Forget the candy stripes, the naked ladies on the jacket lining, even the polka dot socks. The secret of Paul Smith’s success comes down to this: “I don’t have an email address.” What? “I don’t do email.” He goes further. “I don’t allow screens in my meetings,” he says, gesturing around his office. Mobile phones are banned and there’s not even a telly in his Covent Garden eyrie. Instead, it is stacked almost to the ceiling with knickknacks that have nothing to do with fashion.
There are boxes that automatically open and shut so fast you can’t put anything in them, much to Smith’s amusement. “A useless box! Brilliant!” Mechanical fingers tap, tap, tap on the table “to show I’m bored” and a cartoon head beats itself against a brick wall “for when I’m really bored”. Pride of place goes to a handwritten note by his eight-year-old grandson, which he has had framed. It reads: “Paul is a maniac.” Do his staff think he is mad, I ask. “I hope so,” he replies.
There is a method to his madness. He reckons the world, andenough dandies and too many trainers. “I’m a fan of classic shoes,” he says, gesturing to his brown brogues.
