THE DEVIL WEARS KENT, HASTE & LACHTER

Much in the way that others have a drink or drugs problem, I have a tweed problem. I have a problem getting hold of enough of it, because more is never quite enough. In fact, more is never anything like enough; you can never have enough tweed. I would go as far as plundering Boswell’s Life of Johnson and observe that when a man is tired of tweed, he is tired of life.

Part of its beauty is its total redundancy. It might have been a cutting-edge performance fabric if you were climbing Everest circa George Mallory’s era, or stalking circa Queen Victoria’s and Albert’s favourite ghillie, John Brown. But these days, unless you work as an extra on or , you have no