In our new series, we ask stylish men to consider one of their defining sartorial moments.

In the autumn of 2001, I was hit by a car and consequently broke a leg. It happened on the Kingsway in Holborn, late at night – I was heading either to or from a nightclub in the area, I can’t remember which. It’s all a bit blurry, but somehow I ended up on the hood of a car, cracking the windshield. When the ambulance came to take me to St Thomas’ hospital, the medics looked me over and asked where it hurt. As I complained about a sore knee, they proceeded to cut up my clothing for easy access to any potential wounds. They got through my jumper but as they were about to start on my jeans I put my foot down (not literally, I was in too much pain for that).

I can’t remember any of this – the shock of it all, I suppose – but the friend who came along in the ambulance recalls I firmly told the medics to leave my jeans alone: “They’re Duffer, mate. Put the scissors away. No joke.” Unbelievably, they listened to this 21-year-old, shell-shocked and drunk kid and proceeded to just wiggle them off. True story. I still have the jeans.

This is a tale with many lessons to learn: look both ways before crossing a street; never, ever go out in central London; don’t argue with medics. But it’s also a story about branding, and the emotional value of clothing – in this case a pair of jeans from Duffer of St George. Apparently they were so important to me it was worth risking my health to preserve them. That, I think, is how brands should measure their success.

I bought the rinsed indigo-blue selvedge jeans at the Duffer store in Covent Garden. The address of 29 Shorts Gardens was imprinted on my brain when I arrived from Sweden earlier that year. It was like going to church. For a young kid from rural Scandinavia, fresh off the metaphorical boat, there was a sense of “I’m not worthy” when heading there. The space, music, staff and, of course, the clothing gave Duffer its inimitable look and atmosphere.

You were obviously let in, it wasn’t that; but you entered doubting if you were cool enough for it. Most of us left with a £50 Japanese T-shirt or a Duffer keyring. That was the price of belonging. That was all you needed – at first. Duffer then got hold of you. It owned you. You started eyeing up the imported Evisu jeans and stroking the printed inside-out sweatshirts from Oeuf.

By the time I got to London, Duffer was arguably post-peak. Jamie Oliver wore the infamous logo hoodie and the brand was all over the place. But for me, it was still relevant. I remember compiling a list of places to go before moving over – Duffer, The Dispensary, The Hideout etc – and ticking them off one by one. Soho and Covent Garden were still vibrant areas with good stores – both brand shops and multi-brands. Duffer was both. It was the DSG brand that brought you in, but the store was a great place to discover new labels as well, most of them obscure Japanese street and workwear.

Today Duffer is an obsolete JD Sports brand without any cultural relevance. The Shorts Garden address is most likely occupied by yet another hairdressers, but the Duffer aesthetic lives on, and seems especially relevant in the current, streetwear-obsessed era. Everyone from runway designers like Loewe to artisanal Japanese brands such as Chimala produces indigo denim with turn-ups – not just the high street. Dries Van Noten and Prada are among the fashion empires to produce their own Yogi-like footwear in recent seasons. And, of course, almost every designer out there, taking cues from the Vetements and Balenciaga craze, is waking up to the possibilities of the branded sweatshirt. Why? Because this simple combination – pioneered by outlets like Duffer – is always going to be a good look. Though my old car-crash jeans won’t fit me anymore, the ones I wear today owe a great deal to old-school Duffer of St George.