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All the watch news, reviews, videos you want, brought to you from fellow collectors
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Spend enough time around watches, and something odd begins to happen. You stop seeing them as objects and start treating them like people.
Not in a ‘my watch understands me’ way. Nothing that alarming. Even I wouldn’t acknowledge that aloud.
But you begin to notice personalities. Habits. Attitudes. The quiet confidence of one. The desperate need for attention of another. The ones that turn up early, do the job, and rarely get thanked. The ones that make a grand entrance and then spend the rest of the evening reminding you they’re still there.
Dive watches are particularly guilty of this. They began life as tools, were dragged ashore, polished up, and eventually found themselves in places no one in 1954 would have approved of - boardrooms, first-class cabins, dinner tables. Somewhere along the way, they developed egos.
So let’s dispense with the fiction and seat them properly.
The first has already claimed the plushest chair.
The Patriarch
“It is better to sit alone than to explain yourself.”
— Blancpain Fifty Fathoms, dinner soirée, 1973
He doesn’t walk in so much as arrive early, back when the club was still being assembled brick by brick. The deep maroon wingback chair, angled toward the door, has been set aside for him for as long as anyone can remember.
Living with him is an exercise in recalibration. At first, he can feel intimidatingly large, heavy with intent and inheritance. Give it time. The gently curved sapphire bezel softens the outline. The dial opens up slowly, revealing depth rather than density. What initially reads as severity settles into something calmer.
If you cared to listen, he might tell you about the first mornings and the cold-as-death waters. Of fog, numb fingers, and equipment that had to work because there was no alternative. You may have heard these stories before, yet, you listen again, if only for the baritone of his voice.
He does not wish to compete. Or compare. He certainly does not acknowledge that another watch appeared shortly after, slimmer, louder, and far more popular. To the patriarch, second is not a position. It is a misunderstanding.
Favourite drink: Louis XIII cognac, served neat.
Favourite music: Bach, played on vinyl, volume low enough to allow conversation.
The Imperator
“Never waste a minute worrying about opinions.”
— Rolex Submariner, board meeting minutes, 1985
He enters the room with the quiet, unnerving assurance of a man who owns the building. He does not scan for approval. He assumes it. Walking straight to the head of the table, he places a single folder on the mahogany and sits. The room adjusts accordingly.
Living with him is an education in inevitability. At first, you resist. You see him everywhere. In First Class. At the gym. In the sterile elevators of buildings that would still be climbing if Babel hadn’t forced a pause. You want to find a flaw, any flaw, just to prove he is mortal.
The bezel clicks with the finality of a bank vault. The bracelet moves with the calm certainty of a Boa constrictor. But somewhere along the way, the cuff has grown shinier. The polish lingers a touch too long. He is capable, of course, but now needs a steady dose of admiring reflections just to keep going. The narcissism can be a bit infuriating.
Yet, the truth remains stubborn. While the others might be more interesting, he is the default setting. The blue blazer. The white shirt. The answer you give when you’re tired of thinking.
He is the freedom of never having to choose again.
He is the quiet numbness of never needing to.
Favourite drink: San Pellegrino. Cold.
Favourite music: The sound of a closing deal. Or perhaps Sinatra. But only the hits.
The Warhorse
“Subtlety is for people who are afraid of being seen.”
— Panerai Luminor, shouted over the roar of a cigarette boat, 2004
There’s a scrape of chairs, a laugh that ignores room size, and then he’s there, filling a doorway that was never designed with him in mind. He doesn’t squeeze through. He commits. Sideways, if necessary.
Living with him is a full-body experience. You never forget he’s there because he keeps colliding with the environment. Doorframes. Tabletops. Occasionally, other people. He is a slab of brutalist architecture that somehow persuaded the world it was elegant.
He will tell you where he comes from, whether you ask or not. Frogmen. Harbours. Naval contracts. Somewhere along the way, the story has grown louder, broader, and more theatrical. Is all of it strictly necessary? No. Is it untrue? Also no. That’s the trick.
