Go on blokes, dare to live a little

Alan Perrott reckons op shops are great for individualising your wardrobe. Picture / Carolyn Robertson

I'd walked casually to the bar and was selecting which cooling ale would best slake my thirst when a sullen voice broke the silence.

"Get the **** out of here."

"Heh, heh, heh. Nice one Bruce," droned his dropkick mate.

It seemed my lavalava just wasn't welcome in those there parts of Collingwood.

Now I'm not claiming my gib was cut in particularly spectacular fashion on that dark if sunny day, but the incident has always stayed with me as a great example of the New Zealand bloke's joyless approach to dressing.

Why do so many of us go through life on fashion autopilot?

Check out Queen St any day of the year. You want to know why there appears to be so many Asian students? It's because they have their own style, they make an effort - and effort isn't only what you put into digging a hole.

The great Nu Zild non-effort doesn't count as a style. It's anti-style, bland, and going nowhere.

There's a theory that claims that women's greatest fear is of assault while men would rather die a hundred terrible deaths if it meant avoiding humiliation.

Men instinctively know that sartorial humiliation is best avoided by adopting a uniform, and if the vast majority of New Zealand men are anything, it's uniform.

It's no accident that all of us of a certain age share memories of stubbies and sansabelt slacks with lions rampant on the clasp.

So what can be done? First, speaking to the ladies, stop buying your men clothes, they gotta learn to dress themselves.

Well, maybe you can stay in charge of black sock supply, they're just tedious even if they do a grand job of preventing chafing. And undies, well they come with lifetime guarantees, don't they?

Anyway, second, and back to the guys again, take a few risks, live a little, if not a lot.

Colours, patterns, textures, they are our friends. Trends are not our friends. Trends are for The Kids.

Grown men with jeans hanging halfway down their arse just look like asses, hoodies are just another anonymous uniform concealing the trembling ego within.

I remember strutting out in my gold jodhpurs, red double-breasted shirt and glow-in-the-dark footlights as a budding 80s New Romantic, but I was too damn dumb to know any different.

If you're going to learn anything, you have to accept the occasional disaster. You'll get over it. Promise.

Now getting your act together isn't easy, as we aren't exactly presented with a lot of choice, unless umpteen shades of black trou and white shirts are choices.

And exclusive labels are not the silver bullet - you can spend a zillion bucks on a shirt and still look like a sack of spuds. You have to find someone behind the counter you can trust.

Don't fall for the winsome shop maiden brandishing her wallet-opening breasts, eyelashes and "oh, suits you sir" egostroking.

If you're used to living on a budget, you'll know about op shops. These come in graduated steps, starting at the Sallie Army stores and suburban second-hand emporiums and climb to the inner-city, retro-chic shops such as Smoove.

You're looking for the colours, fit and form that suit. It's always okay to try stuff on and take it for a stroll around the shop.

A workable wardrobe can be built around just a few faithfuls, some solid, timelessly stylish garments you can build several looks around.

Your basic ingredients are the jacket, a good pant or slack, and good shoes.

Shoes are important. All the effort up top can be undone in seconds by a pair of brogues a dog wouldn't chew on.

None of this is witchcraft, and you needn't fear it will necessarily lead to body waxing - that's your call not mine.

* Read more about what's happening in the world of food, wine, fashion and beauty in viva, part of your Herald print edition every Wednesday.