Sheesh, what does he look like?” That’s what I’m thinking when a male model walks down a catwalk in a mesh vest, a peacock-feather dress, pink leather culottes and a yellow umbrella lined with human hair. Normal blokes don’t wear dresses made of peacock feathers. There might be a few Notting Hill types in leather culottes, but not matched with a yellow umbrella. With someone’s hair all over it. Not ever. Of course, I don’t know what I’m talking about. I am a dedicated follower of Marks & Spencer. Catwalk fashion is art, isn’t it? Fashion designers are artists. By finding an outfit made of whips, frog skin and french toast ridiculous, I am clearly missing the point. I am obviously a philistine.

In an attempt to resolve my misunderstanding, I volunteered (or was volunteered) to wear catwalk clothes in the real world. For a whole week. And my real world isn’t Notting Hill. It’s Kent, where men wear TM Lewin suits and women push Bugaboos (or, increasingly, vice versa). Some of the hottest clothes from the autumn/winter collections were called in and, even before they arrived, I was pretty sure it would be an embarrassing week.

The first to arrive was a Hugo Boss suit. Nothing bad about that, you’d think, but you’d be wrong. This is catwalk, so it had large black and white checks, the trousers were Russell Brand tight, it came with a mid-1980s white polo-neck instead of a nice, ordinary shirt and the shoes were pointed despite having square soles. Still, it was a suit. No peacock feathers or anything. Who would notice?

As it turns out, everyone. I walked out the office to wolf whistles. I walked past the first pub to what can only be described as heckling and the second to a chorus of “W***er”. You have only two options wearing a suit like this: you can strut like you mean it, or you can cower like you got dressed in the dark and have only just realised what you look like. After the heckling, I stopped strutting and started cowering. Even so, I was stopped by Korean tourists on Tower Bridge and asked to pose for photos. Nearing London Bridge, I could have sworn a shuffling man in stained chinos slowed down to let me pass so he could admire my tightly wrapped buns.

It was only when I reached the familiar confines of carriage six of the 19.08 to Ashford that I could relax. The usual grey, weary commuters with their furrowed brows and their cans of G&T didn’t bat an eyelid. Such is everyone’s desire not to talk to anyone else, you could probably wear a woollen codpiece and nobody would mention it.

As luck would have it, the second outfit did include a woollen codpiece, courtesy of Alexander McQueen. The look was completed with a strange green leather coat with a fur neck, some woollen tights and a cardigan. I hosted a barbecue for our baby group in this outfit and was asked to remove the codpiece even before I’d put the sausages on. People said it was ruining their appetite.

The plan had been to take my children to the swings in Vivienne Westwood, but then I put it on. The kilt (which sounded like fun — I’ve always fancied myself in a kilt) was uncharacteristically short and not remotely tartan. Nor was there a sporran. To all intents and purposes, it was a short skirt. You have to be careful what you wear to the swings these days. You don’t want to get put on a list. So I went shopping in my Westwood instead. Did I mention there were calf-high boots and a Christmas jumper as well? And a hat, a sort of trilby with holes in? It’s safe to say that my high street wasn’t prepared for Vivienne. Because we’re all very polite in my town, there was only pointing, sniggering and the odd sounding of a car horn. But then I reached the fruit and veg stalls. “Bloody hell, mate. Look at the state of you,” said the guy selling plums. “Want some plums?” As it happened, I did, but I bought them from Waitrose instead. I won’t be insulted because of the way I look.

It was while queuing to pay for my plums that, for a brief moment, I pondered what a shame it is that men have to be quite so conformist. Women can go around in any number of insane styles — leg warmers, nighties, shoulder pads and so on — and nobody bats an eyelid. I wear one shrunken kilt and traffic, literally, stops.

Back in the metropolitan bliss of London, I convinced some friends to go to a bar with me in my Gareth Pugh three-quarter-length jacket made of leather and nails. A thousand nails, obviously, all hand-stitched in. They only agreed to come if I didn’t wear the accompanying black plastic, faux-feather face cover. While I might have struggled getting through airport security, the bouncers didn’t have the slightest problem letting me into their bar. I could have injured half the other patrons with a hug, but nobody seemed to care. One drink in, some girls, actual girls, started eyeing me up. I smiled. They smiled. I smiled again. They giggled.

“They think you’re a tool,” said my friend helpfully. “They’re not smiling with you.” Perhaps, but back home, my wife, a keener fashion follower, said she loved the Matrix-rocker look. She said she found it very sexy — and I don’t even think she was lying. So if you see a plonker in a jacket made of nails worth a few grand, don’t shout, “W***er”. I’m wearing it for a reason.

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