Every cutting-edge fashionista recognises the importance of wrapping up warm in winter. Do you think that Jean Paul Gaultier got where he was with a tickly cough and a sniffle? Think again, mon amis. That’s why whenever I go clubbing… I wear a coat. I’m not one of those robogirls who queue up outside the LCR naked, or boybots who wear a tank top in Siberian winds. I wrap up warm.

The problem is, the rest of the fashion world hasn’t caught up with me. Coats for some reason are seen as uncool in a club, and you are expected to keep them in horrible things called “cloakrooms”. I will never use a cloakroom. I refuse to pay someone for basically owning a cupboard, and I have irrational fears that when I get my coat back its pockets will be stuffed with cocaine against my knowledge and I’ll be jumped by police attack dogs five minutes down the street. Or even worse, I’ll come in with my pockets stuffed with cocaine and get my coat back totally empty.

So, as a result, I must wear my coat in the club, and because all the squares on the dance floor can’t handle risky style, I am perceived as looking somehow freakish. Perhaps it is because I sweat like cheese in an oven, but the most common responses are that I look like a) a paedophile, b0 a cheeky bearded child sitting on another child’s shoulders, c) a dad arriving to pick up his daughter, or d) lost. The misconception of the latter often results in a kindly individual asking if I’m OK, calling a cab and asking me if I remember where I live. While I appreciate the gesture, they do not realise that they are committing a crime against fashion. Dancing is another problem. People don’t know what I’m doing. They think that because my coat is long I look like a giant possessed glove puppet, or an anthropomorphised windsock – but they’re wrong, because I look amazing.

After a few such experiences, I thought I had come up with a solution: draping the coat over my arm. Think about it! I’m wearing socially acceptable club clothing but ha! Damn you all, I still have a coat. One night I was walking around enjoying myself by the door with my coat on one arm when one cheeky individual put his coat on top of mine, said “thanks” and slipped me a quid. Then another person did. Then everyone was doing it. It seems that no matter what I try, people are blind to my style.

So, fashionable readers of Concrete, I urge you to come out to the club and wear your coats. The world may not be ready for us yet, but play your cards right, and you might get a few new coats out of it.