Heavy tha’: how scousers defined festival fashion

Nike Air Max 95 trainers, a breathable hiking T‑shirt, a lightly attenuated set of climbing trousers… The scouse summer rig out became legendary this year with young Liverpudlians notably out-gorping their southern counterparts at festivals across the nation.

Of course, scousers have long been the UK’s style underdogs, embracing looks that were first scorned and later imitated (think: shell suits, casuals, WAGs). It’s little wonder, then, that they’ve been leading the charge for technical, Everest-ready attire at festivals long before East London’s creative class caught wind of Arc’teryx Beta jackets and Salomon XT-6s. In fact, as early as the mid-’90s, Liverpool scals had already begun teaming black-on-black tracksuits with a North Face or Berghaus outer, leaning into rambler gear for everyday use.

Arguably, the look was the natural successor to a looser, slouchier sportswear-heavy look typical of the 2000s. For years, established brands such as Nike and Adidas held the fort before being usurped by increasingly techy labels like New Balance and Under Armour. Once that look peaked, in came On Running gear, trekking brand Montane, and Liverpool-based label Montirex, which has successfully merged the svelte tracksuit silhouettes du jour with your typical walking trouser construction. Montirex, founded in Liverpool in 2019 by Daniel Yuen and Kieran Riddell-Austin, Montirex hass a palpable scouse sensibility, evidenced by their highly popular, ombré Trail tee, which comes in gradients of blue, lavender and red akin to the Missoni fiammato print tees popular across the city.

In this vein, the sporty, performance-focused nerdery of scouse style is often spliced with designer labels. Over the years, it’s moved between noughties favourite Hugo Boss – whose branding Liverpudlian designer Christopher Shannon aped in his AW17 collection – to Armani and Versace. Missoni’s fiammato T‑shirts hold prime position right now, but beady-eyed trend spotters will have noticed fresh additions to the look, such as corded sunglasses, Quechua lanyards, Camelbak bags, Mercedes-Benz caps, and, for whatever reason, a perennial Lucozade or Chocomel milkshake in hand.

According to Shannon, these idiosyncrasies run deep. ​“I remember first becoming aware of it as a kid; the focus on how people dressed and this obsession with detail and quality,” he says. ​“It wasn’t ever really about branding. For example, the Burberry check never took off in Liverpool. It was too loud and naff.” Look closely at Shannon’s back catalogue, and as early as AW10 you’ll see the lightly tapered tracksuits, trekking backpacks, map pouches, hiking boots and puffers that define Liverpool street style today – all perfect for a climb in nearby North Wales’ Clwydian Range.

Shannon worked and lived in London following his studies at Central Saint Martins. ​“On the CSM MA, it was my obsession, the realisation that this whole look originated from scouse lads picking up the best sportswear Italy had to offer and mixing it in [with their own clothes],” he remembers. ​“There was so much snobbishness towards it. I felt like my mission at one point was to level up the shell-suit and make people see how precise Northern style is.” Shannon has since returned to his hometown, finding himself newly fascinated by the city’s style developments, donned in real time by youths on professional mountain bikes – yet another outdoorsy quirk unique to Liverpool.

As is often the case, style and subculture reporting at large has tended to focus on the big four: Paris, Milan, New York and London. Because of this, many people weren’t aware that the lockdown-spurred gorpcore trend had been standard protocol in Liverpool for yonks. At least, until it was thrown right in every southern Glasto attendee’s face at what is been rumoured to be the most densely populated – and therefore, scouse populated – year yet.

Certainly, it’s no exaggeration to say that scousers are notable at such events, and not just for their style. They also carry something of a lore. So it goes, groups of stealthy scousers have been sneaking (“spinning”) their way into Glastonbury for the past 40 years. ​“I don’t know when it started, but I just know it’s a thing,” says scouse born-and-bred fashion writer and editor, Paul Toner. ​“Someone also told me the reason a lot of scousers get into Glastonbury is because Seetickets’ offices are in Liverpool.” The facts have yet to be confirmed, but there were plenty of memes, Reddit conspiracies and TikToks surrounding the phenomenon, together building a picture of the tape-seamed, heavily backpacked SAS scouser tunnelling below the legendary ​“scouse portal” or scaling Glasto’s legendary ​“prison walls”, all in the hope of not missing out.

