A Suit That Fits is a company that provides custom-made suits through an online process. Customers get measured in London and select fabrics, then their measurements and fabric choices are sent to tailors in Nepal. The article follows one customer's suit from being cut and sewn in Nepal to its completion back in London. It describes the measuring, fabric selection, cutting, sewing, and fitting process. It also provides background on the company, which was founded in Nepal by an English teacher and now has annual sales of £2 million, employing master tailors and improving the local economy.

1. Some of life’s hidden processes
are better left shrouded in mys-
tery. A step by step explanation
of the Swedish voting system is
of no interest to me; the ques-
tion of how a turkey twizzler
reaches my plate remains appro-
priately abstruse. But the mak-
ing of a suit – now that’s a dif-
ferent matter. A suit is a strange
object; it’s capable of conferring
an instant gloss of style and
sophistication on its owner, and
yet in the wrong hands it can
also transform even the most
charming of individuals into a
sartorial tragedy. It’s the com-
muter version of kryptonite
– pretty cool and powerful, but
so often the visual downfall of
those who embrace it.
In common with most people
who don’t have their own hedge
fund, I’ve always fallen into
the latter category: that army of
men who rely on a couple of ill-
fitting and crumpled specimens
at the back of the wardrobe
when the next job interview/
funeral/court case rolls around.
We are vaguely aware that
suits can be different, and that
the ultra-rich get to flit up and
down Saville Row looking all
gentlemanly and debonair, but
since our off-the-peg garments
make us feel about as sharp as a
marble the idea that formal wear
could be a source of pleasure,
never mind pride, is a pretty for-
eign one. Like death and taxes,
bad suits are just one of life’s
inevitabilities.
Except there’s one young com-
pany who disagrees, and in an
effort to win me over they’ve
promised to show me, step by
painstaking step, exactly how a
suit is created. And not just any
old suit, but rather a bespoke
number tailored personally to
me – and yet which doesn’t
require the GDP of a small
country to purchase. It was to
be a journey of 9,000 miles,
dozens of cups of sweet masala
tea and at least one hair-raising
brush with a baby monkey. But
could it succeed where the high
street had failed, and make me
dapper?
----
It’s just turned nine o’ clock on
a crisp London morning, and
Johnny – a tall, slim, stylish
kind of guy who looks like he
came out of the womb wearing
Armani– is studying me with
a friendly but critical eye. As
someone who has been tasked
with transforming me into style
personified, I don’t envy the
poor man. Slumped in a corner
chair, I must look like Jabba the
Hut after a heavy night out on
the tiles. But if Johnny’s wor-
ried he’s certainly hiding it well;
with a reassuring smile he offers
me some water and gently steers
me over to a computer.
‘Suits you, sir...’ A Day In The Life Of A Bespoke Suit
Words Les Sinclair
Photography Joseph Smith

2. This is the nerve centre of ‘A Suit That Fits’, a new
concept in tailoring that has its roots in Nepal, where a
fresh-faced Englishman called Warren Bennett wound up
as a teacher a few years back. “In sixth form I’d always
plumped for outlandish suits, and dreamed of one day
going bespoke, though I could never afford it” says War-
ren. “I eventually shelled out for one whilst travelling
in Africa but it was baggy and awful; only when I went
to Nepal and was introduced to the school tailor did I
realise that inexpensive but stylishly tailored suits were
actually possible.”
The suit that tailor crafted for him was olive green and
flared. For some reason his friends back home in Lon-
don seemed to like it, and before long Warren had set
up a stall at Hampstead market with an old schoolmate
promoting their design for an affordable, web-based
bespoke suit company. “We sold our first two suits in
twenty minutes,” recalls the 28 year old. One credit card
loan and some rented office space later, A Suit That Fits
was born. Today the firm has an annual turnover of £2m
and kits out 600 people every month.
It all starts when customers turn up to one of A Suit
That Fits’s three London offices to get measured up by
a professional stylist. Some people choose to measure
themselves at home and enter their details online, but
most want a bit of expert advice to help them navigate
through the mind-boggling 40 billion different suit and
fabric combinations that A Suit That Fits offers. And
that’s where Johnny comes in. Unfazed by even the most
criminal ignorance of formal wear (apparently you’re
not supposed to put suits in the wash, who would have
thought?), this is a man who knows his fashion: expe-
rienced enough to steer clueless customers in the right
direction, flexible enough to allow the knowledgeable
customers to take the lead. He helpfully gives me some
pointers about where to start – my skin type suits greys
and navies, not blacks, and pinstripes will flatter my
body shape. “It’s all about framing yourself, drawing
attention to your best features and the point of com-
munication – your face,” he explains as we leaf through
various fabric swatches to pick out my material.
With that out the way, we go through all the cut and
style options on the website: number of pieces, vents,
buttons, extra hand stitching or not, type of lapel, angle
of the pockets – darn it, you can ever have gills stitched
in if you so desire. Johnny knows what’s in and what’s
out, and the computer lends a hand by flagging up any
suggested tweaks or possible anomalies along the way.
This is the moment to let your creative spirit run riot and
Johnny regales me with tales of previous customers who
pushed the boat out: a Welsh undertaker who wanted a
green suit to match his new Porsche (presumably not to
be used for professional duties) and a pub owner who
decided to get married in orange velvet. By comparison
I’m a paragon of conservatism, plumping for a simple
but sleek ashy pinstripe outfit. The next thing I know,
Johnny’s pressed a button and all my details fly away
into the ether.
They land about five thousand miles away in the tiny
Himalayan paradise of Nepal. This is the part which
most customers don’t get to see – the behind the scenes
operation which improbably transforms all those num-
Above & above right; Les Sinclair is measured by Johnny
the stylist at A Suit That Fits central London branch .

