This article is taken from the April 2025 issue of The Critic. To get the full magazine why not subscribe? Right now we’re offering five issues for just £10.
When I was very young, I spent a great deal of time with my Great Uncle, Joseph Phipps. Uncle Joe was the archetypal uncle: short, round, bald with twinkling blue eyes and an infinite fund of funny stories. He and my aunt had
no children of their own, so I filled the role of a sort of locum grandson.
It was Uncle Joe who introduced me to cufflinks. He owned a pair of beautiful “ball and chain” gold links inherited from his own father that I now own. He showed me how to attach them, which is a much fiddlier operation than affixing the modern rotating bar type. He also warned me against ever bending down to pick up a fallen link. He had dropped his own cufflink, and I had stooped to retrieve it. Quick as a flash he cried, “Aye, aye old chap, watch out, watch out. Remember what happened to Tommy Handley!”
Aged twelve, I had never heard of the comic host of those wartime ITMA wireless shows, still less that he was a cautionary lesson in the perils of carpet-dwelling jewellery. Uncle Joe wagged his stubby finger. “Tommy Handley bent down to pick up a cufflink, and he never got up again!” he said, winking. That is one of those tales, true or not, which has lived with me.
The cost of their links may be eye-watering, but so is the craftsmanship of their creations
Mr Handley did indeed drop dead suddenly from a cerebral haemorrhage in 1949, so maybe he did enter the next world with one cuff undone, as Uncle Joe claimed. Whatever the truth, from that day to this, whenever I put in my cufflinks, I always think of Tommy Handley.
But I suppose rescuing a fallen link is worth the risk. With the double-cuffs shot and showing beyond the coat sleeve, a pair of old gold links, tooled and engraved, sets your wrist apart from the rest.
And if silver, then inlaid with coloured Cloisonné enamel, shimmering mother of pearl, or deep Lapis Lazuli all look lovely and are sure to be noticed. Cufflinks, carefully chosen, are emblematic of understood yet understated style, signalling the wearer’s self-confidence but without having to say so. He lets his tailoring do his talking.
Of course, cufflink purveyors are ten a penny and every shirt shop stocks them. There is not a building on Jermyn Street, with the possible exception of Paxton & Whitfield, that does not have a display in its window. Most are unoriginal and identikit.
To acquire a truly select set, go to a specialist — where they still exist. One such survivor is Benson & Clegg in Piccadilly Arcade. Opened in 1937 and still going strong, Benson & Clegg provide a host of haberdashery services particularly for those gentlemen in search of military buttons for their ex-serviceman’s blazer.
They also offer a wonderful selection of gold, silver and brass cufflinks, though strangely none in rose gold — the alloy made of gold and copper — which has a gorgeous, rich and warm hue. Benson & Clegg’s white-amber buttons on silver chains, I believe, are the most elegant of their wide choice, although they also offer an array of bright enamels.
The other great emporium for cufflink connoisseurs is Longmire. Sadly, the shop on Bury Street closed its doors in 2020, but discerning customers can still enquire online about Longmire’s bespoke jeweller’s services. The cost of their 18-carat white gold basketweave links may be eye-watering, but so is the craftsmanship of their creations. And their green enamelled leaping frog design is priced for more modest pockets.
Next time you lift the lid of your cufflink box, remember Tommy Handley. And if you conclude that your collection requires embellishment, walk up to Benson & Clegg or log on to Longmire. When you are offered a link to try, do not demur. Instead, remember the catchphrase of that other ITMA character, Colonel Chinstrap, and reply “I don’t mind if I do.”
