If you delve into any reasonably well-equipped gentleman’s wardrobe, you’ll probably find a few eponyms lurking around inside like joyous linguistic jewels of historical delight. Eponyms? Isn’t that just a fancy name for those little studs that fasten your manly chest mounds into starched cotton when you pop on a dinner shirt? No, my friend. An eponym refers to a person, real or imaginary, after whom something has been named, as well as to the name itself. And the world of style has some great ones knocking around.

There’s the Stetson, named after Johnny B. Stetson, acclaimed milliner. Confusingly, he also gave rise to the eponym within an eponym that is the Stetson Fedora, named after the heroine in the eponymous play by Sardou (nice). Amelia Bloomer championed the eponymous breezy undergarment whilst the French aerialist, Jules Leotard, creator of the flying trapeze, popularized the Milli-Vanilli look, many years before their ill-fated and essentially pornographic appearance on Top of the Pops.

Long before middle-youth sportswear fiends were trawling the internet for the latest rare Japanese kicks to make them feel like their twenties weren’t entirely wasted, Adi Dassler was busy thinking about putting three little stripes on the side of his plimmies. In fact, the Wellington, Gladstone and Macintosh all tip a wink to their inventors and advocates long after the only sartorial decision they need to be involved in is ‘pine or oak?’.

Of course, it’s not just limited to the ‘nom de l’homme’. When James Potter, a rich New York socialite wore a tremendous Henry Poole creation to the Tuxedo Park Club in 1886, a host of copycats were born. And who could forget Ambrose Burnside’s contribution to face-fashion in the 1840’s (think about it)?

The eponym is a great case in point for the academic approach to threads. When it comes to the style curriculum, it’s worth mixing a session of fashion with a double period of history and an evening class in etymology. If you know where your garment’s from, you’ll know where it’s at. And that’s a fact.

Legend holds that on leap year days (some say the entire leap year – but I am sticking with today), it is socially acceptable for women to propose marriage to men; any other time of the year, etiquette and custom dictated that only men were allowed to propose marriage.

This may be seen as rather an outdated notion, but with a little more digging, there is a great deal of evidence about the tradition of Leap Year parties. Throughout the 19th century, the 29th February was the day women invited the men to be their dates and dance partners, whilst being in charge of the festivities. Today is clearly therefore the day of unexpected courtship; whether it be for coffee, dinner or a weekend away, the ball is in your court…

If all else fails, I would suggest referring to The Savoy Cocktail Book that insists it has created a leap year cocktail that has been “responsible for more proposals than any other cocktail that has ever been mixed.” The success of the resultant marriage may be questionable, but at least you’ll of had fun along the way!

A good few years ago now, the weekend glossies took great glee in running seemingly endless stories about a very ordinary ‘phenomenon’ – the man bag.

Now, for some wholly irrational reason, I always imagine national broadsheet fashion editors as black-clad matriarchs with furious tempers and shallow souls – part Cruella De Vile, part Patsy from AbFab. Imagine the scene three days before the Sunday sections go to press. Interested only in the Addison-Lee-fuls of highly covetable outfits arriving daily from Milan and Paris by way of thinly-veiled endorsements, her editor reminds her of the increasingly number of male readers who might show more than a passing interest in their wardrobes. What can we offer the humble chap by way of runway wisdom this week my dear? “Just give ‘em a DPS on how it’s actually macho to wear a handbag, again”. Nice. Oh, and love those Laboutins.

But what does it all mean and what’s the impact on society of all this ‘handbag’ nonsense? Daily Mail propaganda aside, was it a damning landmark of new-man’s estrogen-fuelled journey into androgyny? Or a simply well-earned break for our jacket and trouser pockets? Who knows? But things have very clearly moved on from the proto-bag of yore.

The humble early manbag was still pretty butch, to be honest. If it wasn’t sculpted like a bowling bag, it took on the shape of a motorcycle courier’s knapsack. Bowling and bikes. Grrrrr. Then there was the seasonal transition to micro-bag. The visual admission that actually you weren’t carrying around lots of heavy lead piping, a shotgun and some nails from Wickes. In fact, you were completely comfortable with the whole manbag thing and all you have in there is a chapstick, a chequebook and the latest copy of Cheekbone magazine.

We’ve had the tote, the granny shopper, even a sort of clutch for eveningwear which accused many a style warrior of walking a decadent and confusing line down the busy, neon-lit high street of sexual-orientation. So, what next? Well, in my search for the latest ‘carry-me-beautiful’, I’ve hit a genuine brick wall. For six months, I’ve been waiting for ‘the next bag thing’. And I’m still kicking my heels.

In the meantime, there’s always the faithful, cheap, environmentally sound choice of ‘the Croydon Samsonite’ - a humble plastic number from Tescos – for the ultimate urban look. Bagamuffin!

The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry. So said someone infinitely wiser than I am. Still, it’s starting to become something of a life-motto for me (although may just be a cop-out for my general level of disorganisation). I can’t help but think that by planning things in advance and putting oneself in a world of diaries, itineraries and schedules, you’re missing out on all the excitement that comes with stepping into the unknown, and the rush of blood to the head that gives birth to those hair-brained schemes that make life more enjoyable.

