This article is taken from the February 2025 issue of The Critic. To get the full magazine why not subscribe? Right now we’re offering five issues for just £10.
Thirty years ago I visited Jermyn Street to buy shirts. I went to Hawes & Curtis, which in those days occupied a corner emporium decorated with wooden panelling and staffed by wooden public schoolboys on summer jobs before Sandhurst or a career in publishing. I remember that I bought two double-cuffed shirts and two splendid ties, one being black patterned with small emerald-green shamrocks. I remember the tie because I remember its price.
It was ticketed £20, but the floppy haired fop behind the counter charged me only £10. When I pointed this out, the future cavalry cornet apologised profusely. I laughed that it was quite alright and that it was my good turn for the day, to which he brayed “Yes, sir, and now you’ve done your good deed you can go out and enjoy yourself, you can … you can spit on a beggar!” There have been very few occasions when I have been lost for words; that was one of them.
Of course, times have changed and so has Hawes & Curtis. They no longer employ chinless wonders with questionable humour. They are now industrial enterprises, selling shirts that look as individual and exclusive as an ice cube — and about as hard-wearing. Their décor and their staff are equally identikit.
The same is true of many other shops on “God’s own street”. T.M. Lewin was the first to switch to imports from India, soon followed by others. Hawes & Curtis (Italy), Charles Tyrwhitt (almost anywhere between Seville and Sofia), even Harvie & Hudson now make some of their garments in Poland. This may keep their costs down, but as it does not seem to have had a commensurate effect on their prices, I suggest you give these shirts short shrift.
For there are still some haberdashers who manufacture in Britain, using staff and skills long acquired and carefully curated, selling goods that are discretely made, deftly cut and distinctive to all discerning customers.
Budd shirtmakers have been based in Piccadilly Arcade on Jermyn Street since they opened in 1910. Although there has been at least one interior overhaul since then, their bijou store retains a wonderful ambience of Edwardian elegance. Some cutting still occurs above the shop itself.
Whilst their staff are not quite as old as the company, Budd’s two chief cutters have between them clocked more than 105 years with the firm. That says a great deal about the commitment that goes into Budd clothes.
The Budd forward collar is perhaps a little more pointed than the standard shape, their single stitching through the body effects a seamless aspect and their hand-set sleeves mean that each shirt hangs sleekly from the shoulders of its owner. It is no wonder that George Gershwin wrote that from Budd one can find “The Best Of Everything”.
Yet it is unfair to suggest that the best can only be got in Jermyn Street. For those City gentlemen whose work shackles them to the Square Mile, there are still some outfitters who can assure their appearance as bankers and not barrow boys.
Chief amongst them are Thresher & Glenny whose provenance spans three centuries and make Budd look positively schoolboy. When I was at university, Thresher & Glenny had a shop by Waterloo Bridge. Now they are situated in the Temple.
Despite their perambulations, they remain wedded to singularity and craftmanship. As well as French seams, bluff-edged badging to prevent neck chafing, and tightly-tailored armpits to ensure the cloth does not sag when an arm is raised, I do not know another maker that supplies spare collars and sews them in, gratis, when the originals have worn. It is fitting therefore that the emblem, and spirit, of the firm is a peacock.
They may not be cheap but these shops are special. To borrow from the other Gershwin, Ira, a trip to Budd or Thresher & Glenny is s’Wonderful.
