Alan Titchmarsh. Nice fellow, I’m sure. But what a tremendous irritant, too. The soft lilting tones and even softer hair, nonchalantly swept back by a gentle Northern breeze, make for a man most octogenarian ladies swoon for. Ever since Lady Chatterly decided that gnarled, calloused and grass-stained hands were the only things she’d let anywhere near her starched and pressed linen, the Englishman has feared the gardener, always furtively creeping through the foliage to pounce on our unsuspecting, but potentially welcoming better-halves.

‘Titch’, or ‘The Fertiliser’ as he should be known, is probably the most over-exposed soil-botherer we have in blighty, and with good reason. See how he delicately handles and caresses the foliage of a rare orchid. The way he forcefully hydrates an vast geranium bush with a impressively lengthy watering can. And so on. Don’t get me wrong, I think a lifetime of B&Q checkout purgatory would be too good for him. It’s just that, well, I reckon he’d actually turn out to be a reasonably nice chap in real life, all ‘it’s my round, put your money away, sunshine’ and ‘you should meet Sue Lawley, you two would get on like a house on fire. There’s a BBQ at my place this Saturday and she’ll be there, you know?’. Lucky for the rest of us that there’s a serious, Yamamoto shawl-sized chink in his armour du amour - an fundamental and irretrievable lack of style.

Gardeners may have the borders under control, granted. But, sweet christ, look at those cords. Really. They may be able to tell their Phalangium from their Clematis but ask them the difference between a Half-Windsor and a Four-in-Hand and see them wilt like last year’s Hippomanes Mancinella (that’s ‘flowers’ to you and me).

This weekend, I decided to take my newly acquired garden in hand for the first time. In fairness, it’s by no means a large lawn but the prospect of cutting through the six months of unchecked growth provided a new novelty. Up until now, the only tackling of grass I’ve ever been involved in resulted in suspension from sixth form but, armed with the cheapest of Flymos and a spare four hours, I set about my wardrobe to find the perfect attire. I flirted with a khaki desert suit, pithelmet and stout walking boots but feared it would come out of the debacle looking like it’d been dip-dyed in green ink. A heavy tweed action suit (’for the leafy gent’) was a no-no in the uncharacteristic English spring heat. I proved a little faint of heart for shorts, too. Heaven knows what serpents lie beneath the undergrowth? Thus, I plumped for the stalwart glamour-flage of Maharishi. For starters, you don’t have to worry about resultant grass stains. And, if you discover a group of fashionista revolutionaries hiding out in the undergrowth, you’ll avoid capture every time. Perfect.

Now the lawn is teased and trimmed to glorious perfection. But there’s a problem. Just like the welt on a good Lobb, it needs regular loving attention. As a faithful advocate of ‘never wear anything to the same occasion twice’, I’m struggling. And this is why Alan and his flora-obsessed buddies dress like wallflowers. Pass the cords, Monty, I feel the need…the need to weed.

OK, so despite various harbingers of doom concerning climate change, global warming and the like (all serious issues of course), the weather in 2008 thus far has been pretty poor. It just hasn’t been making an effort - all the seasons seem to be melding into one unending, drab October afternoon.

Well no more!

The sun is here for at least four days in a row according to the sage weatherfolk at the BBC, so I have taken the admittedly drastic step of BREAKING OUT THE SHORTS. Please see attached picture. Based on past experience of taking a potentially premature leap to shorts, this action on my part is at least fairly likely to bring about a thundering monsoon of biblical proportions, so I just wanted to warn everyone in advance. If it starts clouding up, blame me.

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.

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 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.

There’s a capricious irony to bedroom wear – after all, a strong school of thought will suggest that we should all be naked as babes when things get all horizontal and deeply nocturnal. But there’s a vast array of fabulous sartorial splendor that awaits in the world of Le Nuit A La Mode. The journey of cool can be traced broadly from a child’s He-Man jim-jams to a bespoke silk and barrathea mix Prussian sleep suit with original horn buttons and a secret pocket for reading glasses and a hipfask of port and brandy mixed with Tixylix and Ibruprofen for nights when one is plagued by thoughts of the days toil.

When it comes to slumber-wear, I’ve always been a bit of a ‘corporal’ myself. In other words, almost ‘commando’. But with a pair of shooting socks. In fact, there’s not really anything that tops a socks-only approach to nighttime maneuvers in the skirmish for style. However, this Christmas I received something really rather special – a soft denim-blue chambery robe, piped in calico cotton, from Hackett’s. I have to say, I’ve never been a fan of the brand. It’s usually the last word you see before getting your nose broken by the rugby-chav whose pint you’ve spilled all over the floor of an arriviste Richmond gastropub. But they really know their stuff when it comes to snooze-gear. It also supports a number of louche looks, which make for wild entertainment in the bedroom. From ‘furtive playwright’ to ‘jedi master’, the robe turns any humble and demure individual into a flamboyant rogue, treading the boards in the theatre of fashion masterfully and with great grace and elegance. The moral of the (bedtime) story? Kit yourself out for the duvet catwalk – you’ll never look back. ZZZzzzzzzzz