You know the type.
They rock up dressed like concrete cowboys – RM Williams boots still showroom –fresh puffer vest zipped up like a wetsuit and beige chinos, like they’re heading to a finance seminar with a slight risk of puddles.
But for those of us who understand the heritage of the land, we know Fieldays fashion is practically sacred.
Let’s start with the undisputed monarchs of rural fashion: the Red Bands.
These rubbery royals have stomped through paddocks, yards and Fieldays … since forever.
Worn by Prime Ministers and preschoolers alike, they are a rite of passage.
And like all good icons, they scuff well.
A pair of well-worn Red Bands says, “I know what tailing is, and I’ve got the boots to prove it.”
Then there’s the Swanndri – the original farm-to-fashion success story.
Once strictly reserved for mustering and meat raffles, the classic checkered Swanny has strutted on to city streets and even the odd Fashion Week catwalk.
It’s gone from “sheep dip chic” to smart casual.
It’s the only item of clothing that can double as a jacket, blanket, pillow or emergency tent, making it the rural equivalent of a Swiss Army knife.
And we mustn’t forget the black singlet either.
Fred Dagg gave it legendary status. Olympians made it iconic.
It’s the farmer’s formal wear, perfect for weddings, wakes and woolsheds.
When paired with weathered and leathered forearms, it signals to all that you’re not just farming – you are farming.
But in this trinity of treasured Kiwi threads, one item has been cruelly left behind. Forgotten.
Snubbed by fashionistas and Kiwi Burger songs.
I speak, of course, of the Harlequin short. The loudest legs in the game.
A kaleidoscope of colour and courage. Half rugby shorts, half rainbow explosion.
Originally designed, one assumes, out of some kind of fabric rationing and some No 8 wire attitude.
Because while the Swanny keeps you warm and the Red Bands keep you dry, the Harlequins, well, they let your upper-upper-thigh breathe.
They’re for the bold. The beautiful. The bloke who says, “It’s six degrees, but I’ll risk pneumonia for fashion in the field.”
They’re the clothing equivalent of buying a bright orange tractor – functionally unnecessary but impossible to ignore.
So come on, New Zealand – let’s give the great Harlequin short the recognition it deserves.
In a sea of beige and puffer vests, the Harlequin stands proud, like a liquorice allsorts factory exploded gloriously on a pair of unsuspecting thighs.
It’s loud. It’s unapologetic. It’s rural high fashion.