3. bers and menu choices into an actual pair of trousers and
jacket. Orders arrive at the A Suit That Fits workshop in
the city of Kathmandu and immediately get assigned to a
master tailor who will oversee the creation of the suit; at
any one time there are about fifty orders moving through
the various stages of production, so it’s a big job just to
keep on top of everything. My master tailor is a softly-
spoken, moustachioed man called Shyam, and I can’t
help but feel slightly overawed when I meet him in the
cutting room; Shyam and his three colleagues have 40
years experience as master tailors between them, and 97
years in the industry. He gets straight down to business,
studying my details carefully and copying the myriad
measurements out into an easy to follow set of numbers
and sketches that everyone, from the stitchers to the
pressers, can understand later down the line.
It’s a little disconcerting seeing your body shape being
reduced to a series of digits and pencil strokes, and I
can’t help feeling self-conscious as the order sheet fills
up with scribbles. But Shyam has quickly moved on
to the templates, rolling out some huge pieces of paper
and tracing out the many different panels and shapes
which will eventually comprise my bespoke suit. Be-
fore using the scissors for the first time Shyam blesses
them – we’re only a few kilometres away from one of
the holiest temples in the country, and Hindu tradition is
strong. The patterns are laid out by piece and the first to
go under the blade is the ‘pint’ – the front panel of the
jacket.
The templates alone will take Shyam three hours to
complete, but it’s worth it not only because accurate
templates ensure that the final suit will fit me perfectly,
but also because they will all be stored in Kathmandu
after my order is completed, allowing me to reorder new
suits or shirts on the web at any time without having to
go in for another fitting. Once the templates are finished
the material I chose back in London is rolled out and
checked for loose threads; Shyam nods approvingly at
my choice, though I’m not sure how keen he is on my
admittedly rather dazzling silvery-blue lining. After
drawing round the templates with a wax chalk, the real
cutting begins. This will take another three hours, which
is small fry compared to the time Shyam has had to put
in for some of A Suit That Fits’s other recent custom-
ers: the previous month he was responsible for knocking
together a suit for the world’s tallest man, and he’s also
kitted out the entire QPR football team and the members
of Boyzone for an international tour. Brushes with fame
are nothing new for the 35 year old though; as the fabric
pieces for my suit pile up in the late afternoon sunshine,
he tells me how he started out making dresses for film
units when he was 18, and even tailored a suit for the
Nepalese movie mega-star Saroj Khanal. I offer my
commiserations: my order is certainly lacking celebrity
stardust.
The fabric cuts are eventually carried downstairs to the
stitching room, looking more like an abstract contender
Above; Les Sinclair looks through the hundreds of
fabrics on offer for his bespoke suit at A Suit That
Fits central London branch.
Above; Hundreds of rolls of material are stored
in A Suit That Fits headquarters in Kathmandu,
Nepal.

