By Eliot Samson 

Our intrepid émigré newbie, acclimatises to Australia’s wonderful and bewildering idiosyncrasies

I’m with Trinny and Susannah on this one...and it takes a lot for me to get drawn into the make-over TV arena. But yes, they were not wrong a while back when they pronounced Australian men ‘pond-life’ as far as sartorial elegance goes.

Back in Blighty, I used to have a thing or two to say about dress sense. My oft-repeated fear was that Britain’s elderly gentlemen were destined to go to pot. Growing up in an era in which every chap on the wrong side of middle aged would don a dignified suit, tie, waistcoat – maybe even a dapper hat – regardless of class or background, I feared that the fashions of the 21st century were sentencing my homeland to a future of geriatric chavs shuffling around in shellsuits and FCUK T-shirts well into their eighties. That the gentle elegance of the generation who fought Hitler so we could all buy £300 trainers was destined for extinction was one of the many reasons I touted to be glad to be turning my back on the Old Country.

But, dear Lord, talk about out of the frying pan and into the fire.

I’ve got very simple rules on men’s fashion – and they’re based on just that, simplicity. A chap makes his non-verbal statements with his gait, the way he holds himself, his presence. He should never need a T-shirt slogan to tell you that he hearts Manchester City FC.

And back in the Home Counties, if I was in the minority, I could at least take comfort in the knowledge that it was a large minority, that the ubiquitous baseball cap hadn’t forced its way into everyone’s life. Here, though, my bloody-minded refusal to eschew the restrained, fashion-wise, makes me the proverbial sore thumb.

Let’s start at the bottom and work our way up. Shoes. A man, I believe, should, if he lives in warmer climes have three pairs. Black or brown Oxford style or Brogues for work, sturdy boots for all other times and smart deck shoes – never worn with socks – for the beach. Australians? Christ. Trainers are everywhere: big, fat, white, shiny, LED-bedecked monstrosities that’ll never see a sporting arena. And then there’s what they call ‘thongs’. Thongs? Aren’t they tiny knickers worn by ladies of ill repute?  Nope, here flip flops go by the moniker ‘thongs’ – and they’re accepted in offices around the state. I could now get onto Ugg boots, those furry-topped wellingtons pretty young R’n’B divas look pleasant in, but I won’t. Here, men wear them over their slacks. I’m not saying any more.

Up then to trousers. Or, as they’d have you believe, pants. In wearisome reverence to our American cousins, pants here are trousers – and jocks are pants. But, to compound the atrocities, they’re thin on the ground. Your average Aussie chap shies away from trousers whenever he can, plumping instead for shorts, either baggy long ones or tiny, tiny offerings. You do not want to be sitting in front of a bloke in the latter when he sits down cross-legged, I can tell you.

Many a pair of shorts will be emblazoned with a plethora of nonsensical livery. ‘No Fear’, they’ll shout or, strangely, ‘Billabong’. But this pattern just gets worse when it comes to tops. Finding a jumper, T- or polo shirt without a bizarre series of words emblazoned on it is nigh on impossible. ‘Work out’ they shout. ‘Jim Beam’. ‘Penn State class of  62’. Twice now I’ve come home with what I thought was a plain white T to find that it has a silhouette of a naked woman on the sleeve and the word ‘plasma’ stitched across the back.

And, while football tops were a curse in Britain, here they take it a big step closer to ‘oh my giddy aunt’. At least a Bristol Rovers away jersey has sleeves – Aussie rules footballers wear a version of a ‘muscle vest’ they call a guernsey that really doesn’t work stretched over the rolling gut of 24-stubby-a-day garbo.

So, what we have so far, what you’ll meet in the local sports bar, is a portly chap wearing Ugg boots, tiny black shorts and a crackling, day-glo muscle vest sporting the colours of the Melbourne Marsupials or whoever. Distressing enough, but then you’ll make polite eye contact during conversation about the latest bounce down and realise that he’s topped it all off with a baseball cap and some quite bizarre facial hair. Beards, it seems, are big out here – and I don’t just mean popular. You can’t go a hundred yards without meeting some hirsute native with an expanse of facial hair a good foot below his chin. And, often, they’ll grow this without sideburns – or even a moustache. As he burbles on about the details of the latest West Coast Bullfrogs game, you can marvel at his ability to shave his sidies so precisely while resisting the temptation to whip off the bird’s nest hanging beneath his lower lip.

Yes, then, the lovely Trinny and Susannah are correct in their condemnation of the Australian male’s dress code. I can only hope that one day they’ll stumble across me on Mullaloo beach reclining neatly in my deckchair, resplendent in my linen trousers, deck shoes, smart blazer and white shirt reading a spot of Orwell while keeping the sun out of my eyes with my Panama – and realise that some gentlemen in WA do know how to dress properly.