Corbyn the new leader of the U.K.  Labour Party, rarely wears a tie, I’m sure he thinks it makes him look like “one of the people”, it makes him look weak, not a serious man, and he especially needs, to put it politely, visual presentation.
The Prime Minister does wear ties, which is good. But his dress sense is not good for a man who represents a nation famous for it’s elegant masculine style. For instance his morning suit is a mess, and there is more, but on the whole he has a much better presentation than Corbyn, his wearing ties has a lot to do with it.
A tie gives a man authority, a tie represents care and detail in a man’s life as it dose in his dress. In all , it separates the men from the boys.
The girls like a tie on a man as to them it represents stability, strength, reliability and yet it can have a touch of the dash, if needed.
When I was in my twenties I often didn’t wear a tie with a suit, everybody else did. I didn’t realise it, but I was following the great Gary Grants dictum, he said “if single breasted suits are the fashion I wear double breasted, if double are in, I wear single”.
To be truly different, you have to be truly stylish.
Wear a tie, feel and look complete.



HORNETS unique English style is now in AMSTERDAM at Prinsenstraat 7, 1015DA, with the excellent TOMMY PAGE.

Offering vintage British tweed and tailoring at it’s best.


Hornets Goes Dutch

The Guv’nor writes…

Hornets Goes Dutch

Hornets goes Dutch with Tommy Page in his beautiful shop in a chic part of Amsterdam.

Hornets offers the best collection of men’s vintage British classic tweeds on the European Continent, with other unusual British clothing and accessories.

Tommy is not only very knowledgeable on men’s vintage, he is also a very talented and experienced designer. All-in-all a good and charming man to have a chat with if seeking advice on style.

Prinsenstraat 7, 1015DA,



A Stylish Tour of the London Monopoly Board No.1

The Man From The Hornet’s Stylish Tour of The London Monopoly Board Begins…

Monopoly 1

The Old Kent Road is the cheapest square on the English Monopoly board and, as such, is supposed to represent all that is downmarket about London. Yet it is not without its historic stylish connections. For example, King Charles II, the dandiest of all monarchs, rode along the Old Kent Road to reclaim the throne.

But in terms of style it is to David Copperfield that my memory turns when mention is made of the Old Kent Road. In Dickens’s own favourite of his novels, David heads for Dover via this – then largely rural – thoroughfare. You will remember Peggotty’s suitor in that novel Mr Barkis – he imparts the comedically memorable line to Peggotty, via David, “Tell her ‘Barkis is willin’!'” Barkis hides his fiscal light under a bushel, stashing his secret fortune in a plain box marked “old clothes“. Pah. As if a fortune could ever come out of old clothes…

Whitechapel Road provides us with an opportunity to recount one of our favourite of all London style legends.

Moss Bros is a famous High Street name in this country, offering formal wear for hire for weddings and special occasions. London Mayor Boris Johnson claimed to have hired his morning wear for the wedding of the Duke of Cambridge to Catherine Middleton from Moss Bros.

The company has its origins in Whitechapel. East London, founded as Moses and Moses by two Jewish tailor brothers.

Legend has it that one day a breathless chap burst through the door of Moses and Moses in urgent need of a decent suit of clothes. The cause of his urgent need goes unrecorded: it’s often best not to ask too many questions in the East End.

The customer lacked sufficient funds to BUY a suit, but offered a smaller sum in order to BORROW a suit for an agreed period of time…

A lightbulb goes on above the heads of the Moses brothers and a famous British business is born.


The Pond

The Guv’nor writes…

She was plumpish but pretty. He guessed about eighteen. She was giving him furtive girlie glances.

She looked nervous despite the mask of proud self-importance, for she was to be Queen of the May and be crowned by a Telly Star – him – right here in the park where he used to play.

Mum and Auntie Jess were on the platform beside him, she was on the other side with the mayor who was droning on about local boy making good. Making good! Selling soap powder to the great British public? That was good?

His eye wandered over the small crowd; the curious, the local press, some faces he knew, and some he knew well… but nobody out to settle any scores. And none of his boys. They were “inside” or busy not being inside, so no real ghosts from the past. Just a couple of coppers who must have known. But it was ten years ago now, and not that important.