And where would we be without those visionaries, willing to jump in with both feet to tasks that most other people just see as ridiculous? It’s a bit of a cliché, but without the oddball who thought it was a good idea to get underneath a cow, squeeze the dangly bit and drink what came out, your breakfast would have been a much dryer affair this morning. And society seems too quick to pour scorn on those willing to stick their head out of the window of life’s moving car. Just take John Darwin. You’ll have seen him in the news lately being lambasted for faking his own death whilst apparently on a canoeing trip, and using the insurance proceeds to hotfoot it with his wife to a new life in Panama. Sure, it was irresponsible, reckless and downright illegal, but there’s a significant part of me saying “good effort mate”. Schemes don’t come much more hair-brained than that.

So it’s with that in mind that myself and a long time croney have decided to nick off around Europe for a few weeks, armed only with a rail pass and an appetite for strong continental beer. This is both an exciting and worrying prospect, but at least I know it’ll be entertaining. I speak no languages. I don’t even have a big enough bag to get me through more than a weekend away. I think I’ve got a passport….

It’s this same spirit of foolhardy adventure that found me on the other side of the world back in 2002 with dangerously insufficient funds and a “how’d I get here?” look on my face. But that was one of the best years ever, so I guess that’s proof positive that the best plan is not to have a plan. I started writing this blog under the assumption that I’d have a lot to say about my impending adventure but thinking about it, if I did, then that would be something of a contradiction in terms. All I know is that for a fortnight next month, I’ll be in a foreign land. After reading this entry, you pretty much know as much as I do.

Oh and Jamie… if you don’t see me for a few weeks in March, now you know where I am.

The fashion police really don’t know where they stand when it comes to the humble timepiece. Ironically, it’s the one area of style where buying a designer label singles you out as fool easily parted with your money. £500 for plastic innards and silver plating? Sorry officer, I don’t know what came over me. You see, however much innate catwalk flair you entrust to the likes of DKNY, Christian Dior and Gucci, you may as well pick up your next watch with joystick controlling a hermetically-sealed miniature crane (avoiding cuddly bear and roll of Parma Violets) at a funfair. Why? Because there’s a golden rule when it comes to the timepiece - Only a dedicate watchmaker will provide you with a decent watch.

In the world of brands, little is done to temper the confusing and inappropriate hybrid product or endorsement.. At one end of the aspiration scale, it’s why Ferrari makes slippers with little horses on them. At the other end, there’s Ainsley Harriot and cup-a-soup. So, who thought that Paul Smith would be able to make a decent watch? Maybe the same man who gets his shoes made at Casio? When it comes to watches, stick with old school brands and stalwart styles. The word ‘timeless’ shouldn’t be used to describe something that doesn’t work from the 1920’s. Ditto ‘wind-up’.

I’m no expert. That would make me a Horologist and that sounds like I know what you did last summer. But a lifelong watchmaker once told me this - go for brands with pedigree and provenance. Any Rolex, Breitling or Omega from the last fifty years will be a sound investment because they’re reputation for quality is widely understood. Some of the less popular or exotic number, such as Ikepod, may be cool this week but try explaining that to a pornbroker just off the main strip in Las Vegas after an unlucky spell at the wheel.

For some serious timely advice on choosing your ‘hands’, visit a reputable store representing a gamut of brands. Watches of Switzerland is hard to beat, but you’ll find some very studious fellows at Selfridges international watch department too. Just remember, this - If it’s been near the catwalk, it’s likely to be a dog.

Camden! I was talking to someone the other week about how when you’re in your early teens, Camden Market seems like the most amazing place in the world - remember the sensory overload when you turned right out of the tube station and headed up to the market? It felt kind of dangerous. Edgy. And there were goths. In fact, I’m starting to feel that the Brick Lane area is becoming a bit like it; maybe it’s the influx of an element of society I recently overheard being described as “all those crustie Euros”.

Of course, there still remain a few good reasons to go to NW1: the Jazz Cafe (though I try and boycott it on principle owing to their greedy ‘booking fee’), Primrose Hill - the hill not the terribly precious conurbation bit - and there’s a pub I quite like on Delancy Street, a road name I’ve long been a sucker for; though having also been to Delancy Street in NYC, while I appreciate Lorenz Hart hasn’t felt any balmy breezes blow there or indeed anywhere else recently, it sure ain’t fancy any more. On that theme I did go and have a Chinese meal on Mott Street and while I wish I could say it was incomparable, I just remember the menu being somewhat tricky to navigate.

Anyway, I didn’t go to Camden this weekend, but I did go to the Camden Town Group exhibition at Tate Britain. It’s great. And isn’t all ambiguous if disconcerting scenes of the artists’ charladies in drab bedrooms, though there were plenty of them. Indeed, appropriately enough considering last week’s blog, there were also several of Walter Sickert’s famous if somewhat murky paintings of the clientele and the stars of London’s music halls.

Outside of his paintings Sickert is probably best known today because of the American crime writer Patricia Cornwall’s theory (and book) about him being Jack the Ripper. I read that book - for sale in the Tate shop oddly enough - very quickly while on holiday in Paris and it is worth a look though I was somewhat underwhelmed by her evidence. I think it is safe to say that she really, really wants it to be true.

I’m going to see Arsenal play Blackburn Rovers now. Not in Miami, Hong Kong or Tokyo either. Not yet.

Oh, and as *insert ‘first signs of spring’ cliché here* I found myself humming the old standard ‘Spring Can Really Hang You Up The Most’ this morning on the way to work; a lovely song whoever does it (though Mark Murphy does it the bestest) and particularly loved by me for the inspired couplet which rhymes “College girls are writing sonnets” with “but I’m up on the shelf with last year’s Easter bonnets”.
More next week.