If you want to buy bourgeois clothes, pay a visit to your local charity shop….
I have had my black blazer since the 1980’s that I bought in a charity shop. Worn, lost its shape, torn pocket, so I paid a visit today to the charity shop, a few minutes walk from home in Totnes (Devon, UK). I bought for seven quid (£7.00) a rather immaculate, beautifully fitting black jacket. I know nothing about designer labels. So I googled the label, Louis Feraud, and up came this article. Like the writer below, I never heard either of Louis Feraud.
” I have never heard of Louis Feraud, but I think it might be because of how he is saying it. I ask him to spell it out for me. He struggles after the “o”. He gets a little defensive. “You’ve never heard of Louis Feraud? You’ll be telling me next that you’ve never heard of Bruno Kirches or Van Kollem? What about Armani, have you heard of that?” I say I have heard of Armani. “Thank God for that. I thought that you might be into Man at C&A for a moment there.” He starts smoothing the creases in my suit.
“Look, you can sleep in the back of your car with the quality of suit that I’m offering you. Wake up, give it a shake, and there won’t be a crease in it. Not like that crap you’re wearing.” He pulls my jacket open a shade aggressively, and peers at the label. “Principles? F—ing Principles. What’s a VIP like you doing shopping in Principles? How much did that cost you? One hundred and twenty quid? You were robbed. Feel the material of this jacket.” And he lifts my hand and places it on the arm of his suit. I don’t know whether to stroke the material or squeeze the muscle bulging right through the suit that never creases.
“Marvellous,” is all I can think of to say. “Where are the suits?” I ask, my voice descending into a whisper.
“They’re in the toilet,” replies Bolt at full volume. “Just tell Tom, the attendant, that Bolt sent you.” I push my way past the ordinary punters, now swaying gently in their alcohol-induced haze, and head towards the toilets. The toilet attendant is looking harassed. A few ordinary punters try to spray themselves with the aftershave put out for them, without paying the customary 20p.
Tom’s prices seem to be a little bit different from those mentioned earlier. The Louis Feraud has risen inexplicably to £200. I point this discrepancy out to him. He tells me to go back and check the prices with Bolt. I then confess that I don’t have even a hundred on me in cash. He assures me the money would do tomorrow night. “If we can’t trust a VIP like you, who can we trust? After all, you are a regular.”
When Bolt goes off to tour the club, I ask Phil where he thinks Bolt might get the suits from. I want to know how hot they really are. Phil has a slightly different understanding of where they might come from. “Working in a place like this, you’re bound to get to know people,” he says. “He probably gets them at cost from the factory. All I know is that they’re top-notch and they’re cheap. I don’t ask anything else.”
It is a long night. I eventually start to leave the club at four in the morning, with my new Louis Feraud clutched tightly under my arm. It’s wrapped in half a binliner. Bolt shakes my hand as I depart. “You’ll look like a proper VIP in that suit,” says Bolt, “even if you do have to sleep in the back of your car tonight.”
I reckon I got a better deal than the reporter slinking down to the toilets in the club to buy a Louis Feraud. No doubt beloved readers of the blog have their stories of a bargain.