The Warhorse is capable. Underwater, he makes sense. Legibility is superb. The lume is unquestionable. But beneath the theatre, the heart is older than the bravado suggests. You are paying a premium not for innovation, but for insistence.
On land, he behaves as if still submerged, moving with the confidence of someone who assumes the environment will eventually submit. He does not care if you think he’s too much. In fact, he might be faintly offended if you don’t.
Favourite drink: An Espresso so strong it barely ripples. Followed by warm grappa.
Favourite music: Opera. Played loudly enough to drown out dissent.
The Action Star
“You only live twice. Once when you leap into the water, and once when you aren’t certain if you’ll surface.”
— Omega Seamaster 300, technical rehearsal, 1995
He doesn’t use the door.
There is a rush of movement, a suggestion of impact, and suddenly he’s there, adjusting his cuffs as if this were the only reasonable way to arrive.
Living with him is exhilarating, and faintly exhausting. He is never still. The dial catches light from directions you didn’t realise existed. The ceramic waves ripple even when the room is calm. The skeleton hands prioritise spectacle over clarity. Even the helium escape valve refuses to sit quietly, protruding like a detail the prop department couldn’t bear to cut.
This is a watch that wants to be watched working. Not merely surviving the dive, but performing it. He doesn’t just time danger, he frames it. Preferably in good light and textbook composition.
The competence is real. But subtlety has never been the goal. This is function with choreography. Capability with a soundtrack. He thrives on context. Motion. Sunlight. A story that sounds better when told later.
Left alone in a quiet room with the Imperator, he grows restless.
Favourite drink: A Vesper-adjacent martini, shaken and also discussed endlessly.
Favourite music: The theme. Always the theme.
The Rebel
“You can be beaten by the sea. But you should never disappear into it.”
— Doxa Sub 300T, expedition log, 1967
He arrives soaking wet, leaving a trail of sand on the Persian rug that the others pretend not to notice. He is wearing a linen shirt unbuttoned to the navel, and he looks like he just washed up from a shipwreck he started.
He orders a drink before sitting down, and by the time you look up properly, he’s already laughing with someone he’s just met.
Living with him is an act of rebellion. A reminder that good taste is often situational. In a world of grey suits and silver cars, he is a shout of orange. He wears jewellery stolen from another century and carries it with the confidence of someone who has stopped asking for permission.
He embarrasses boardrooms. He complicates sensible plans. He makes you wonder, briefly, if quitting your job for a sunken wreck is courage or simply a refusal to grow up.
He doesn’t believe in consensus. He assumes you’re already committed. That you’ve jumped in. That turning back would be worse than whatever comes next. He wants the horizon.
Favourite drink: Dark Rum. Lime optional, salt inevitable.
Favourite music: Anything loud enough to argue with the wind.
The Perseverer
“Do not, under any circumstances, trust a feeling. Trust what works.”
— Seiko Turtle, the dive bar, last Tuesday
He comes in through the side door because that’s where the tools are kept. You often notice him only after something has been fixed. A chair no longer wobbles. A hinge no longer squeaks. By then, he’s already at the bar, sleeves rolled up, minding his own business. Bezel just a hair off.
He’s wearing fatigues that have faded to a nameless grey, and he carries the faint, permanent scent of engine grease and salt.
Living with him is amongst the most honest relationships you will ever have. At first, he feels agricultural. A cushion of steel that sits wide and heavy on the wrist. Then you drop him. Bang him against a doorframe. Take him into the surf. He doesn’t react. He doesn’t need to be polished. He needs to be used.
Scratches are not damage to him. They are his résumé.
He has no interest in the arguments of the high table. He doesn’t care about ceramic bezels, waitlists, or the finer points of Swiss finishing. He was in the rice paddies. He was on the oil rigs. He has worked with men who didn't have time to be precious.
He has seen trends come and go. He has outlived most of them.
Favourite drink: Stout.
