A denim jacket

And what a denim jacket.  Junior Gaultier, bought in Paris in January 1989, from Kiliwatch in the rue St Denis.

John K and I were staying in the rue Jean Jacques Rousseau, and in the evenings, we went clubbing. A regular favourite was Le Palace, which was the second of literally only three clubs that were worth a shit; and even then, you had to pick your day (I like Prince; but only the truly deranged would want to spend literally the whole of Tuesday night dancing to his music).   

So, to a night called Pyramid; two blokes called Colin Faver and Laurent Garnier were dj-ing. On the door, the ice-queen with pre-Raphaelite curls was wearing a full-length polo-neck Arran-wool Gaultier dress. She turned away every person in front of us, then took one look at this jacket and waved me in (a very different reaction from the abuse it would get in the streets of London).  

Then she saw John, and was giggles and disbelief.  

He was wearing a pair of destroyed chinos whose hem swung a good three inches above Swiss-cheese socks and Dr Marten’s shoes (this was years before Thom Browne went Pee-Wee-Herman. Then it was a sure sign you were missing from a secure psychiatric unit); a Schott Perfecto zipped to the chin, underneath a tatty flasher’s mackintosh (Aquascutum, no less); and on his head, half a pot of Wave-and-Groom and a battered cotton trilby, the brim turned back on itself. Together, the true style of following your own path ad absurdum.

Of course she let him in; here was a look that could liquify tall buildings in its wake. And when the last DJ played “Buffalo Stance” at 7am the next morning, John was still dancing in his leather jacket and mac, his hat bunched tightly in his hand. A gentleman always removes his hat.