Naturally, there are Instagram pages dedicated to the humour and accompanying styles of the region. @imjustscouse has amassed 159k followers since its inception, often attracting the attention of the city overspill – ​“wools” or ​“woolybacks”, a derogatory jibe referring to residents of neighbouring towns – and southerners, too. The Merseyside equivalent to a Londoner’s Socks House Meeting, accounts like this tap into the archetypes and niche turns of phrase – ​“Yes boys”, ​“How are we?”, ​“Heavy, tha’ la” – that pepper conversations in L1 and its surrounding postcodes. Across all this content, you’ll see everyone from Steven Gerrard to Keir Starmer and the The Beatles dressed up in Air Max 95 trainers (“110s” in scouse parlance) and Nike’s sweat-wicking Miler tops, merging hyper-local references with internet culture. Scratch a little deeper, though, and these memes tell us a lot about the unique DNA of Liverpool itself.

​“Usually, because of how close our community is, it never makes it out of Liverpool,” the admin of @imjustscouse says, explaining scouse style. The admin also notes ​“how disliked we are by other cities in the UK. It starts like any other trend, but because of how much we’ve separated ourselves from the rest of the UK, it usually stays within.” This summer, though, scouse fashion has been felt across the festivals. In fact, there were even flags flown that were coloured in the yellow and brown tones of the legendary scouse delicacy, Chocomel, accompanied by the words, ​“Heavy tha’.”

Certainly, as cities go, Liverpool does have a strong and unique sense of pride. As George Thomas, a self-confessed wool who moved to the city to study fashion four years ago, puts it: ​“I think if it got put down to a vote and Liverpool could split off from the rest of the country, then they would.” Part of this pride manifests in scousers’ focus on garment functionality, which Thomas sees as a pragmatic, logical sensibility: scousers like clothes that do what clothes should do. And logical it is – Liverpool is often wet and windy.

But how does scouse style differ to that of the modern-day techwear enthusiast? ​“A gorp-core bro is really nerdy about fabrics and the capabilities of things, but I think the reason a lot of scouse lads turn to these brands is because they’re reliable and can be worn day to day, no matter the circumstances,” says Toner. ​“They can go and wear it to Glastonbury or down the pub on Saturday: it’s just easy and it looks great.” To Toner’s point, this clothing is athletically attuned to leisure activities, be it tech-house raves or more casual affairs.

Things are also tied to Liverpool’s geographic co-ordinates. With North Wales on their doorstep, it’s not uncommon to take a Sunday hike up Moel Famau mountain range to clear the head after a heavy Saturday. ​“They call it a ​‘fresh Sunday walk,’” laughs Thomas.

But scousers never rest on their stylistic laurels. ​“Scousers have brand loyalty like the rest of us, but one thing they possess over the rest of the country is this nomadic sense of discovery, seeking out new brands and trends to stand apart like they’ve been doing since the ​’80s on the football terraces,” says Daniel Milne, Head of Creative at SEVENSTORE, Liverpool’s retail stalwart.

In his eyes, there’s an almost aggressive insularity to the city’s changing fashions where what once felt off-piste is overssaturated soon after. ​“I’ve noticed the uniform change from tried-and-tested brands such as Arc’teryx and The North Face to more niche brands such as Mountain Equipment and Mammut,” he says. Milne is keen to note another major difference between generic gorpers and scouse lads: colour palette. Unlike the blacks, olives, ecrus and browns you’d find a Clapton creative director doused in, the scouse lad tends to lean into navy, often wearing it head to toe, as is de rigeur at congregation spots such as Mint, Parklife and Houghton festivals.

This sense of regional pride and utility, alongside the one-upmanship that comes with wearing the techiest labels, is core to the development of scouse fashion. It’s also rarer than ever in an increasingly individualised, digital world. In some senses, scouse fezzy-goers offer a taste of subculture as it used to be: tight, localised and here for longer than a TikTok video.

One thing is sure, though: for as long as festivals run, you’ll be able to spot a scouser – better dressed, and better equipped, than every other punter there.