He’d taken Mum and Auntie Jess to Barkers in High Street Ken and fitted them out. They did look good in their jackets, matching skirts and posh hats. Glowing with importance. This was a big day in their lives – and one in the eye for the neighbours! He was there for them. Tt was nothing to him. Nothing in this place was for him. He’d never belonged here.

He’d never belonged anywhere.

He looked beyond the crowd to the pond. Not so long ago he’d thrown a sawn-off shotgun and a small revolver into that pond, a favour for a mate who had to disappear suddenly. A ll of that was all over. Now he didn’t even have any mates, didn’t want them.

There was something else about the pond. That two days he was on the run, he’d hidden what he now knew to be a solid silver Georgian tea set, under that flagstone at the pond’s edge. All he’d need was a lookout-driver and he could have that away one night. Fun… but could be trouble.

He didn’t have to go on the run. He knew he was going to get nicked. But it was fun. Also it showed his boys, Jimmy the Ploughman, Killer Green and the rest, that he was still King.

The Juvenile Court put all his boys away but gave him two years probation. They said he was a born leader. More like a born thief, he thought. He was soon nicking again

Then he got a job and a lady that taught him how to read. Then a scholarship, and begun the climb to standing on this platform in a hand-made suit, a beautiful voice and a lot of charm and some money. But still he didn’t fit.

It would soon be his turn to make a speech. He’d got a good one, rubbish, of course, but it would play well.

That tea set was getting at him. He wouldn’t sell it, he’d have it cleaned up and displayed in his smart flat. That’s what he’d do. He still wouldn’t belong, he’d still be on the outside… but he’d have his nicked silver tea set that nobody knew anything about except him and where everybody could see it.

Yes one night soon he’d be back to that pond.


Monopoly: Letting Style Standards Slip?

The Man From The Hornet writes…

I have just returned from holiday in the great country of Greece where I reacquainted myself with the great game of Monopoly.

(I realise, gentle reader, that this may seem a tad insensitive, gauche even – playing the great capitalist board game in the middle of such a fiscal calamity, in Greece of all places. Oops.)

The set upon which I rediscovered the pleasures of greed and familial bad feeling was a travel set picked up at the airport called Grab & Go Monopoly. And an economical (no pun intended) little thing it is, too. The board folds out and doubles as a box for the tiny money and title deeds.

Monopoly 1

One complaint, however. There was no top hat.

When playing Monopoly I ALWAYS go the top hat.

Monopoly 2

If someone should beat me to the top hat I will go to my threefold Plan B – the first part of which is never to speak again, for as long as I live to the person who has taken MY top hat.

Part two of Plan B is to go the thimble – it is at least associated with style and the rag trade.

Monopoly 3

If someone has taken the thimble, I take a deep breath, alter my Christmas card list accordingly and plump for Plan B Part three: the iron. Once again, it is a faintly clobber-related piece.

Monopoly 4

(What, you might ask, if the iron has been taken? Well I would imagine that things would take a bit of a Cleudo turn at this point, only with no mystery: the murderer would be me, the location the bank with the murder weapon being the pointy end of a toy plastic hotel. What a way to go.)

But I digress.

Not only was the top hat absent from the playing pieces… But there was no thimble… Nor was there an iron.

And so it was with a heavy heart that I went on to dominate the game (with the Scottie Dog as my playing piece), winning with my trademark bad grace, thus besmirching much of the holiday with Monopoly-bred resentment and bad feeling.

I had a thoroughly wonderful time.

But despite this upside, my heart remained heavy. Is it emblematic of the 21st century’s slipping standards of style that the top hat or indeed anything related to fine tailoring no longer plays a part in the game of Monopoly?

Dear Mr Waddington or Mr Hasbro (or Mr Parker in the U.S) if you are reading this, please can we have the top hat reinstated to the Grab & Go edition of your wonderful board game? I believe the stylish future of the nation – if not the world – depends on it.

This Autumn, here on this blog, The Man From the Hornet will conduct a guided tour of the London Monopoly board from a stylish perspective beginning next week with Whitechapel and Old Kent Road.