We unpick the unique dress-sense of the English poet.

Famous for poetry that finds poignancy in the provinciality of British life, Mr Philip Larkin is undisputedly one of the literary greats of the 20th century. He is not, however, generally regarded as one of its greatest dressers – known more for his miseryguts persona than his clothes, Mr Larkin once likened his physique to that of “a pregnant salmon”.

But we beg to disagree. Comprised of tweed jackets, gawkish bow ties and socks with sandals, Mr Larkin’s style was that of a modest British eccentric – sparse, practical, put-together, and with little flourishes of whimsy here and there: a bright red tie, for example, or a stripy shirt. His poetry was marked by what the former poet laureate Sir Andrew Motion calls “a very English, glum accuracy”. The same might have been said for his clothing. His dress sense was rather serious, but, again, like his poetry, was also defined by its sensitivity and wit. Shirts were always, always buttoned to the top, neckties were pulled up to the neck, and he had even his name sewed into the back of his nightshirts. Never dishevelled, never rakish, (you’ll find no trite Lord Byron-esque bohemian poet pirate shirts here), Mr Larkin’s looks conveyed poise and privacy: his clothes, perennially well-kempt, practical, and softly masculine, were almost sombre in their level of formality.

Still, that’s not to say they were dull. Take, for instance, his glasses. Black frames as thick as liquorice sticks, Mr Larkin’s spectacles are by far his most recognisable feature, and while they wouldn’t look amiss on a Saint Laurent runway, they were not worn as a fashion statement. Despite them becoming known as his “trademark”, his glasses were completely functional – no lensless hipster affectations here. We’re quite sure Mr Larkin would very much object to being painted as a style icon, but, of course, this is part of his charm.

In fact, Mr Larkin was resolutely unglamorous, and he spent the latter half of his life in a place befitting of this: Hull. A much-maligned city in the north of England, Hull was the place Mr Larkin called home for 30 years, working as a librarian at the University of Hull. He famously called the city “a frightful dump”, but Hull nevertheless adopted him as one of their own, and in 2010 honoured his memory by placing 40 giant fibreglass toads across the city, inspired by his poem “Toads”. Indeed, some of his greatest work was written while he was in Hull. While Mr Larkin’s frightful dump was this year proclaimed the UK’s City of Culture, though, there’s still some way to go before it becomes a fashion capital.

Of course, like poetry, style isn’t fussy about where it finds its icons. To borrow a line from the man himself: “nothing, like something, happens anywhere”.