GONE FOR A BURTON

Sometimes, a single word is enough. All that was engraved on Hannibal's tomb was his name. For that alone told the whole story. Once upon a time, it was the same with Burton's. Two syllables and an apostrophe that was usually forgotten became the trademark of far more than a local link in a chain store. Burton's stood for a respectability that hinted at prosperity and success.

No other shops were so easily or instantly recognisable. Burton's were normally built at busy road junctions which, whatever their names on the map, became Burton's Corners and landmarks at which courting couples met on their way to the pictures. Above the shops, there were often smoky billiard halls, dens of vice into which schoolboys peered from the tops of passing tramcars. They became known as Burton's Billiard Halls.
The Billiard Halls - 'saloons', as they were called by decent families as a sign of disapproval - did not fit happily above the gentleman's tailor and outfitter on the ground floor. For Burton's was The Tailor of Taste - a cut above John Collier (The Window to Watch) the Fifty Shilling Tailor, who offered (as his name implied) 'cheap' or 'reasonable' suits, according to his salesman's choice of language.

Burton's extended our boyhood vocabulary. We never quite mastered Montague - the founder's name, which we normally pronounced Montaig. But thanks to the slogan, taste took on a new meaning. In every other context, it was what you did with your tongue - the sense excited by fish and chips, Tizer the Appetiser and Sunday dinner. But at Burton's, taste had a new and special meaning. Taste was the sixth sense by which people with class judged quality.

Quality, class, taste - they were all the attributes we needed when buying a new suit. For as well as a sign of respectability, suits - particularly new suits - were a mark of manhood. They were also one of the most expensive purchases that we, or our parents, ever made. But the sacrifice was essential. Forty years ago, every man who valued his place in society had to possess a suit. It might be old, second-hand, cut down, inherited or threadbare. But it was essential, if for nothing else than christenings, weddings and funerals, to possess a pair of trousers and a jacket that matched each other.

In more prosperous families it was called 'the best suit'. Others spoke with the direct simplicity of the poor and called it 'the suit' as if, being the only one they possessed, it was the only suit in the world. To this day, I possess a best suit, which is only brought out of the wardrobe on very special occasions. Indeed, it exists not to be worn. The smell of mothballs has gone, but the idea of keeping one suit sacrosanct remains. Burton's must take some of the blame.

The suit has, apparently, gone out of fashion - particularly with those hopeful and earnest young men who were such an important part of Burton's trade. These days, they wear designer sweaters to go with their designer jeans and hope to look like a cross between a Hollywood cowboy and a Victorian railway navvy. For a while, Burton's stood out bravely against the tide. Then they were swept slowly away. The retreat began with a relaxation of their own high standards. Earlier this year, Martin McNamee, Burton's managing director, pronounced what amounted to the quietus for its more traditional merchandise.

'Visit Burton's now and you'll see that we've taken our jackets off, literally as well as metaphorically.' The innovation of the shirtsleeved shop assistant was intended to combat the trauma of customers who thought that visiting the erstwhile Tailor of Taste was 'like visiting a bank'. In my youth, the hope of looking like a bank clerk was what drew us to Burton's Corner. Once schoolteachers started to wear tracksuits in class and vicars made parochial visits dressed in woolly jumpers, Burton's - at least the old, real Burton's - was doomed.

An obituary by Ron Hattersley. The Independent