In my day... people dressed the part

"Clothes maketh the man", according to Mark Twain. "Naked people", he pointed out, "have little or no influence on society."

And how right he was - not only in the sense that he might well have been describing the current 'Emperor's new clothes' scenario, in which the British public have collectively come to the horrible realization that the pompous, preening peacocks that we let control our lives for so long were in fact standing there tackle-out and impotent all along (I suggest you don’t dwell on that image for too long, unless you're in desperate need of an emetic), but also in the sense that the clobber people choose should give us damn good, instant indication of what type of cove is in our midst.

There is, of course, a school of thought that says one shouldn't judge people by their appearance, but, well… bollocks. Life's too short, and you've got to start somewhere, haven't you?

Which is why life was so much simpler when people dressed the part.

In the good old days a hulking great leather clad, shaven-headed bloke, muscled up to the nines and pierced and tattooed up to the eyeballs was more likely than not looking for trouble.

These days someone fitting that description is more likely to be looking for his boyfriend in the soft furnishing department at Laura Ashley.

And the two blokes strolling down the high street in light pastel polo shirts, designer strides and Italian loafers are probably a builder and his mate (that's mate in a strictly hetero-sexual, fry-up, pie 'n' mash, I'll have seven sugars in mine, love, you-don't-get-many-of-those-to-the-pound-darlin', hod-carrying, lager drinking sort of way, you understand).

What's wrong with a study pair of plaster splattered overalls, for heaven's sake?

In simpler times you could spot a teacher hoving into view from a good 500 hundred yards - the leather patches on the sleeves of the moth-eaten tweed jacket glinting in the watery sunlight and the cloud of chalk dust wafting up from the threadbare brown corduroys was a dead give away.

Now they're just as likely to have dreadlocks and tie-die t-shirts or sharp-cut suits and skinny ties. Staff common rooms must look like the green room at Glastonbury.

A rolled-up brolly, a shiny-arsed pinstripe and a neatly folded FT was the mark of a complete merchant banker - but suddenly they've all gone incognito. Thank God their collective penchant for either Barbours, mustard cords and burgundy v-necks, or designer rugby shirts with the collars turned up and a light cashmere sweater knotted coyly over the shoulders means we still know exactly where to direct our not inconsiderable ire.

I recently popped down the local high street to buy a paper. Or at least I thought I had. Barely a few strides around the corner and I thought I was nearing base camp on Everest.

Why on earth have middle-aged men decided to dress like mountain climbers? Hulking great boots, cargo pants and fleeces may well be the very thing for a hike through Nepal, but this is bloody Ealing for Christ's sake, and if little old ladies can successfully navigate their way to the newsagents without the need for a Sherpa, then I'm sure you can too.

Surely one of the joys of middle age is the marvelous realization that you're no longer burdened by the need to dress to impress. Forget 'explorer at Gap' - sling on your favourite tea-stained t-shirt and cardie and relax, for goodness sakes - then we'll all know where we stand.

Sartorially, it's all gone horribly wrong. Cricketers wear pyjamas, news readers lounge across desks like up-market hookers, film stars dress like students and students dress like their dads (because their peter-pan dads still insist on dressing like students).

Try this simple test - if your first thought on seeing a skateboard is, 'a plank on a roller skate? You could really do yourself a mischief on one of those', rather than, 'wow, that looks like a really fun way to get about', then three-quarter length shorts, t-shirts with witty slogans on, flip-flops, beads and bracelets aren't for you. Trust me.

So what are we to do?

As far as I can see, we have two options.

1. We get rid of all these dreadful designer shops that are trying to be all things to all men (and women) and leading us up the garden path (neatly disguised as a catwalk) and set up shops that are designated solely by profession. So there's an outlet where bankers can buy bowlers, one where fine artists can buy smocks and berets, one where piss-artists can buy piss-stained jeans and jumpers with permanently wet elbows, one where builders can buy ill fitting, low slung jeans, one where train drivers can buy caps, boiler suits and little red scarves to tie round their necks, and one where eccentrics can buy bright patterned suits, large fedoras, capes, cravats and silver topped canes.

Or…

2. We accept that all bets are off and use our imagination. Forget turning up for your middle-management marketing meeting dressed like a surfer. Dress like a penguin instead. Give up the urge to dress like Marlon Brando in The Wild One in a desperate attempt to recapture your youth and embrace Carmen Miranda as a role model. Then life really would be fun. The budget delivered by a man dressed as Darth Vader would bring a smile to everyone's face (and still create the essential sense of foreboding). And it would be hard to get angry with a traffic warden with a white face, a red nose, an orange wig and three feet long shoes (even though you'd expect the doors to fly off your car the moment you started the engine).

Shit, did I say Marlon Brando in the Wild One? That's me. Not to mention Jimmy Dean in Rebel without a Cause. Unless anyone's got a bowl of fruit to hand that I can balance on my head, maybe we're fine as we are…