Among the “highlights of the week”, among the paper shredders (“shreds up to five sheets of paper at once”), £19.99 men’s suits (“made from comfortable hard-wearing material”) and wooden shoe trees (“helps preserve the shape of your shoes”), is a page devoted to Burns Night paraphernalia. Here be belts with buckles as stout as tin foil, sporrans made of “genuine” leather, hose (ie socks) and kilts in a triumvirate of tartans which can be had for less than £25. Similar offers were made last year, when Lidl reported spectacular sales.
For those of a certain generation, for those of us who came to puberty during the 1960s, when to wear a kilt was about as hip as Bruce Forsyth, this represents a cultural revolution of seismic impact. In that swinging decade, when The Beatles allowed their hair to grow over their ears – a Rubicon many of us north of the border would never have been allowed to cross – and girls wore skirts so short they made tutus look like saris, the dominant television programmes in Scotland were The Kilt Is My Delight and The White Heather Club.
Of the former, I have no recollection. The latter, however, will remain in my memory even as the last bars of My Way transport me crisply to the hereafter. It used to be said that when a Scot hears the word “culture” he reaches for his kilt. This, one assumes, was the guiding spirit behind The White Heather Club.
Its star presenter and performer was Andy Stewart, a reincarnation of Sir Harry Lauder. Born in 1933, he had come to national prominence on the Edinburgh Festival Fringe in a revue in which he sang the show-stopper Ye Canna Shove Yer Grannie Off A Bus, to which I invariably asked: “Why on earth would you want to?” Other party pieces included Donald Where’s Yer Troosers? and Campbeltown Loch (I Wish You Were Whisky). In 1961, A Scottish Soldier, the song with which he was most intimately associated, spent no fewer than 36 weeks in the UK singles chart. Rock ’n’ roll may have been sweeping the rest of the world like bird flu but hereabouts more musicians than will now dare admit kept to the strict tempo and inflexible dress code laid down by the maestro accordionist and bandleader Jimmy Shand.
The kilt, of course, was an integral part of the act. Such was the success of Andy Stewart that soon countless children were made to ape his look, which consisted of full Highland dress. My own brother was one of them. Five years younger than me and therefore less able to resist parental edict, he would wear a kilt at church socials where he performed his own version of A Scottish Soldier with precocious aplomb. What the psychological effect on him has been I cannot possibly speculate. Nor have we ever discussed it; some family matters must remain buried beneath several layers of shag-pile. What I can say is that at the time I shared his pain, if such he was feeling, kilts being one sure way to invite cries of “jessie” from the historically challenged who whenever they spotted one immediately categorised it as a skirt.
Not, I hasten to add, that there is anything wrong per se in a man wearing a skirt. But what the mockers obviously did not appreciate is that the kilt has a long history which can be traced not only to iconic moments in the nation’s past but to that indefinite, elusive era of myths and legends. No one knows, therefore, when the first kilt was worn, let alone who was responsible for designing it. What we do know is that the wearing of kilts developed out of the use of the plaid, a cloak-like garment of admirable adaptability. Often, however, it proved cumbersome, and the kilt is believed to have been the solution to many a drover’s prayer, though not, surely, in the midst of the midgie season.
Even the eighteenth century had its fashion fads, and the kilt appears to have been as popular in its heyday as the duffle coat and the donkey jacket were in theirs. Thus it came to pass on the occasion of King George IV’s state visit to Edinburgh in 1822 that Sir Walter Scott, then even more famous than J.K. Rowling and Alexander McCall Smith are today, was given the task of orchestrating the proceedings, which he seized with a panache only impresarios such as Simon Cowell may truly appreciate. Highland chieftains – not long since pariahs – were summonsed from the glens and, decked out from head to toe in tartan, led the parades through Scotland’s astonished capital. George IV himself, weighing in excess of 20 stone, was swathed in tartan, a blinding sight to sore eyes.
