Where to even start with this one. This is almost the complete antithesis of the previous installment of Martorial elegance and a reminder of the complete hopelessness of the average British male during summertime.
The best thing about this guy was that he had a touch of the preening peacock about him and was stood around for ages posing like Christiano Ronaldo soaking up the adulation as he catches sly glimpses of himself on the titan-tron screen during a game. Yep, if there's any get-up which screams PUSSY MAGNET to the fairer sex it's a grubby moth eaten grey sweatshirt with rolled up sleeves tucked into a pair of hoisted up to Simon Cowell-like proportions 38" waist tennis shorts from Ellesmere Port market and some soiled Air Maxes which look like they were something the cat dragged in and then dragged back out again. The shitty generic tattoo of a dragon only adds to the overall effect and it's clear we're dealing with the benchmark for the badly dressed here on which all future contributions will be judged against.
Not quite 007 and more like 0.0/5 on the Martorial elegance rating scale.