WHEN our son, Jake, was about 14, he came home ever so excited having bought a new shirt. It looked very boring to me as it was hardly more than a plain vest with a collar, the sort we wore at primary school during the war. He’d spent a huge amount on it.
“It’s Fred Perry,” he said. “Look!” He pointed to a little logo , a sort of miniature laurel leaf, clearly waiting for my gasps of astonishment.
“So?”
“So it’s a genuine Fred Perry! Everybody can tell.”
I asked if that meant he had got it cheap. If you are craven enough to follow the herd and become a walking advertisement for some product, surely the company should be paying you, or at least giving a big discount?
Advertisement
“You don’t understand,” he sighed.
I didn’t, of course, having been brought up in a brand-less age. During the Second World War, utility clothes did not carry the names of the manufacturers. They liked to keep their involvement quiet, and were ashamed of things such as cardboard shoes. After the war, Marks & Spencer became a brand in that we trusted its products, but it didn’t stick its moniker on the front of your chest for all to see. Now the only design on many clothes is the brand name, emblazoned across the middle of the jumper, shirt or whatever — nothing else. I think people must be potty.
When I see the words “organic”, “farm-fresh” and “designer”, or the name of a well-known brand, my immediate reaction is always the same — it means it is expensive. They don’t fool me, oh no.
The other week there was a survey listing the top 20 coolest brands in Britain. Looking down the list, there was only one brand that I was consciously aware of ever using. Names such as Instagram, Netflix and Spotify — I dunno what they are. Nike and Adidas — I would run a mile if anyone tried to sell them to me. I know they are no more able to make me run a four-minute mile than a pair of cheap trainers from a market stall costing a quarter of the price.
The No 1 brand on the list is one I do use, however. I have an Apple iPhone and am writing this column on an Apple Mac computer, which I love dearly (although no more dearly than my cheap Amstrad, which I had for 10 years.)
Advertisement
Brands, obviously, have to be considered good and popular to become a brand. But then it seems to me that when they do, they put up their prices, trying to make themselves more exclusive and desirable.
I can see the pleasure some people get in being a slavish follower of brands. I have a granddaughter who is besotted with designer shoes and bags, even though they are clearly miles out of her price range.
There is a current passion among the young and simple to have brands tattooed onto their bodies. Just the name and logo, such as Prada or Gucci, turning their naked bodies into a billboard. Mad or what?
I do admit, however, to once owning a Jaguar, old and crumbly though it was — just like me. I did get slight amusement and pleasure from the reaction of people who did not expect a mean beggar like me to lash out on an expensive car. Now I have a boring VW Golf, which gets no positive reaction. In fact, it could turn to pity, depending on what happens to the VW brand.
But there is one brand I am potty about, whose name I always look out for, even though I know, if I looked harder, I could find similar products at half the price: Birkenstock.
Advertisement
I have worn its sandals for years — so comfy, so sensible, so cleverly shaped for the toes. I have walked the Lakes in them, and up Table Mountain in Cape Town. Yes, I know they look ugly and horrible (my family tell me that all the time). In the winter rain, I wear them with waterproof socks, which they say makes me look even more horrible.
I used to get through a cheapo pair of £10 sandals every summer till I discovered Birkenstocks. Now I get two whole years out of them at least. They don’t have hideous, prominent logos on them, though other Birki wearers recognise them at once. We nod in appreciation. But they are not cheap, and I can never believe it is me buying them.
I recently needed a new pair after keeping the old ones together with tape, so I went on the internet and found a pair at £27. They were Birkenstock but turned out to have no strap at the back — not the style I wanted. So I trailed to the Birkenstock shop in Covent Garden, central London, and bought the style I always get, which now costs £55. God, I could have bought a car for that.
I idly asked if they did repairs, as they were so expensive. They said they do new soles — for £39. To repair a sandal! I had to sit down. This is the trouble with brands: they pile on the costs, knowing brand-lovers are trapped.
Later I remembered we have a shoe-repair man not far from us: Tony’s in Kentish Town, north London. He agreed to repair my old pair for £12. I then found another old pair at the back of my wardrobe. I never throw anything out if it has cost money, only stuff from charity shops. It’s called recycling.
Advertisement
So now I have four pairs of Birkenstock sandals. What a boaster. Yet this is the person who does not believe in expensive brands. If each lasts me two years, it means I have to live for another eight years to make it worth it. Which I will, oh yes, because I would not want to waste all that money . . .
Hunter Davies will celebrate his 80th birthday in January