Favourite music: Creedence Clearwater Revival. Fortunate Son.
Spend enough time around watches, and something odd begins to happen. You stop seeing them as objects and start treating them like people.
Not in a ‘my watch understands me’ way. Nothing that alarming. Even I wouldn’t acknowledge that aloud.
But you begin to notice personalities. Habits. Attitudes. The quiet confidence of one. The desperate need for attention of another. The ones that turn up early, do the job, and rarely get thanked. The ones that make a grand entrance and then spend the rest of the evening reminding you they’re still there.
Dive watches are particularly guilty of this. They began life as tools, were dragged ashore, polished up, and eventually found themselves in places no one in 1954 would have approved of - boardrooms, first-class cabins, dinner tables. Somewhere along the way, they developed egos.
So let’s dispense with the fiction and seat them properly.
The first has already claimed the plushest chair.
The Patriarch
“It is better to sit alone than to explain yourself.”
— Blancpain Fifty Fathoms, dinner soirée, 1973
He doesn’t walk in so much as arrive early, back when the club was still being assembled brick by brick. The deep maroon wingback chair, angled toward the door, has been set aside for him for as long as anyone can remember.
Living with him is an exercise in recalibration. At first, he can feel intimidatingly large, heavy with intent and inheritance. Give it time. The gently curved sapphire bezel softens the outline. The dial opens up slowly, revealing depth rather than density. What initially reads as severity settles into something calmer.
If you cared to listen, he might tell you about the first mornings and the cold-as-death waters. Of fog, numb fingers, and equipment that had to work because there was no alternative. You may have heard these stories before, yet, you listen again, if only for the baritone of his voice.
He does not wish to compete. Or compare. He certainly does not acknowledge that another watch appeared shortly after, slimmer, louder, and far more popular. To the patriarch, second is not a position. It is a misunderstanding.
Favourite drink: Louis XIII cognac, served neat.
Favourite music: Bach, played on vinyl, volume low enough to allow conversation.
The Imperator
“Never waste a minute worrying about opinions.”
— Rolex Submariner, board meeting minutes, 1985
He enters the room with the quiet, unnerving assurance of a man who owns the building. He does not scan for approval. He assumes it. Walking straight to the head of the table, he places a single folder on the mahogany and sits. The room adjusts accordingly.
Living with him is an education in inevitability. At first, you resist. You see him everywhere. In First Class. At the gym. In the sterile elevators of buildings that would still be climbing if Babel hadn’t forced a pause. You want to find a flaw, any flaw, just to prove he is mortal.
The bezel clicks with the finality of a bank vault. The bracelet moves with the calm certainty of a Boa constrictor. But somewhere along the way, the cuff has grown shinier. The polish lingers a touch too long. He is capable, of course, but now needs a steady dose of admiring reflections just to keep going. The narcissism can be a bit infuriating.
Yet, the truth remains stubborn. While the others might be more interesting, he is the default setting. The blue blazer. The white shirt. The answer you give when you’re tired of thinking.
He is the freedom of never having to choose again.
He is the quiet numbness of never needing to.
Favourite drink: San Pellegrino. Cold.
Favourite music: The sound of a closing deal. Or perhaps Sinatra. But only the hits.
The Warhorse
“Subtlety is for people who are afraid of being seen.”
— Panerai Luminor, shouted over the roar of a cigarette boat, 2004
There’s a scrape of chairs, a laugh that ignores room size, and then he’s there, filling a doorway that was never designed with him in mind. He doesn’t squeeze through. He commits. Sideways, if necessary.
Living with him is a full-body experience. You never forget he’s there because he keeps colliding with the environment. Doorframes. Tabletops. Occasionally, other people. He is a slab of brutalist architecture that somehow persuaded the world it was elegant.
He will tell you where he comes from, whether you ask or not. Frogmen. Harbours. Naval contracts. Somewhere along the way, the story has grown louder, broader, and more theatrical. Is all of it strictly necessary? No. Is it untrue? Also no. That’s the trick.
