Lacoste; the Rolex of Polo Shirts...
The snippet of the conversation below is true. It occurred years ago and stems from my having asked if they had any Saabs on the forecourt. I suspect, given the following, that they didn’t…
CAR SALESMAN (via phone)
Are you a man impressed by labels and badges Mr Mahoney?
ME (via phone)
Yeah, always have been…
The mum of a former girlfriend was once pounced on by security as she left Harrods and escorted to an interrogation room. There, she faced accusations of theft, which she staunchly denied. However, moments later, she dipped into her bag and produced the evidence herself. The security staff pointed to it in triumph and the accused, stared at it, in disbelief. For context, the tobacconist concession was on the ground floor, close to the exit. Beside the till, was a large glass bowl containing disposable lighters with “Harrods” stamped all over them. On purchasing twenty Consulate, the accused took a lighter and, on stepping outside, lit up. Or at least, attempted to. The third-degree had not taken long as somebody there had enough sense to see how this lady might have presumed the lighters were free. Because, a few years earlier, they had been but this was the early ’80s and we’d entered the era of “It’s designer” and, as Harrods perceived itself as a “lifestyle brand” they felt entitled to charge a pound for a lighter they’d previously given away. Things have gone downhill ever since…
Many a sartorial shrewd nut will claim they’d never sport a garment with a logo. It’s fair philosophy, as while most items have a label, the classier ones tend to put them on the inside. At least, they did, before they started sticking them on the sleeve. Since the mid-eighties, the explosion of brands employing logos runs from luxury to those that ought to have more sense than to forwarn us. Time changes which logos are desirable and which, are off-putting. Had you told me forty years ago that Ralph’s Polo logo, would deter me from wearing a shirt, I’d have considered a madman. Yet, here we are. As I’ve got loads of the fuckers I’ll still wear them but usually with a jumper covering the badge. Part of this is due to my evolvement, part to the drop in quality but mostly, market saturation IE, them being worn by untold wankers. There’s still a way of sporting a shirt bearing the Polo logo though, you’ve got to act as though you’re oblivious of it. Sort of ‘What this? Didn’t even notice.” Leave them feeling muggy for mentioning it. Or more likely, thinking it. Most of this shit, after all, is unspoken…
Staunchly refusing to wear anything with an emblem can be problematic and self-defeating. Do you stop wearing Addidas? Levi’s? Or, come to that, any jeans with arcuates? These are the stitched signature back pockets. Are they not logos? Taking the high road means an awful lot of things become verboten. I suppose you could stop wearing jeans and trainers? Fuck that shit. The only times I’ve come unstuck with a logo-ed item is when I’ve purchased a piece, purely because it had one. More than once, in the dim and distant past, I’d recall staring at an item a few months post-purchase and thinking if only it didn’t have that fucking badge. That ‘fucking badge’ I’d stare at the item with a deep-seated hatred as it represented my nativity. You see, deep down, I believed that logo would solve all my problems. I didn’t consciously think all this but… I doubt it was as far from the forefront as I’d now like to imagine. I’ve done the same, years back, with records. I remember buying ‘Liquidator’ by Harry J All Stars out of a record shack beside Bronsbury Station and thinking I’d made it.
Chelsea! Shed-boys!… Hmm, I’m sixty-five and still an idiot. After a lifetime of trying - one way or another (I’ve taken a million routes), to be ‘cool’ I had something of a rude awakening a few months back. I’ve got a couple of stripped RRL polo shirts that look like something you’d have worn as a kid. They’re comfortable and I enjoy wearing them but they could easily be from Marks & Sparks. That’s when it finally struck me, if I was ‘cool’ I’d have got them from M&S or Gap but I’m so insecure I need to pay over the odds for something that looks ordinary. Chasing the approval of others ain’t where it’s at, coolness comes with self-acceptance and that, my friends, is an inside job. I say that, with absolute assurance but you’ll ignore it. Writing it off as some sort of new-age hippie bullshit. Hey… You do you, young brother.
My love for Lacoste was at first sight and it came, not on the terraces in England but on a mountain path in the Balearic islands … In the ’60s, package tours to Spain were relatively new but Mum, being a sun worshipper, took me on one, to Majorca. On arrival, our hotel was overbooked so they transported about a dozen of us to another one, it seemed fine to me, but Mum felt differently and while the rest of the holidaymakers were agreeing to the alternative accommodation, my mum was screaming blue murder. During her ranting, I heard an old girl tell her husband “Stick with her.” He did as instructed and Elsie and Alfie wound up in one of the most luxurious hotels in Europe. In preparation for that holiday, Mum had been teaching herself Spanish. On arrival, I sat in the foyer while she went to the desk. She came back to complain that the staff spoke perfect English. This was despite us, along with Elsie and Albert, being their only English guests. The reason? Americans. I was mesmerised - real-life Americans! Everything about this place was - look, there’s no other word for it, that hotel was - ream. Every single aspect - ream, ream… ream.
There was a ten-minute trek for the beach but the guests weren’t there for the beach, they were there for the golf course. Our walk took us through a pine forest. I know this because my mum was forever banging on about the wonderful smell of “the pine”. After a few days, she figured out a shortcut. This involved a tricky mountain path but, as it saved a few minutes, she considered it worthwhile. Needless to say, one day she slipped and cut her knee. Now, what follows is true. She’s on the path moaning about her knee and, in fairness, there was blood flowing from it. A voice was heard, I’ve no idea what was said, as it was in Spanish. On looking around I realised it came from one of two Spanish noblemen, they were about thirty yards away, on horseback. How do I know they were noblemen? Man, their fucking horses were aristocratic. They rode, somewhat skilfully, over the rocky terrain and one nearing, one dismounts. I’d spent my life watching cowboy films and I could tell a good dismount from a bad one. His was excellent. As effortless as it was graceful. I’ve got to say, I was enthralled by this Spanish nobleman. He approached and on kneeling, produced a (monogrammed) handkerchief. This, he proceeded to wrap around my Mum’s knee and before you know it, they’re chatting away nine to the dozen - in French…. BINGO!
It was at that point, that I drifted off, into my new life. It’d be in Spain- obviously. Where, I’d be sent to a Spanish boarding school and, despite initially having a hard time, I’d probably get into a few fights… I’d be triumphant (naturally) but eventually, I’d win them over, probably through playing football. That, and of course, my being so likeable… A hidden benefit of my new life would be the school putting my inability to read and write, down to not speaking Spanish and thus- masking my deficiencies in English. I was deep into the fantasy and just about to be awarded a medal by the King of Spain - it was probably for football, though possibly swimming - when I was brought back to reality by the sight of my new stepfather, riding off… He left her with that monogrammed hanky and me, a crushed dream. I kept that hanky for years and each time I saw it, my heart broke… again. He wore long black riding boots. White jodhpurs and, a dark blue polo shirt, featuring a small green alligator, on the chest…
So, I wear them and actively welcome snide glances from middle-aged males. Glances that suggest “still wearing those”. Their attitude reveals a level of ignorance that’s glorious. Sure, there are more expensive polo shirts. I’ve got a drawer full. Better constructed with finer fabric and superior cut, but Lacoste is the Rolex of polo shirts; in that, it may not be the best but it’s universally recognised and cuts to the quick. Stating, “Yeah, I play the game.” What that game is, however, is open to debate…