Kindred Fashion

Most gym skirts make you look like a lost field hockey player from 2004. There, I said it. We’ve all been tricked by the Instagram ads showing a girl doing a 300lb squat in a pleated mini-skirt without a single thread moving out of place. It’s a lie. A total, complete lie.

I started wearing skirts to the gym because I got tired of leggings. Leggings are fine, I guess, but they feel like a second skin I’m constantly trying to peel off once I start sweating. But finding a skirt that doesn’t migrate to your armpits the moment you hit the treadmill is surprisingly hard. I’ve spent way too much money—probably close to $900 over the last two years—trying to find the ones that actually work.

The 2019 Equinox Disaster

I remember being at the Equinox in Soho back in late 2019. I was wearing this cheap, cute skirt I bought off some random Amazon brand. It had over 4,000 five-star reviews, so I figured I was safe. I was doing Bulgarian split squats—which are already a punishment from God—and halfway through my second set, I felt the ‘safety shorts’ under the skirt completely give up. They didn’t just ride up; they basically turned into a thong. I spent the rest of my workout hiding in the corner, tugging at my hemline like a crazy person. It was humiliating. I felt exposed, sweaty, and annoyed that I’d paid $35 for something that couldn’t handle basic movement.

That was the turning point. I realized that 90% of activewear companies design for the aesthetic of ‘fitness’ rather than the actual mechanics of it. They care about how the pleats look in a mirror, not how the silicone grip strip (or lack thereof) holds up against a quad pump.

Takeaway: If the built-in shorts don’t have a silicone grip on the hem, the skirt is essentially useless for anything more intense than a brisk walk.

The part where I tell you what actually works

I’ve tested about 12 different brands at this point. I tracked the hem-roll on the Nike Advantage skirt over 14 laundry cycles and found it lost exactly 3mm of structural integrity by wash 8. It started flaring out like a cupcake liner. Not ideal. But after all that, there are really only three I’d tell a friend to buy.

• Lululemon Pace Rival: I know, I know. It’s the basic choice. But I’ve worn my black one for 412 miles of running and the elastic is still holding on for dear life. The back pocket is actually big enough for a phone, which is rare.
• Alo Yoga Aces Tennis Skirt: This is my ‘I might go to brunch after’ skirt. It’s not as technical, but the fabric is thick. I might be wrong about this, but I think the thicker fabric helps with the sweat-wicking more than the thin, ‘aerodynamic’ stuff.
• Lorna Jane: Specifically their vintage-style ones. They use a proprietary fabric mix (82% polyester, 18% elastane) that feels indestructible.

I used to think pockets were the most important thing. I was completely wrong. Pockets are a distraction if the waistband doesn’t stay put. What I mean is—actually, let me put it differently. A skirt with ten pockets is still a bad skirt if the waistband feels like a python with an anxiety disorder. You want compression, but you don’t want to be strangled.

An unfair take on brands I hate

I refuse to recommend Outdoor Voices. I know they have a cult following, and their ‘Doing Things’ motto is cute, but their colors make me look like a bruised peach. Their fabric also feels like a cheap tent. It’s stiff, it’s noisy when you walk, and it doesn’t breathe. I don’t care if everyone on TikTok loves them; I think they’re selling an aesthetic to people who don’t actually sweat. There, I said it. It’s a scam for the ‘clean girl’ aesthetic crowd.

Also, Skirt Sports. I hate the name. It feels patronizing. Like, ‘Oh, look at you doing sports in a little skirt!’ No thanks. I’ll stick to brands that don’t talk down to me.

Anyway, I digress. The point is that you need to look at the inseam. A 14cm inseam on the inner shorts is the absolute minimum for anyone with actual thighs. Anything shorter and you’re just asking for a chafe-fest. I once tried a 2.5-inch inseam and my inner thighs looked like raw steak after a three-mile run. Never again.