The Warhorse is capable. Underwater, he makes sense. Legibility is superb. The lume is unquestionable. But beneath the theatre, the heart is older than the bravado suggests. You are paying a premium not for innovation, but for insistence.
On land, he behaves as if still submerged, moving with the confidence of someone who assumes the environment will eventually submit. He does not care if you think he’s too much. In fact, he might be faintly offended if you don’t.
Favourite drink: An Espresso so strong it barely ripples. Followed by warm grappa.
Favourite music: Opera. Played loudly enough to drown out dissent.
The Action Star
“You only live twice. Once when you leap into the water, and once when you aren’t certain if you’ll surface.”
— Omega Seamaster 300, technical rehearsal, 1995
He doesn’t use the door.
There is a rush of movement, a suggestion of impact, and suddenly he’s there, adjusting his cuffs as if this were the only reasonable way to arrive.
Living with him is exhilarating, and faintly exhausting. He is never still. The dial catches light from directions you didn’t realise existed. The ceramic waves ripple even when the room is calm. The skeleton hands prioritise spectacle over clarity. Even the helium escape valve refuses to sit quietly, protruding like a detail the prop department couldn’t bear to cut.
This is a watch that wants to be watched working. Not merely surviving the dive, but performing it. He doesn’t just time danger, he frames it. Preferably in good light and textbook composition.
The competence is real. But subtlety has never been the goal. This is function with choreography. Capability with a soundtrack. He thrives on context. Motion. Sunlight. A story that sounds better when told later.
Left alone in a quiet room with the Imperator, he grows restless.
Favourite drink: A Vesper-adjacent martini, shaken and also discussed endlessly.
Favourite music: The theme. Always the theme.
The Rebel
“You can be beaten by the sea. But you should never disappear into it.”
— Doxa Sub 300T, expedition log, 1967
He arrives soaking wet, leaving a trail of sand on the Persian rug that the others pretend not to notice. He is wearing a linen shirt unbuttoned to the navel, and he looks like he just washed up from a shipwreck he started.
He orders a drink before sitting down, and by the time you look up properly, he’s already laughing with someone he’s just met.
Living with him is an act of rebellion. A reminder that good taste is often situational. In a world of grey suits and silver cars, he is a shout of orange. He wears jewellery stolen from another century and carries it with the confidence of someone who has stopped asking for permission.
He embarrasses boardrooms. He complicates sensible plans. He makes you wonder, briefly, if quitting your job for a sunken wreck is courage or simply a refusal to grow up.
He doesn’t believe in consensus. He assumes you’re already committed. That you’ve jumped in. That turning back would be worse than whatever comes next. He wants the horizon.
Favourite drink: Dark Rum. Lime optional, salt inevitable.
Favourite music: Anything loud enough to argue with the wind.
The Perseverer
“Do not, under any circumstances, trust a feeling. Trust what works.”
— Seiko Turtle, the dive bar, last Tuesday
He comes in through the side door because that’s where the tools are kept. You often notice him only after something has been fixed. A chair no longer wobbles. A hinge no longer squeaks. By then, he’s already at the bar, sleeves rolled up, minding his own business. Bezel just a hair off.
He’s wearing fatigues that have faded to a nameless grey, and he carries the faint, permanent scent of engine grease and salt.
Living with him is amongst the most honest relationships you will ever have. At first, he feels agricultural. A cushion of steel that sits wide and heavy on the wrist. Then you drop him. Bang him against a doorframe. Take him into the surf. He doesn’t react. He doesn’t need to be polished. He needs to be used.
Scratches are not damage to him. They are his résumé.
He has no interest in the arguments of the high table. He doesn’t care about ceramic bezels, waitlists, or the finer points of Swiss finishing. He was in the rice paddies. He was on the oil rigs. He has worked with men who didn't have time to be precious.
He has seen trends come and go. He has outlived most of them.
Favourite drink: Stout.
Favourite music: Creedence Clearwater Revival. Fortunate Son.
