Dressing up with Nicky Haslam

I was thrilled when someone described me as ‘Britain’s most stylish 74-year-old’. It’s a great honour at my age.

At parties I overdress. Better to be overdressed than underdressed. Never look ‘funny’ — animal costumes are a bore.

The most fabulous festive party was New Year’s Eve at Bunny Roger’s on Walton Street in 1958. The theme was fetish. Pictures of Terence Rattigan and Margot Fonteyn dressed in rubber were all over the News of the World the next day.

I hate the razzmatazz of Christmas. It bores me s***less.

David Bailey and I once shared a flat. He was so wonderfully dressed, I wanted to copy everything he wore. We had the Mod look before anyone else: suits made in the East End, winklepickers, scooters…

I once pinched some underwear from Frank Sinatra. My girlfriend was having an affair with him. I found his boxer shorts, monogrammed with ‘F.A.S’, so I nicked them.

Should I still be wearing lumberjack gear? Probably not. I hear they have a new name for it — ‘lumbersexual’ — but I set the tone years ago.

When I lived on a ranch in Arizona, I loved wearing cowboy clothes. I even had chaps made from grizzly-bear skin.

In the 1970s bell-bottoms and platform boots were the most tragic trend. The best look from that era had to be the skinhead. I embraced it.

My parents were always throwing parties. Somebody once brought along the film star Greta Gynt. I was obsessed with her, but as a six-year-old she would have probably told me to f*** off.

When I was eight my mother took me to Paris to see the New Look at Dior. She didn’t buy anything, but she did buy a dress from Jacques Fath. There was a saying that fashionable women bought from Dior but smart women went to Fath.

I loved watching teddy boys lounging about outside our local cinema, with their brothel-creepers and Tony Curtis hairdos. They looked so glamorous.