Andrew Kay is settling into black tie season, and finding it a struggle

One of the key indicators (get me with my fancy business speak) of growing old is the presence of your own DJ in a bag in the wardrobe. That is, if like me you grew up on a council estate and went to an ordinary state school. I know, I know, all you public school boys probably had mummy and daddy buy your first DJ when you were seven.

I waited until I was 30 and only bought one then when I discovered that my white tuxedo was full of moth holes and that hiring one, an ill fitting ensemble that smelled of camphor, was only marginally less expensive than going to Marks and Sparks and buying one new.
And since that day I have been loyal to good old M&S. The old one finally gave out and last year I went mad and bought a new one which cost far less than the one I bought back in 1985.

“With a pair of red silk dress socks and my pointy Kurt Geigers the ensemble was complete if slightly less than conventional”

It looks pretty good too but I have to say, it’s a dull mode of dress that renders all men equal, or equallish, the hirers can always be spotted by the poor fit and faint whiff of mothballs. When I slipped into the DJ for the Sussex Food & Drink Awards a few weeks back I looked in the mirror and thought dull, dull, dull. I then got the cold sweats. Was this another sign of ageing, would I succumb to the madness that is the fancy cummerbund, the whacky bow tie or worst of all the fancy waistcoat?

I sat on the edge of the bad and felt rather glum.

Then, in a moment of inspiration I went back to the wardrobe and pulled out my favourite smart shirt, a red and white check with double cuffs that I had found in Jermyn Street. I popped it on, found a pair of huge vintage cufflinks with giant red paste jewels and tied my black silk brocade bowtie purchased a few years back from the rather marvelous Gresham Blake.

With a pair of red silk dress socks and my pointy Kurt Geigers the ensemble was complete if slightly less than conventional.

So if you see me in black tie from now on expect it to be knotted around a shirt of vibrant colour at least, maybe patterned but certainly not white and never ever with a wing collar, a look that should be strictly reserved for amateur productions of Agatha Christie thrillers.