Not everyone considered this great PR. Among the doubters was Scott’s own son-in-law, John Gibson Lockhart, who articulated what many of his fellow countrymen were privately thinking: “It appeared to be very generally thought, when the first programmes were issued, that kilts and bagpipes were to occupy a great deal too much space. With all respect for the generous qualities which the Highland clans have often exhibited, it was difficult to forget that they had always constituted a small, and almost always an unimportant part of the Scottish population; and when one reflected how miserably their numbers had of late years been reduced in consequence of the selfish and hard-hearted policy of their landlords, it seemed as if there was a cruel mockery in giving so much prominence to their pretensions.”
Nothing, needless to say, could possibly halt such a commercially lucrative bandwagon. No sooner had the king departed than Edinburgh was chock-a-block with shops selling the gamut of tartan tat. “We are like to be torn to pieces,” wrote one Edinburgh merchant to a firm of weavers. “The demand is so great that we cannot supply our customers.” The trend continued, indeed accelerated, when Queen Victoria acquired Balmoral and went tartan mad, inspiring a rush northwards that continues to this day. Everyone, it seems, wants either to own a piece of the Highlands or to become a Highlander, helped by endorsements from celebrities and toffs as diverse as Billy Connolly and Prince Charles, Steve Martin, Mel Gibson, Donald Trump and Jack McConnell. This despite the fact that the typical Highland crofter, as George Rosie has observed, dresses in boiler suit, wellies and cloth cap. “For important evening occasions he takes off his cap.”
None of which strikes me as any need to decry what is invariably – and erroneously – described as our national dress. As those who know a thing or two about marketing are wont to declaim, which other country in the world, given such instantly recognisable symbols of nationality, would not embrace and cherish them? If we weren’t blessed with tartan and kilts (and shortbread, whisky and Sean Connery) we would doubtless be spending fortunes trying to invent them. If you don’t like wearing a kilt don’t wear one; if you do, that’s up to you. What you must never do, though, is wear trews, which I have always interpreted as the apparel of a man with something to hide.
That can never be said of the kilt, whose devotees say it must be worn without undergarments. There used to be good reasons for this, health being paramount among them, but lately, encouraged by the loutish, it has given licence to hussies who cannot see a kilt without lifting it and inspecting what lies beneath, which a true and modest Scotsman would never willingly reveal. Such disrespect is the opposite of what the kilt should inspire, which is a cocktail of awe and surprise, fear and amusement. A kilt, as Alastair Scott, author of Scot Free, discovered when he travelled the globe in one, opens doors, gets you lifts and interest-free loans, makes you friends. Wear a kilt and you will never be lonely – or hungry or sober – for long. Which, when you come to think of it, is not bad for a mere £24.99.
Alan Taylor
Even on holiday in Egypt, Howie Nicholsby wears his. For this Scotsman, come rain, shine or camel ride, thou shalt wear the kilt every day.
But then you might say Nicholsby, 31, is hardly conventional – if not as a person, certainly as a kiltmaker. Although he trained in his father and mother’s traditional kiltmaking business, the first one he made in 1996 was in silver snakeskin PVC. That was soon followed by one in transparent pink PVC – “it really had to be worn with a sporran,” Nicholsby adds with a laugh.
After experimenting with this “crazy stuff”, which even he admits is more for the catwalk than Princes Street, he progressed into making kilts in everyday fabrics such as denim, tweed and leather. In January last year he opened his first store, 21st Century Kilts in Thistle Street, Edinburgh, which does a fine trade in high-quality, often hand-stitched, kilts of which only about 30% are tartan.
Although traditionalists regard Nicholsby’s everyday kilts as blasphemous – kilts should only be worn formally and in tartan – he has convincing counter-arguments: the traditional stereotypical kilt was introduced only in 1822 by Sir Walter Scott for the visit of King George IV to Scotland. At the same time Edinburgh tailors invented clan tartans, the Prince Charlie jacket is cut from English tailcoats, the word “tartan” comes from France, and “kilt” comes from Denmark and the Vikings.
