スティーヴン・フライさんのインスタグラム写真 - (スティーヴン・フライInstagram)「They say that the secret of succeeding in business for the long term is sticking to what you know. Your core market. You can certainly say that Hackett have now been around long enough to have shown that they understand this principle well. Few menswear retailers have established a more defining style and tone.  I thought when Hackett first appeared in the King’s Road, Chelsea in the early 80s that they had made up their name as a kind of play on “hacking jacket”, for that was just the kind of clothing you could expect to find there. Tweed. Brick red or lovat green corduroy and moleskin trousers. Rugby shirts in the navy blue school colours of a school that doesn’t quite exist - the kind of rugby shirt that the buyer’s girlfriend might borrow for herself to wear at the weekends.  Guernsey sweaters. Green puffer jackets. Everything for the Sloane Ranger. In fact the name comes from founder @mrjhackett – nominative determinism at work perhaps.  Anyway, the venture caught on and by the 90s there were @Hackettlondon branches all over town. Once the century turned I got to know them very well indeed. After a few years of being fitted by @ozwald_boateng,  Hackett took over as the official maker of my outfits for the @bafta Film Awards. 11, or was it 12 times I hosted those ceremonies and for at least 6 or 7 I was Hacketted. The splendid Graham Simpkins was the gifted tailor given the irksome task of fitting a man who could easily put on (or on rare occasions even lose) half a stone in a week. Making suits for me must have been like, in Wodehouse’s immortal phrase, “a one-armed blind man in a dark room trying to shove a pound of melted butter into a wild cat's left ear with a red-hot needle.” Well made and as British as digestive biscuits, Hackett fills a niche perfectly - which is the definition of success in the natural world, and in the retail world too.  Today’s #fryties demonstrates the kind of paisley that isn’t too far off a blend of The Virus (complete with protein spikes) and a mess of wriggling sperm. Fine for town or country.」6月13日 14時04分 - stephenfryactually

スティーヴン・フライのインスタグラム(stephenfryactually) - 6月13日 14時04分


They say that the secret of succeeding in business for the long term is sticking to what you know. Your core market. You can certainly say that Hackett have now been around long enough to have shown that they understand this principle well. Few menswear retailers have established a more defining style and tone.

I thought when Hackett first appeared in the King’s Road, Chelsea in the early 80s that they had made up their name as a kind of play on “hacking jacket”, for that was just the kind of clothing you could expect to find there. Tweed. Brick red or lovat green corduroy and moleskin trousers. Rugby shirts in the navy blue school colours of a school that doesn’t quite exist - the kind of rugby shirt that the buyer’s girlfriend might borrow for herself to wear at the weekends. Guernsey sweaters. Green puffer jackets. Everything for the Sloane Ranger. In fact the name comes from founder @mrjhackett – nominative determinism at work perhaps.

Anyway, the venture caught on and by the 90s there were @ハケット branches all over town. Once the century turned I got to know them very well indeed. After a few years of being fitted by @オズワルドボーテング, Hackett took over as the official maker of my outfits for the @bafta Film Awards. 11, or was it 12 times I hosted those ceremonies and for at least 6 or 7 I was Hacketted. The splendid Graham Simpkins was the gifted tailor given the irksome task of fitting a man who could easily put on (or on rare occasions even lose) half a stone in a week. Making suits for me must have been like, in Wodehouse’s immortal phrase, “a one-armed blind man in a dark room trying to shove a pound of melted butter into a wild cat's left ear with a red-hot needle.” Well made and as British as digestive biscuits, Hackett fills a niche perfectly - which is the definition of success in the natural world, and in the retail world too.
Today’s #fryties demonstrates the kind of paisley that isn’t too far off a blend of The Virus (complete with protein spikes) and a mess of wriggling sperm. Fine for town or country.


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