The technical stuff (sort of)

I did a ‘bounce test’ with these three. I jumped on a plyo box 20 times and measured how far the skirt moved from my natural waistline.

1. Lululemon: 0.5 inches of movement.
2. Alo: 1.2 inches of movement (it’s heavy).
3. Lorna Jane: 0.8 inches.

Lululemon wins on stability. It just works.

I’ve noticed that people get really defensive about their gym gear. Like it’s a personality trait. It’s not. It’s just fabric that we’re going to sweat in and eventually throw in a hamper. I’ve bought the same $78 Lululemon skirt four times now. I don’t care if something better exists; I know this one doesn’t make me want to cry in the middle of a leg day. That’s worth the price tag to me.

I sometimes wonder if we’re all just dressing for a version of ourselves that doesn’t actually exist—the version that looks cute while doing burpees. In reality, I’m red-faced, gasping for air, and probably have a strand of hair stuck to my lip. Does the skirt really matter then? Probably not. But at least I’m not worrying about my shorts becoming a thong.

Buy the Pace Rival in black. Trust me.

The UK fashion scene on Instagram is currently a hostage situation involving beige linen and oversized blazers. If I see one more reel of someone twirling in a Cotswolds garden wearing a trench coat that costs more than my car, I might actually throw my phone into the Thames. It’s all so… polite. It lacks the grit of actually living here, where it rains sideways and the Northern Line smells like damp wool and despair.

I’m just a guy who works a normal job and spends way too much time looking at clothes I can’t afford, but I’ve been following these people for a decade. I’ve seen the shift from genuine “outfit of the day” posts to these highly produced, cinematic productions that feel like perfume adverts. It’s exhausting. Most of the “top fashion influencers UK” lists you see online are written by bots or people trying to sell you a course on ‘personal branding.’ I’m just here to tell you who is actually good and who is a total fraud.

The Great Beige Delusion

Let’s talk about the big names first. You know the ones. Lydia Millen, Victoria Magrath (Inthefrow), and that whole tier. Look, they’re successful for a reason. They’re professional. But I cannot relate to a woman who spends her Tuesday morning deciding which Hermès bag matches her manicured hedge. It’s not fashion; it’s a property portfolio with a wardrobe attached. Following her feed is like a museum where you aren’t allowed to touch anything.

I used to think this was the goal. I really did. I thought if I bought the right loafers, my life would suddenly become a series of slow-motion walks through a meadow. I was completely wrong. What I mean is—actually, let me put it differently. It’s not that their style is bad, it’s that it’s unattainable for anyone who actually has to, you know, do things. Like go to a Tesco or sit on a bus.

I had a moment of clarity back in October 2022. I was in a Manchester Zara, trying on a trench coat that a very popular influencer had sworn was a ‘staple.’ I’m 5’9″ on a good day. In the mirror, I didn’t look like a chic Londoner. I looked like a child wearing his dad’s coat, or worse, a flasher in a rainstorm. I spent £140 on that coat. I wore it exactly twice before the belt fell off and I realized the fabric felt like a cheap tent. That was the day I stopped listening to anyone with more than 500k followers who uses the word ‘investment’ for a polyester blend.

Real style isn’t about looking like you have a trust fund; it’s about looking like you actually know how to dress yourself for a Tuesday in Birmingham.

The people I actually bother with

If you want actual inspiration that doesn’t feel like a sales pitch, you have to look smaller. Or at least, more specific. There are a few people in the UK scene who haven’t lost the plot yet.

Brittany Bathgate is probably the gold standard. She’s based in Norwich, not London, which already makes her more interesting. Her style is very minimal, very ‘art teacher who has a secret cigarette behind the bike sheds.’ It’s repetitive, which is why I like it. Real people wear the same jeans three times a week. She actually shows you how to style things differently over months, not just new hauls every Saturday. I might be wrong about this, but I think she’s the only one who actually understands proportions.

