We get asked this a lot. Why name a shorts brand after some guy?
The short answer is that Bertie isn't really some guy, he's a filter. Every decision we make - the fabric, the hardware, the fit, even where we shoot content - runs through one question. Would Bertie wear this? Would he be here? Would he approve? If the answer's no, it's wrong.
We wanted to make shorts for a specific kind of day - morning surf, coffee at your spot, some work, afternoon beers, dinner with mates, one pair of shorts the whole time. No going home to change, no looking like you just came from the beach when you're sitting at a bar. Bertie is the guy who has that day, so we named it after him.
But to understand why that works, you sort of need to know who he is.
Who Bertie is
Everyone knows a Bertie.
He's 25, lives in a share house up the Northern Rivers, the kind of place with a couple of boards in the hallway and an outdoor couch that's seen more big nights than the local has. He works with his hands - a bit of carpentry, fixing dings down at the shaping bay, mucking around in a mate's ceramics studio - not because it pays well, because he likes making things, and the pay is whatever it is.
He's never once told you where he sees himself in five years, because it genuinely hasn't crossed his mind to worry about it. He's the funniest bloke in the group chat, and he's also the one everyone rings when their own life falls over, which is funny when you think about it, because his is held together with good instincts and a roll of tape.
How you'd know him
He's always late, never on purpose, he just runs on his own time. He'll leave you on read for three days and then turn up like nothing happened. He overplans the big camping trip and the destination never quite pans out. He can't sing to save himself, and he knows it.
The wardrobe is vintage Levis, op shop finds, a tee that fits properly, Birks or thongs most days. Nothing flash, mostly no logos, everything worn in. He drives an old Toyota Surf he did up himself, sandy as anything, board on the roof half the time.
He surfs every morning and fishes off the rocks, and you can count the days he hasn't been in the water this year on one hand. Whatever he caught that morning goes on the barbie, fish tacos for everyone by the arvo.
The shorts thing
Bertie lives in his board shorts. Not a figure of speech - he wears them about eighty percent of the year, wakes up and chucks them on, they end up on the back of a chair or the floor of the car, and he gets a heap of wears out of them before they physically beg for a wash. He only cleans himself up for a proper night out.
He's the customer who never takes his shorts off, which is sort of the whole point of us.
The nights
When Bertie's around the night just goes longer and better, and nobody can ever tell you exactly when it finished. He knows the good old pub with character over the flash bar, and the hole in the wall feed that's actually unreal. Schooner of Great Northern, thanks.
If someone knocks a glass of red across the table he's the first one to make it funny and the first one up with the towel, and if someone's having a worse night than everyone else he clocks it and finds a quiet moment in the drinks line to make sure they're alright, without making a thing of it.
His mates come from everywhere - the creative one, the surfer, the smart one, the one who's so unfunny he's actually funny. They don't all know each other, but they all know Bertie.
How we use him
Bertie isn't a mascot, he's not on the labels and you won't see him in the ads. He's the standard we hold everything against.
When we're picking a fabric we're thinking about whether Bertie would notice the weight of it, when we're designing hardware we're thinking about whether he'd fiddle with a plastic buckle or just leave the shorts in the drawer, and when we're choosing where to shoot we're thinking about whether he'd actually be there. And because he never washes the things, they have to be able to cop that.
It keeps us honest - three mates building a shorts brand can talk themselves into anything if they're not careful, and Bertie stops that. He's the quiet "nah" in the room when something's not right.
That's it really. He's not the bloke you wish you were, he's the mate you've already got. We just made shorts for him.
Why Bertie?
We get asked this a lot. Why name a shorts brand after some guy?
The short answer is that Bertie isn't really some guy, he's a filter. Every decision we make - the fabric, the hardware, the fit, even where we shoot content - runs through one question. Would Bertie wear this? Would he be here? Would he approve? If the answer's no, it's wrong.
We wanted to make shorts for a specific kind of day - morning surf, coffee at your spot, some work, afternoon beers, dinner with mates, one pair of shorts the whole time. No going home to change, no looking like you just came from the beach when you're sitting at a bar. Bertie is the guy who has that day, so we named it after him.
But to understand why that works, you sort of need to know who he is.
Who Bertie is
Everyone knows a Bertie.
He's 25, lives in a share house up the Northern Rivers, the kind of place with a couple of boards in the hallway and an outdoor couch that's seen more big nights than the local has. He works with his hands - a bit of carpentry, fixing dings down at the shaping bay, mucking around in a mate's ceramics studio - not because it pays well, because he likes making things, and the pay is whatever it is.
He's never once told you where he sees himself in five years, because it genuinely hasn't crossed his mind to worry about it. He's the funniest bloke in the group chat, and he's also the one everyone rings when their own life falls over, which is funny when you think about it, because his is held together with good instincts and a roll of tape.
How you'd know him
He's always late, never on purpose, he just runs on his own time. He'll leave you on read for three days and then turn up like nothing happened. He overplans the big camping trip and the destination never quite pans out. He can't sing to save himself, and he knows it.
The wardrobe is vintage Levis, op shop finds, a tee that fits properly, Birks or thongs most days. Nothing flash, mostly no logos, everything worn in. He drives an old Toyota Surf he did up himself, sandy as anything, board on the roof half the time.
He surfs every morning and fishes off the rocks, and you can count the days he hasn't been in the water this year on one hand. Whatever he caught that morning goes on the barbie, fish tacos for everyone by the arvo.
The shorts thing
Bertie lives in his board shorts. Not a figure of speech - he wears them about eighty percent of the year, wakes up and chucks them on, they end up on the back of a chair or the floor of the car, and he gets a heap of wears out of them before they physically beg for a wash. He only cleans himself up for a proper night out.
He's the customer who never takes his shorts off, which is sort of the whole point of us.
The nights
When Bertie's around the night just goes longer and better, and nobody can ever tell you exactly when it finished. He knows the good old pub with character over the flash bar, and the hole in the wall feed that's actually unreal. Schooner of Great Northern, thanks.
If someone knocks a glass of red across the table he's the first one to make it funny and the first one up with the towel, and if someone's having a worse night than everyone else he clocks it and finds a quiet moment in the drinks line to make sure they're alright, without making a thing of it.
His mates come from everywhere - the creative one, the surfer, the smart one, the one who's so unfunny he's actually funny. They don't all know each other, but they all know Bertie.
How we use him
Bertie isn't a mascot, he's not on the labels and you won't see him in the ads. He's the standard we hold everything against.
When we're picking a fabric we're thinking about whether Bertie would notice the weight of it, when we're designing hardware we're thinking about whether he'd fiddle with a plastic buckle or just leave the shorts in the drawer, and when we're choosing where to shoot we're thinking about whether he'd actually be there. And because he never washes the things, they have to be able to cop that.
It keeps us honest - three mates building a shorts brand can talk themselves into anything if they're not careful, and Bertie stops that. He's the quiet "nah" in the room when something's not right.
That's it really. He's not the bloke you wish you were, he's the mate you've already got. We just made shorts for him.