Who’s the Best Dressed Man in London?

The answer to that question is actually quite easy, except he’s not often in London. Charlie Watts, drummer with The Rolling Stones, breeder of Arabian thoroughbreds on his estate down in Devon, and owner of the greatest wardrobe ever created for a jazz fanatic lorry driver’s son from Wembley, has long been acknowledged as the consummate stylist.

Look at pictures of his band from every period and it’s Charlie who stands out by doing less and doing it just so, never flash, or rather never too flash. Mick is great looking, Keith looks great, but Charlie, who can do Savile Row, can do Ivy League, can do country squire and city slicker, scoop-necked

casual and high-buttoned formal, has looked effortlessly immaculate for nearly six decades. I once saw him walking along Frith Street towards Ronnie’s where he was playing with his jazz band, and I almost wept at the understated yet pinpoint precision of his attire. Sorry for being soppy, but it was beautiful, a perfect Soho moment.

Bryan Ferry comes close in his soft-shouldered Anderson & Sheppard. Bill Nighy, taking lunch on his own with a book – always in a navy suit – always in Cecconi’s. Paul Smith emerging from the RAC Club after his morning swim looks right; David Rosen, who knows London better than any other man, has the best collection of loafers in town; Jeremy King in his slate-grey Bristol 411 is immensely immaculate.

There is indeed a certain group of gentlemen of a certain age and a certain back-story, all self-made men, who keep the traditions alive. But Charlie is unchallenged. He keeps a house in South Ken and stays there a few times a year. I asked him once what he does when he’s in town and he said, ‘I take a Turkish bath and I visit my tailors.’ And he meant tailors plural: ‘You have to have two, and you tell them both the other one’s better.’ I’ve had loads.

Getting your first whistle made at the local tailors was always a rite of passage, a coming-of-age moment. It was a big day when a man first thrust a tape measure up your teenage particulars and asked you what sort of fabric you wanted. I got my debut suit from Shepherd’s Bush, a disastrous attempt to look like Rod Stewart in his bottle green Tommy Nutter on the cover of Never a Dull Moment. Since then I’ve tried an old Jewish fellow round the back of Altab Ali Park in Whitechapel who did a nice Max Baer back. I visited a part-time soul DJ in a basement in Fitzrovia for that sleek ’60s look. I went Soho Sam and I’ve spent fortunes with such exalted names as Kilgour, French and Stanbury, Nick Tentis, Mark Powell and Timothy Everest.

I’ve been bespoke and I’ve tried made-to-measure, there was even a time I fell for the ready-to-wear designer trap and gave my money to flighty Italians on Bond Street. I’ve got a wardrobe full of whistles, some of them thirty years old, but all of which still fit – well, nearly. Yet still I feel the need to go once a year and have a word with my man with a pin in his mouth. Which these days means a trip over the water.

The Savile Row experience is unrivalled, sumptuous. The rich wealth of expertise, the élan of the premises, the exactitude of the process and of course the undoubted excellence of the finished garment, but also unfortunately the exorbitant expense. I still love ambling along the Row; a spot of window watching. It is like twisting the fabric of time, being transported, not so much on trend as beyond trend, ageless, timeless. Just like Eliza wanted to be a ‘M(a)yfair Lady’ in her Lisson Grove accent, so I love playing the man about Mayfair, but I can no longer justify the price tag.

For a quarter of the cost I can head down the Walworth Road and spend an hour or so with George. We talk frogmouth pockets and English versus American vents, discuss pitched lapels and whether the original modernists would have ever sported turn-ups: he say no, I say yes. Mark Baxter might join us and try and flog me some new band, book or movie project he’s involved in. Ed Gray the painter, one of London’s finest chroniclers, is also a regular, often popping by just to chew the fat. There’s a whole little South London scene based around George’s tiny, dishevelled half-a-tailor’s shop, in a scruffy money transfer and kebab house parade, just up from the Elephant. And I am honoured that they let me be part of their gang occasionally.

George Dyer is a West-Indian Londoner with an accent just south of the Old Kent Road, a tape measure round his neck and a measured manner, which brings to mind gents of old. He is kind and considered, he knows what he’s talking about and also what he’s doing, which is making you feel good, because you look good. Most of his clients are in the mod mode: Paul Weller and Martin Freeman can both be seen among the pictures of his punters, which adorn the crowded walls. But he can turn his hand to a conduit cut or a drape back if necessary.

Every high street would once have had a George – they were part of every community – but there aren’t very many left, and his little shop now feels like a throwback. It was with great pride that I first took Alfie, then Maude, to the deep South to get some schmutter made. They need to know.

And it was going to see another George one night, also on Frith Street, that I realised just how far and wide a rare craftsman like Mr Dyer now spreads his talents. It was Georgie Fame who was playing Ronnie Scott’s, and as usual it was a great show from one of our finest. But rather than watching the band I spent most of the night studying the punters’ attire, counting the amount of George Dyer suits sitting in that room. I stopped just short of a dozen, happy that someone is keeping the look alive.