Morgan Freeman once said in The Shawshank Redemption, “I mean how often do you really look at a man’s shoes?” Well Freeman my response would be, a lot. A heck of a lot. This swift glance determines my ruling verdict of whether such a man can stride tastefully in a pair of Stubbs and Wooton embroidered velvet loafers into my life (even you Scott Disick, minus the brightly coloured cashmere socks, added panache can be substituted in anything silk-blend). Or out of my life in a shabby pair of canvas espadrilles, plimsolls, or even worse a 100% synthetic number from Office. The spectrum of the shoe wear portfolio is vast yet the line between good taste and something rather unsightly is darn right slim.
Imagine the horror when approached by a handsome man in the wrong pair of shoes. Porsum pants, Brooks Brothers Polo shirt, and an YSL jacket are all commendably well chosen to the bottle of Armand De Brignac in his hand, yet destroyed when he has failed to complete the job by opting for bogus footwear.
Girls love shoes. No dispute. Girls who love men shoes. Somewhat rare. Whether it be Oliver Spencer country suede wingtip brogues or Jil Sander derby shoes. The first thing I notice when I meet a man is his shoes. What could be more of a turn-on that sleek double-stitching? Nothing you say. Well I stand corrected, only Italian leather with high polish! If any man hopes to walk those footsteps into my heart it better be in Salvatore Ferrgamo. Lucky for them the only Italian I know is chiudi la bocca e facciamo sesso.