Then there’s Lizzy Hadfield. Her ‘Testing Basics’ series is the only useful thing on the internet. She actually compares white t-shirts from Uniqlo, Arket, and The Row. She doesn’t just say “I love this,” she talks about the neck binding and the weight of the cotton. I actually tracked my own ‘cost per wear’ on three items recommended by her over six months. A pair of £90 boots lasted 142 wears before I needed a cobbler. A ‘must-have’ pair from a fast-fashion influencer lasted 12 wears before the heel peeled. 12. Total waste of money.

Emma Hill is another one. She’s a bit more ‘commercial,’ but she’s honest about what’s worth the money. She’s also a bit of a recluse which I find deeply relatable. She doesn’t go to every single influencer party at Annabel’s. She stays home with her dogs and wears blazers. It’s a vibe.

The Ganni Problem (A Mini-Rant)

I know I’m going to get heat for this, but I have to say it: I hate Ganni. I know every UK influencer treats a Ganni collar like it’s a religious relic, but I can’t stand it. It makes grown women look like oversized toddlers. It’s the sartorial equivalent of a ‘Live, Laugh, Love’ sign. I refuse to recommend any influencer who builds their entire personality around that brand. It’s lazy. It’s expensive for what is essentially quirky polyester. Anyway, I digress. But if you see someone in a giant ruffled collar and cowboy boots, just know I’m judging them from afar.

Actually, while I’m being unfair, let’s talk about the ‘Clean Girl’ aesthetic. It’s just being rich. That’s all it is. It’s having enough money for a monthly hair gloss, a personal trainer, and a steamer for your silk shirts. It’s not a style; it’s a tax bracket. Most UK fashion influencers who push this are just selling the idea that if you buy this specific £40 claw clip, you’ll stop being stressed about your rent. It’s a lie.

How to tell if they’re lying to you

I’ve developed a bit of a system for vetting these people. I’ve spent way too much time analyzing engagement rates and ‘AD’ disclosures. Here is my very scientific, 100% biased checklist for whether a UK fashion influencer is worth your time:

• Do they ever wear the same thing twice? If every single post is a new outfit, they aren’t an influencer; they’re a catalog. Block them.
• Do they show the ‘ugly’ parts of an outfit? Like how a skirt bunches up when you sit down, or how a wool coat attracts every stray hair in a three-mile radius.
• Is everything ‘the perfect’ item? If they have 15 ‘perfect’ white shirts, they have no taste. They just have a link.
• Do they live in London? This is controversial, but London influencers live in a bubble. They think everyone walks to a coffee shop in 18-degree weather. Follow someone from Glasgow or Leeds if you want to see how to actually dress for the British climate.

I’ve noticed that the best influencers usually have a bit of a weird hobby or a job outside of Instagram. When it’s their only job, they start to lose touch with what clothes are actually for. They start dressing for the camera, not the pavement. I once saw an influencer in Soho taking photos in a silk slip dress and sandals in February. It was 3 degrees. She was shivering between shots. It was humiliating to watch.

I don’t know why we do this to ourselves. Why do we look at these people? I think it’s because we’re all just looking for a shortcut to feeling put-together. We think if we find the right person to follow, we’ll finally solve the puzzle of our own wardrobes. But the truth is, most of these ‘top’ influencers are just as confused as we are—they just have better lighting and a free PR package from Sezane.

If you’re looking for a recommendation, just buy a good pair of Levi’s and a Uniqlo U t-shirt. That’s it. That’s the whole trick. You don’t need a £600 blazer to look like you have your life together. You just need to stop believing the beige lies on your feed.

I’m still looking for that perfect trench coat, though. Maybe I’ll find one that doesn’t make me look like I’m about to sell you a stolen watch in a dark alley. Or maybe I’ll just accept that I’m not a ‘trench coat person.’ Is that a thing? Can you just not be a trench coat person? I genuinely don’t know.

Stop buying stuff you saw in a 15-second reel. Your bank account will thank you.