Men’s jewellery. Your old man knew the score. The rules were simpler back then. The extent of your dad’s jewellery ‘collection’ consisted of a few pairs of cufflinks – at least one novelty golf pair among them – and two or three watches, tops. Signet rings were for stockbrokers and men who owned corduroy trousers; sovereign rings were for men who spent most of their time at the oche, or minding doors; necklaces were for hairy-chested taxi drivers and waiters on the Costa del Sol. Even wedding bands were a little bit sus, a little bit non-U, a little bit (worse) American.
Then things got blurry. Men, weirdly, started sliding their wedding rings onto their ring fingers, rather than into their sock drawers. Some men, men who weren’t even from Italy, began dangling St Christopher pendants from around their necks. Even Jeremy Clarkson, that torchbearer of stonewashed-jeans-and-driving-slipper dad fashion, began