It’s 2011 and it’s dark. Tiësto is thumping out of cheap speakers and there’s a man – in fact there are lots of men – in scuffed brown shoes and scraggy blue jeans and black shirts with two, possibly three, buttons undone, and they’re writhing and screaming and the polyester is shimmering in the strobe light. And you’re stood there, thinking: This is great, I love Tiësto, 2011 is the best! But then you’re also thinking: Why would a man ever wear a black shirt? They never look good. For two decades, the black shirt has represented the worst in male taste. An emblem of totally misguided swagger. The ‘Going Out’ piece for trips to nightclubs called Visions, or Opium. The uniform of fights in queues between two wet-gelled boys called Dean. Read more at Esquire.
