I’ve been careful about my raiment for as long as I can remember. Age 11, I sported an ascot (cravat) and a sport coat, choices regarded as epicene among my uninformed chums. At 13, there were risible missteps in the form of a Nehru jacket and others too gruesome to mention. This is a trait I got from my father, a sophisticated dresser. He had a huge cabinet crammed with white, double cuff shirts, in their original packaging, where they would remain until we donated them after his death. We did the same with the 50 or so expensive hats in their boxes. As an adult, I had bespoke suits made on Savile Row, the cost of which were the source of giddy amazement at my divorce trial. I was chagrined at such a private matter eliciting guffaws from troglodytes. I’ve been called a fop and a dandy, but the most common word is dapper, a Dutch term meaning strong. Alas, in the Oliver line, the behavior ends with me. Here’s why.
© 2024 John Oliver
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