This article is taken from the October 2024 issue of The Critic. To get the full magazine why not subscribe? Right now we’re offering five issues for just £10.

Hwaet! and welcome back to Planet Rag. What gives on the frock front? Well, fashion’s still broken, slowed to a glacial same old, same old. There remains a glut of stealth wealth (swank bore core), corp core (pinstriped bore core) and norm core (pure bore core of the white shirt / cotton t-shirt / grey jumper sort). Wine shades continue to do the rounds, after Sabato De Sarno Gucci’s brought them back into currency, but that’s about as flamboyant as matters get.

Even Hazzer Styles, formerly of spangled jumpsuits, Mrs Slocombe blouses and corsages as big as his head, now skulks about in hoodie. Meanwhile, the world of celebrity remains most enthused about the baseball cap, an item I wrote about here back in the pre-Christian era (Playing Ball, June 2022).

All in, the most obvious garment for me to be writing about this month is the trench coat, only I won’t insult your intelligence. Actually, I will. If you’re in the market to invest, think beyond beige, which suits about 2 per cent of the population — or fewer, now Alain Delon has pouted off the scene.

The alternatives to this quotidian drudgery are Chemena Kamali’s Chloe-style boho, aka, bore core with tassels (see last month’s Boho Ohno); or twinkly, little-girl dressing of the Mary Janes, Peter Pan smocks, sparkly hair-slide variety à la Nineties’ Miu Miu.

Now, I love paedo chic as much as the next middle-aged woman. But, sometimes, it’s just too sickly sweet — too Whatever Happened to Baby Jane to boot. I tried on some two-strap MJs this very morning and it was a no, just no. If Alexa Chung is feeling too old for this shit at an elfin 40, the rest of us should take heed.

Evening gowns — indeed, anything much by way of event dressing — are MIA for autumn/winter ‘24, such that the beau monde flocking to September’s Venice Film Festival let out a collective wail. Day is the deal — the dreariest, drabbest of day-outerwear even (shriek!).

The notable, and noble, exception to this is dinner-jacket drag, or the old YSL Le Smoking: never not achingly chic, but rocked with renewed smoulder in such utilitarian times.

This season, it is to be sported with a neck bow; indeed, the bow is key, such that one can ditch the tux itself and simply rock shirt and cravat.

Ties proper are also happening, but ties can be tricky with tits, however Annie Hall one’s inclinations. Rosettes are also back — fun, but they can feel limply de trop pretty damn quick.

A bow, though, bows are the foppish, yet still insouciant dream. Tilda Swinton and Julianne Moore don natty versions for the cover of the September issue of Spanish Vogue: the former in Little Lord Fauntleroy Chanel, the latter erectly horizontal Nina Ricci. Claudia Schiffer graces the cover of Vogue Arabia in the same Ricci rig-out.

Whilst labels as diverse as Dolce & Gabbana, Ralph Lauren and Issey Miyake all feature bows in their autumn advertising. The key here is boy bow, or power pussy at its most femme, nothing too feyly Petit Trianon because that is a whole different vibe.

I’ve always been more than a tad #bowgoals, witness generations of Gallic Hermès assistants begging to refashion my favoured tying method: the maniac dog bow. Bows are a sartorial two-fingered salute to life, the universe and everything; the suppurating self-loathing accessory of choice.

“It’s another fucking day, but I’m going to put a bow on it,” they eye roll. “I am dying inside, but tits and teeth, baby, tits and teeth.” Or, to quote that great contemporary sage, Taylor Swift: “I’m so depressed, I act like it’s my birthday every day.”

This season, your bow needs to be black, or white if black-shirted. I sought out a vintage Chanel number, care of resale geniuses HEWI, but still furiously expensive. It may have looked dashing on some ancient catwalk, but didn’t pass muster right here, right now.

The YSL options I pursued turned out to be leather, which isn’t quite right. So I went to the other extreme and acquired a £7.99 Amazon “silk” version. Fine, but too full.

As I type, I have a preloved, polka-dot-embossed Balenciaga take on its way. If this fails, I’ll throw myself on the mercy of Liberty’s haberdashery department, where I doubtless should have headed in the first place, it being my happy place. An ongoing project, then. Still, it keeps me off the streets.