“I consider myself a traditionalist,” says Nicholsby, a statement which must be more shocking to the tartan-lovers than his pink PVC kilt minus the sporran. “I wear a kilt every day as it was meant to be worn, as an everyday piece of clothing.
“In the olden days, the kilt was probably of much plainer material. Watch the films Braveheart and Rob Roy and you’ll see they’re wearing close dog’s-tooth check, which is really the original tartan. The kilt was an everyday piece of clothing and still is.”
If he is to be believed, more and more men are wearing the kilt every day. But even those closest to Nicholsby are not convinced. One morning he arrived at work at his parents’ shop, Geoffrey (Tailor) Kiltmakers, to find his father had cut up one of his sample books, thinking the modern materials too lightweight. He resigned that day. (Happily, relations between father and son are now better than ever.)
“Even now, he feels it is a niche market,” says Nicholsby of his father, “whereas I want the kilt to be international and for any man anywhere to pick it up and think, ‘I can wear that.’”
Celebrities appear to be on Nicholsby’s side. This year he has designed kilts for singers Lenny Kravitz and Robbie Williams, and actor Alan Cumming wore his to receive an OBE from the Queen. So, with a swish of his tweed kilt to the “traditionalists”, Nicholsby stands his ground firmly in the name of fashion. “I’d love to put a sign up in the shop saying I don’t sell Jacobean shirts, sgian-dubhs or ghillie brogues,” he says, grimacing. “Or white socks.”
Marianne Halavage
Brian doesn’t. Craig does. Wear pants under their kilts, that is. In this heated debate you might say Brian Halley is a traditionalist and his brother Craig a modernist. But they are united on one front, which is, as far as their kilts go, tartan rules.
Brian, 40, started his kiltmaking company, Slanj, in 1995, and was joined four years later by Craig, 37, who trained in fashion design then worked for Vivienne Westwood.
They now have shops in Glasgow, Edinburgh and Aberdeen. Although Slanj is a contemporary Scottish clothing company – besides kilts it offers Slanj Originals, a funky line of T-shirts and leisurewear – both agree there should be no modernising of the kilt. The jacket, sporran, socks and what-not, sure, Slanj keeps them modern to handsome effect. But the kilt, no, because it is a traditional piece and should stay as it is, beyond the reach of fickle fashion.
Even fashionable Craig, in thick, black Ray-Ban-style glasses, is not convinced by the “fashionable” take on the kilt. “I see the kilt as a formalwear thing,” he says. “I think any man wearing a kilt, traditional or modern, during the day looks a bit silly.”
As an afterthought he adds, “It’s a brave person who would wear a denim kilt in Glasgow during the day.”
“The neds would have a field day,” says Brian with a smile.
After the banter goes back and forth between the two, Craig continues, “Tartan is Scotland’s biggest export and its most recognisable thing and that’s why I find the modern materials a bit sad. I think everybody in Scotland should wear more tartan. I love that side of being Scottish. To me it’s a tragedy that people don’t embrace their national symbol.”
Although Brian says it has “not been easy”, the brothers have built the business up year on year, in part because of the enduring popularity of the kilt – not to mention hard work, good quality, a contemporary sideline range and a great name and logo aside. But why is the kilt so popular? “I think it’s just because it’s a skirt,” says Craig.
“It’s the novelty of it,” suggests Brian. “No other country has anything like the kilt, and that makes it special.”
Even if it is just a skirt, celebrities of all nationalities have flocked to Slanj to be fitted. As well as the obvious Sir Sean Connery, Billy Connolly and Ewan McGregor, the brothers have also kilted out Jermaine Jackson, Jonathan Ross and Mike Tyson.
“The highlight was Dougie Donnelly,” says Brian, pausing. He simply must be kidding, because last year they gave kilts to super-hip Tennessee rock quartet Kings Of Leon at T In The Park, thereafter spending all day backstage with the band.
But the Halleys’ revelations stop at name-dropping – and they refuse to say which celebrities dropped their pants.
Marianne Halavage
