Ah, the Burberry Aviator. I have been avoiding this topic ever since it seared its mannishly sexy shearling and leather and buckle bedecked awesomeness onto my beleaguered eyeballs way back in January.
Why?! I hear you not so much gasp as mutter in a slightly tuttish and reproachful kind of way. (After all, is it not my job, my stated purpose, my purported raison d’être to provide up-to-the-minute commentary on the latest and greatest, the statement and the key, the must-haves and the – seriously? WTF. Don’t-make-me-come-down-there – must-nots of fashion, so help me God?!)
Well. Before you hot-foot it to the fashion blog next door, hear me out. A lack of foresight was most definitely not behind this seemingly insane omission – who in their right mind, or even their totally and utterly wrong mind, could have doubted the trend powerhouse that the Burberry Aviator would become?! (Even my Dad clocked this one and he styles himself in heady mix of late 70’s golfing jumpers, biker leathers and retro punk tees; a kind of Curtis Strange does swapsies in a darkened room with Johnny Rotten). No. My reasoning was simple…
a) The world, his aunt and his anally retentive parrot Phyllis were all on the Aviator bandwagon: homages to the flying jacket were loop-the-looping their way across the blogosphere, twitosphere and general internet-o-sphere like a swarm of starved locusts ready to homogenise the people of the globe into one giant Aviator-wearing fashion-army squadron.
Why add my barely audible squeak to the cacophony of the fashionable – and not quite so fashionable – set?…It is after all possible to be too trendy and I’m not really a massive fan of Goliath-sized bandwagons (in case you hadn’t noticed).
But it was b) that really got me. The lust factor. Of course I didn’t want to write about it…the level of torture is practically mind-blowing…like forcing a nil-by-mouth patient – or someone similarly hungry – to write the next M&S commercial surrounded by glossy pictures of exotically pre-modified potatoes and mouth-watering meats post-modified to Elysian heights. In a word: harsh.
The fact of the matter is I am totally, utterly, unequivocally, obsessively and (ever so slightly) psychotically in love with this coat. I don’t just love this coat, I f*%#ing love this coat. I would probably sell my own grandmother for one, I’d live off nothing but Tesco value bran flakes for eternity x pi + 1 just to have one in my possession, never mind to wear. I mean, Look. At. It. It’s a stylists wet dream, an item which, quite literally, goes with ANYTHING: even a fluro tri-colour shell-suit circa ‘82 would have a certain charm when paired with this baby…(Think about it…scary huh!?!?)
What more can I say? Christopher Bailey: my hat is off. May I please board the bandwagon?