Ruched foreskin loafers

Need I say more?

Hello sexy cats, it’s halloween.

The kind of childlike trousers a graphic designer wears to his co-working former-factory space, before revealing himself as an insane fuck merchant at Friday night pints.

Don’t be put off by the avocado bathroom suite-ness of this image, consider recreating these delicious hues in a matching suit, shirt and tie ensemble, warm pools of uncut-emerald cotton lapping at your figure. A block colour suit can read as 2007 Topman, as head of sixth form at a charity fundraiser, as distant cousin loaded on sangria at a Riviera wedding. To me it reads as debonair cad—the kind of man who attends it-girl parties that get written up in The Sun, who indecent proposals hot strangers over a roulette wheel, who performs majestically as the novelty in your couple’s special-treat threesome, the out-of-towner being shown the sights. He reeks of family money and family secrecy. He doesn’t know shyness. He drinks the juice with the pulp.

A pyjama shirt for Christmas morning, mixing a black velvet in your Gotham pied-à-terre before you flambé, brûlée and sauté your way into lunch.

I don’t want to be glib about the hurricane, but this man is a sage reminder that Jamaicans can turn out a fucking look, even under the most dire circumstances. Style is in our fucking blood. Donate to the relief effort here.

There’s something a bit expert in Medieval astrology about these ruched foreskin loafers. What if Stanford Blatch was Jacobean? He’d wear these.