posh camouflage rule – flamboyant stripy blazers, brightly coloured trousers, peacocky waistcoats and so on – may seem highly eccentric, but as with Goth, punk and other apparently outlandish street-fashions, these upper-class dandies are eccentric sheep, all prancing about in the same strict tribal uniform.
DRESS CODES AND ENGLISHNESS
Oh dear. Dress seems to be yet another thing that the English are not very good at, yet another important ‘life skill’ we have somehow failed to master. Unless we have strict rules to follow – either official uniforms or tribal-subculture uniforms – our sartorial statements tend
to be at best inarticulate and at worst downright ungrammatical.
Of course, there are a few exceptions, a few English people who speak the language of dress with effortless fluency. But on average, as a nation, our grasp of this idiom is poor. More evidence, if any were needed, of the social dis-ease that seems to be the most distinctive of our national characteristics.
My attempt to dissect English dress codes has also helped me to ‘get inside’ another stereotype: that of English eccentricity. Under the microscope, our much-vaunted eccentricity is not quite as admirably individual, original and creative as we might wish. Most of what passes for English eccentricity turns out, on closer inspection, to be a rather sheep-like conformity. But still – we do at least appreciate and value originality, and we can take some pride in the collective eccentricity of our street-fashions.
We are at our best when we are ‘in uniform’ but rebelling just slightly against it, refusing to take ourselves too seriously, indulging that peculiarly English talent for self-deprecating humour. We may lack the sartorial fluency of other nations, and our dress sense may be laughable, but at least we can always laugh at ourselves.
103. Such as, for example, Alison Goodrum’s The National Fabric and Christopher Breward’s edited volume, The Englishness of English Dress.
104. Review quotes from the magazines Muzik and MixMag. These particular music-based subcultures have a penchant for cutely misspelled words, wherever possible involving the letter ‘k’, as in ‘kamaflage’, Nukleuz, old skool, Muzik, etc. ‘Old skool’ means pre-1993–4, usually house. ‘Floors’ are people on the dance-floor, people who are into dancing. ‘Purist swots’ are anoraks, trainspotters, who instead of dancing to the music develop an encyclopaedic knowledge of every aspect of it, with which they bore you at every opportunity; ‘bpm’ is beats per minute. The rest is a bit of a mystery.