4. Above; Shyam rolls out and prepares the
material chosen by Sinclair in London.
Above; Master tailor Shyam produces paper
templates from the measurements taken in London

5. for the Turner Prize than the building blocks for a
piece of clothing. But with an impish grin Upendra –
known as the fastest jacket man in Nepal – holds up a
few of the panels to illustrate how they will fit togeth-
er. “Will it be a difficult jacket to make?” I enquire
anxiously as the graceful pedal-powered ‘parti’ sew-
ing machine hums into action. Upendra winks at me:
“This will be easy,” he replies. “Last month we had an
order for a body builder – you’re only a 36”!” I mut-
ter something about a long-term gym plan and head
over to Prabhu, who is delicately threading together
the trousers and getting everything ready for fusing
and pressing. Amidst all the technical wizardry, some
time-honoured methods remain; Prabhu does all the
ironing on a dumfrag cushion balanced on his thigh.
Back upstairs and we’re in the checking room; despite
being located in one of the most chaotic cities on earth
the A Suit That Fits workshop is an oasis of tranquil-
lity, and this corner of it looks out over a pomegran-
ate and jasmine garden. The last suit I bought was in
Burton Menswear on a wet Thursday evening; going
on location alone, my sartorial prospects are definitely
getting a lot classier. Raju gets the jacket onto a dum-
my and begins the first of no less than forty checks to
ensure that it matches my order sheet in every way,
from the overall shape and size to the width of the col-
lar and the length of the vent.
Like the rest of the A Suit That Fits staff in Nepal,
Raju’s salary is 50% above the market average,
ensuring that the company attracts the very best in
the industry and makes a positive contribution to the
local community. 5% of A Suit That Fits profits are
also plunged back into the school where Warren got
that olive-green two-piece and where the whole idea
had its genesis. “It’s important for us to really sup-
port the area,” he stresses as we watch Raju go about
his business with amazing diligence. “I love Nepal:
the people, the smells, but most of all the approach to
craftwork. It’s not about mass production; every shop
is a little specialised cottage industry, and that wealth
of experience is an amazing resource.”
Now the suit is packaged up and taken back to the
office, where it will be picked up by DHL and flown
home to London. There are shipments out of the
workshop every single day, and over a tonne of A Suit
That Fits suits soars through the clouds each month. I
follow in my new suit’s footsteps and wind up back in
Johnny’s fitting room in Piccadilly; one glance at his
face as we prise it out from its careful wrapping, and
I can tell he’s as excited as I am about the moment of
truth. And what a moment it is; between two conti-
nents, 17 people have been directly involved with the
making of this garment and 135 separate pieces of ma-
terial have been traced, cut, stitched, ironed, pressed
and checked all in an effort to do what no piece of
formal clothing has ever done for me before – feel
comfortable, and look great. And they’ve succeeded;
whilst Johnny merrily checks to see if any minor alter-
ations are needed, I just want to bowl down the street
with my new found sense of traffic-stopping style.
“I get a lot of satisfaction out of this whole process
because we’re creating this thing from scratch and I
Above; Upendra sews together the lining and
trim edges of the jacket
Above; Upendra checks measurements from
sections of the trouser before sewing together.

6. Above; Upendra stitches the arm section to the suit jacket by hand.
This is one of the most difficult stages in the jackets tailoring
Above; Upendra stitches the various layers
of material together for the suit jacket.

7. Above; Sinclair has his final fitting with the stylist
off his new suit at the central London branch
Above; All suits are measured and checked
twice before being shipped back to the UK.
really get mentally invested in it all,” re-
flects Johnny as we take a final smug stare
at the mirror. “It’s a team effort and when
we’ve got it right it shows; people look
so sharp and confident when they leave.”
Apparently some have tears in their eyes,
although Johnny insists he’s yet to well
up with emotion.
----
And so there you have it; the life path of
a fully-customisable, bespoke 2-piece suit
from a tape measure in central London
via movie-star-cladding tailors in Nepal
and back again – and all without burn-
ing too big a hole in the pocket. “We’re
at the forefront of a changing market,”
insists Warren, “and I think eventually
the big stores will have to start moving
in our direction. In Saville Row you’ll
pay between £1,500 and £15,000 for a
bespoke suit, but here we start from £150,
and the average spend is £300. People
always want to dress up and look unique,
but they don’t want to pay crazy money,
and we’re in a great position to offer them
that choice.”
A Suit That Fits has plans to double its
turnover in the coming year and build a
whole community of suit-lovers on the
web who can share ideas, generate their
own content using A Suit That Fits’s soft-
ware and collaborate on new designs. It’s
a long way from the olive-green flares on
a trestle table at Hampstead market, but
– rather like my suit – it’s a journey that
has ended well. As for me, I’ll be leav-
ing those off-the-peg jackets outside the
charity shop from now on and working on
my next suit design; it might just involve
orange velvet.

8. Left; Warren Bennett, center
left and Om Yogi, center
right, with the A Suit That
Fits master tailors in the new
premises in Kathmandu,
Nepal.