In My View by Eric Musgrave: My wardrobe overfloweth but what can I do about it?

Like Fagin in his den in the musical Oliver!, I am reviewing the situation.

The situation in question is my personal wardrobe, which is, I am sorry to admit, increasingly surplus to my requirements. I have a very strong urge to carry out a cull, have a major detox, conduct a major clear out, but, as Neil Sedaka once observed, breaking up is hard to do.

I really like my clothes, footwear, accessories and the rest. Getting rid of them requires an emotional release that does not come easy to me.

The celebrated English fashion historian James Laver (1899-1975) identified three main principles or reasons we dress. The Utility Principle involves dressing for warmth and comfort. The Hierarchical Principle covers dressing to indicate one’s position in society. The Seduction Principle embraces dressing to attract a sexual partner.

Laver’s ideas are well over 50 years old and they have had their critics, but I don’t think they are a bad starting point for considering why I wear what I wear. And for explaining why I have a wardrobe that is appreciably too big for my current and expected future needs.

Through luck more than design I started writing about the fashion business more than 43 years ago and I started specifically in the menswear world about two years later. More than four decades has given me plenty of opportunities to acquire lots of lovely clothes, shoes and more – and sometimes (although to be honest not very often) I actually paid full retail price for them.

To review Laver’s principles, there was a time in the dim and distant past when I wished to attract a sexual partner but I never expected anyone to jump into bed with me because of my brand of jeans or the width of my tie. I much more hoped my boyish good looks and old-world charm would do the trick, but of course it was (and still is) always gratifying to have my appearance complimented by a woman or indeed a man.

On the Hierarchical theory, I absolutely hoped to dress not only to indicate my position in society, but also a position (or positions) I hoped to achieve. When I was (twice) editor of Drapers, for example, I very much was aware I was heading a title that had served the fashion business since 1887. I felt it was my duty – there’s a word you don’t hear spoken too much these days –  to present an appropriately smart image to the world.

I always hoped to make a positive impression so being neat and tidy, with clean, pressed clothes and polished shoes was a must for me. A bespoke tailor I interviewed for a feature I wrote about Savile Row for The Observer many years ago gave me a line about dressing well that always stuck with me: “No one wants to do business with a beggar.”

For me, dressing appropriately does not just mean classic tailoring (despite my reputation of being a tweed junkie). Being a journalist requires you to be a chameleon, to fit into different scenarios and to get one with lots of different people, so when I worked as a writer for Sportswear International, the pan-European jeans industry magazine, I was fully decked out in appropriate denim and “insider” casualwear.

I still embrace the Utility Principle and I am very pernickety about dressing comfortably. I insist my clothes are practical, easy to wear and fit for whatever purpose they are meant for, whether it’s a black-tie dinner suit or kit for 5-a-side football.

Despite having had a long career in the fashion business, I have had an aversion to fashion trends since my late teens. If we are told something is “in”, I avoid it like a patch of nettles. The one principle Laver missed, I suggest, is the sheer delight of dressing to please yourself. Let’s call it the Pleasure Principle. Clothes and accessories are, for very many of us, an expression of our personality and I can think of lots of people who have developed their own style without slavishly jumping from trend to trend.

I joke (I hope it’s a joke) that I have a great future behind me. At the age of 68, I am still happy and busy as a freelance writer and a consultant to the fashion business, but for most of the time I work alone at home in rural Northumberland with only two whippets, two cats and two hens for company until my wife Jane gets home from work. It’s not unusual for me to go all day without seeing anyone. So I don’t need to “dress up” to impress anyone. Except myself.

I don’t need to ensure I have a totally different outfit every day, as I used to when I was fully immersed in a working life in London and beyond. I don’t require all the clothes, shoes and accessories I have amassed.

I honestly cannot think of a single item of clothing I want to buy or to be given. (Excuse me while I polish my sustainability halo here).

So, what’s to be done with my wardrobe, which includes on the more formal side (deep breath) two tailored overcoats, two woollen tailored overjackets, three tailored suits (all with one or even two spare pairs of trousers), an evening suit, two pairs of tartan trews, four pairs of wool trousers, five sports jackets, seven waistcoats and two pairs of cords.

I have at least 21 more formal shirts that could be worn with one of my 125 ties or any of 16 bowties and, on many of the dressy shirts, one of my 33 pairs of cufflinks.

In more relaxed mode, I can choose from six pairs of mainly brightly-coloured chinos, a Baracuta zipped jacket in flannel cloth (a rare prototype), four casual cotton jackets, three pairs of denim jeans, one pair of white jeans, 12 polo shirts, 25 other casual woven shirts and five pairs of summer shorts.

I am a particular fan of versatile and practical Scottish-made knitwear, which explains why I have four almost identical heavy-gauge cashmere cardigans (in red, navy, green and grey), a chunky Aran knit, 14 (yes, 14) sleeveless slipovers (some buttoned, others not), seven long-sleeved cardigans, four rollneck sweaters (light brown, moss green, bottle green, red) and four V- or crew-neck sweaters.

In addition, I own around 15 plain T-shirts (I avoid Tees with slogans or images), about 15 pairs of underpants, 15 or so large cotton handkerchiefs (used every day), about 55 pairs of socks (so about two months’ worth), six leather belts, six pairs of braces and around a dozen cravats or neckerchiefs of some type.

In the casual outerwear department, which is a bit of a weakness of mine, I have two classic raincoats, a proofed cotton duffel coat, three down-filled parkas and one down-filled gilet, three blanket-lined denim or duck jackets, two Barbour jacketss, two ex-army combat jackets and two lightweight nylon jackets. I don’t go cold in winter.

My accessory selection is extensive: about 70 (yes, 7-oh) scarves, 71 pocket handkerchiefs for formal and less formal tailored jackets, around 25 types of headwear (mainly flat caps of various styles, but only one baseball cap), and six pairs of gloves.

I am not very bothered about footwear, so I have just 27 pairs (including five that were given to me recently), ranging from wellies to flip-flops to 5-a-side football trainers. I am not particularly sporty, but I have managed to collect seven replica footie shirts and three 1970s replica tracksuit tops.

Something, and I am not sure what, has to be done with this lot. It’s crazy I have so much stuff and wear so little of it very often.

For a very long time I have been buying only good-quality merchandise (ideally made in the UK) so, with the exception of underpants and socks, things rarely wear out. The last time I had a mega-clear-out was back in 1999 when a fire in the upstairs of my then-house irrevocably damaged virtually my entire wardrobe.

I never want to experience that again but some tender farewells will have to be said soon. But why is it so hard to cull the clobber?

Image of Eric by Lloyd Smith.