Stepping out at the Conservative party conference this week, David Cameron took the day off from a suit and tie and instead opted for a fleece. The prime minister has form with this garment, despite groans from the fashion writers. Here, two writers discuss whether the favourite garment of ramblers and dads can ever be considered stylish.
Rupert Myers: It’s the garment of the many, not the few
However cheerfully or amusingly it’s done, the sort of person who sneers at a fleece is probably the sort of person who would find a white van problematic, or who might shudder instinctively at what they believe to be the inherent racism expressed by flying a national flag. Up and down the country, from ruddy-faced ramblers to tired security guards, the fleece is a practical, relatively cheap garment worn to fight off the cold.
Is a fleece going to win style points down at the ethical mung bean studio with a moustache-grooming fixie aficionado? Probably not, although there’s a case for the fleece as being the ultimate in normcore. A fleece isn’t usually worn ironically, it isn’t worn as a fashion statement, it is the steel-capped boot of upper-body tailoring. Snark and derision from what Jeremy Corbyn lovingly calls the “commentariat” can only cement the reputation of the fleece as a garment for the many, and not the few.
Of course the fleece is a pretty ugly garment – it’s understandable to cringe at the thought of 21st century man or woman being portrayed, in some museum of the future, in a fleece, jeans and trainers. But then perhaps we’ve evolved enough to put comfort and practicality ahead of inaccessible high fashion? A fleece is inclusive, not exclusive. From the men and women building homes to tired parents chasing after their inexhaustible children, the fleece is a garment to unthinkingly throw on when there isn’t the time, money, or intellectual bandwidth to fret over an outfit.
Until Labour becomes a party comfortable with both the working class and middle class, it’s going to remain lost in the political wilderness, convinced of its superiority but tone deaf to the public’s mood. Any attack on the prime minister’s fleece would play into that portrait of Labour as out of touch and superficial. The fleece is the personal insulation choice of the people, found on Britain’s terraces and hillsides, not in cold-press coffee shops or pop-up microbreweries. Are there more serious issues out there than Cameron’s fleece? Yes, and that’s the point. If he gave any thought to his outfit, which seems unlikely given the bigger items on the Downing Street agenda, then practicality and affordability would, I expect, be what the Conservatives and their leader would opt for. What better sign of this than the mighty fleece?
Rhiannon Lucy Cosslett: What the hell’s wrong with a jumper?
What can one say about a fleece? A fleece is a void. It is the absence of style, fashion brought to its entropic conclusion. There is nothing redeeming that can be said about a fleece, unless it is on fire. It may sound harsh, but there it is. I grew up in Snowdonia, the spiritual home of the fleece (imagine how the poor sheep felt, surrounded by boulderers wearing their dead relatives). I recognise their practicality in terms of warmth and comfort, and yet I cannot bring myself to approve of them. If anything, their supposed practicality (limited by the fact that the soak up water with all the ferocity of a ravenous sponge) at the expense of all aesthetic is what makes them even more offensive. Even a gilet is preferable. A fleece gilet is simply unthinkable.
Bleeding-heart liberal though I am, I do not object to the fleece on political grounds. David Cameron’s penchant for them is merely a confirmation of the fact that fleeces are the indolent refuge of the man who does not know how to dress. “Never sleep with a man who wears a fleece,” was the self-imposed rule of a friend at university. You may argue that young women are shallow and ageist, but despite their regular appearance in the back of newspaper supplements, men of all ages wear fleeces. It is a garment that transcends the political spectrum. Though it has certain class connotations (upper middle-class families on holiday in the Lake District, regattas, the National Trust) fleece does not denote morality, nor ethics – but merely that one has given up on life. The indignity of having one forced upon you by your school or employer is not something that should be borne by any human being.
I suspect that Cameron favours the fleece because it implies that he is a “man of the people”, but the people have revolted: the fleece has not been fashionable for many years, if indeed it ever was. It reached its stylistic zenith in the mid-90s, a time when horrendous two-tone versions in complementary colours were freely available in the shops (mine was peach and pink). Now, they have been consigned to the lofts of the nation by all but the very few fashion refuseniks. Now, the colours they come in are invariably mundane: moss green, navy blue, Microsoft teal. The high, zip-up collars give the wearer the impression of being born backwards, the shape of their body is unflatteringly obscured.
Cameron has expressed an unwillingness to wear “more lycra than is consistent with re-election” when he is out running, and for that, the nation is grateful. But the fleece has got to go. Every fleece silently begs the question: what the hell is wrong with a jumper? Furthermore, I find it unfair that Jeremy Corbyn’s style choices have been ruthlessly dissected by the media, his sandals and scruffiness mocked, while Cameron wanders around in a fleece; unfettered, unquestioned, free.
