What is it with men and trainers? Or rather, men of a certain age and trainers. I’m still trying to banish the horror-show image of Rishi Sunak wearing Adidas Sambas in No. 10 in an interview to promote his tax policies.
Has western civilisation really come to this? Are we destined to succumb to rubber-soled hell, or is there still a place left for those of us who prefer shoes that last decades, not a couple of years before being consigned to the dustbin of athleisure history?
For years I’ve played a game checking out men’s footwear on the London Underground. The proportion of trainers has risen exponentially, like grey squirrels stealing lebensraum from their indigenous red cousins, so that today you’re lucky if you even spot a leather-soled shoe. I’ve even noticed three septuagenarian friends – a peer of the realm, a tycoon and a retired general – sneaking in black sneakers beneath a Savile Row suit.
I’m conflicted, of course. Part of me says, to hell with what everyone else is wearing. Stick to your sumptuous, handmade, Goodyear-welted beauties. And then the other part looks at a pair of On Cloudvistas or Hoka Bondi 8s and lusts after that all-day comfort – cloudlike cushioned cosiness, for heaven’s sake – and whispers, give it to me, baby.
My shoe collection looks like a graveyard. I stare across the rows of wonderfully patinated, butter-soft leather boots, brogues and loafers by Henry Maxwell, Church’s, Crockett & Jones, Cheaney, Tricker’s and Alfred Sargent. An R.M. Williams or two for rugged, in-the-field manliness, here and there a more delicate Carmina or the surprisingly inexpensive Mocasines Pepe of Marbella (good enough for the king of Spain, good enough for me) for a whiff of Spanish estilo.
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