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As I write, Philip Green’s Arcadia Group – which includes former high street stalwarts Topshop, Dorothy Perkins and Evans – has collapsed into administration. Yes, Topshop! The once seemingly indomitable, all-conquering Topshop.
Doubtless, Green would point to Covid for this demise; some of us may crook a small finger in Green’s direction. Famously a cuddly bundle of charm, Green fell out with the brilliant Jane Shepherdson, Topshop’s former brand director and the architect of its rise through the 2000s, and she left in 2007. This resulted in a slow but notable downturn in the quality of the clothes, and left the fashion field wide open for retailers such as, on the one hand, Zara, and on the other, Boohoo and PrettyLittleThing, all of whom grasped far quicker than Green that the future lay online.
Then there were the photos of Green poncing about on his yacht in Monaco while BHS, which he also once owned, collapsed with a massive pension deficit in 2016. I was once summoned to Green’s office for what I thought was an interview but turned out to be a screaming lecture about how I was a terrible anti-Semite for working at the Guardian. When I pointed out that I am, in fact, Jewish, he told me to get out of – and I quote – his “fucking office”. Stay well, Big Phil. I hope you now have plenty of time to relax on your fucking yacht.
My time on the Guardian’s fashion desk, 2000-2009, coincided with Topshop’s golden age, so my associations are personal and professional. My preferred Topshop habit was Saturday afternoons with a friend, and the clothes sometimes endured better than the friendships. (You can always find a new friend, but a £40 Celia Birtwell-print dress? Dream on.)
When I think of Topshop now, I don’t think of the dresses, or Green bellowing at me. I think of the time I went to the launch of Kate Moss’s first collection for the brand in 2007. Customers screamed as Moss posed in the shop window in a long red dress, in front of the international press. It felt like the biggest fashion story of the decade – and it probably was. Just 13 years later, that dream is done.
J Alfred Prufrock measured out his life in coffee spoons; I measure mine in high street stores I have loved and lost. This doesn’t stem from any misguided belief that the products were superior then, or that it was so much fun to schlep to the shops on a dark Saturday afternoon, which it often wasn’t. It’s because they were such an integral part of the way I got to know this country when I moved here from the US.
Going shopping with kids from my school was the way I made friends, just as buying singles from the high street record stores was the way I got to know UK music, making that shift from American boy bands to Britpop. I could tell the story of my life through stores that are no more: some have gone online-only, others have shut for good, some have a much-reduced presence; all made me the woman I am today.
First there was Kookai, which – like Timotei and Häagen Dazs – made no sense as a word, but was a big deal in the 90s. Kookai originally sold French-ish fashion on the cheap, only to make a sad turn later into shilling tacky crop tops and horrible Lycra dresses (see also: Jane Norman). I loved Kookai. I came from the land of Gap and Banana Republic, and Kookai’s floral dresses and colourful cardigans felt like an oasis after growing up in a desert of khaki. Once you outgrew Kookai, you could go to Karen Millen. But only the scary girls from my school shopped at Karen Millen, and therefore I never dared step inside until I was about 32, by which point it turned out I was too old.
As I said, Music was a formative part of my English education, and, being a totally un-basic person, Tower Records and Our Price were my chosen universities. American Tower Records stores in the 90s always played Pearl Jam; in the UK, they played Oasis which, relatively speaking, was a definite improvement. UK high street 2, America 0.
In the 90s and 2000s, it was a law in the UK that, for the first day of your first job, you had to wear clumpy Dolcis loafers. Strange but true, and I adhered to it. I was in my 20s, and obviously had an amazing social life, which in no way was contradicted by my Blockbusters loyalty card, filled with stamps from my regular rental of Rick Moranis movies.
The saddest closure was Past Times, the perfect place to buy a Medusa paperweight, or a William Morris print tie (presents from the past!) I loved it even more than my previously favourite shop, Innovations (presents from the future!); every birthday gift I bought for a relative between the years 1999-2012 came from there. I still don’t understand how it shut in the face of such loyal support.
Which brings us to Topshop. To paraphrase Lord Byron, when Topshop falls, so does the world. Or, as we will no doubt now discover, probably not. As even Big Phil will learn, shops that once seemed essential are quickly forgotten. Walking down my high street already feels like a stroll among the ghosts of Christmas past. These stores once taught me what Britain was. Now empty or occupied by bookies or estate agents, the buildings show us what Britain is has become
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