Of course, Gareth Southgate humbly demurred when he was dubbed a style icon. “As a centre half with a face like I’ve got, then that’s a very rare position to be in,” he said, adding, “I’m not David Beckham.” But this summer, Southgate’s nice-guy look has brought the country together.

There is nothing cool about Southgate’s signature style, in fact it is lack of affectation that has the nation swooning. His own Beckham comparison is apt: unlike that adopter of head-to-toe leather and kaftans, Southgate’s approach is not experimental, or effortful. It is sweet and solid.

There is nothing achingly hip about a crisp blue shirt and striped tie underneath a neat, navy blue waistcoat. But it does have joyful connotations: a waistcoat is rarely spotted without a suit jacket over it except during the fun parts of weddings. It is also suitably modest: the waistcoat costs £65 from Marks & Spencer. M&S has since reported a 35% rise in waistcoat sales: is it too much to hope that, as well as saving our nation’s spirit, Southgate could save our most beloved, and beleaguered, store?

Southgate holds up his first cap for England in 1995. Photograph: Adam Butler/PA

Then there is the beard. Though the achingly hip may have shaved theirs off around the time the Guardian declared the trend dead five years ago, less fly-by-night pogonophiles – among them Hugh Jackman and Prince Harry – are still confidently wearing relaxed, ungroomed facial hair, just like Southgate’s. His omnipresent Monica Vinader friendship bracelet (£115) was a gift from his family, and feels like one. It is a genuinely cherished present, rather than an accessory chosen for visual impact; like something worn by a nice dad on the school run.

Yet somehow women are swooning. One Twitter user described his appeal by likening him to “the guy you sack off at 17 and then spot on a Christmas trip to your village pub at 37 and think DEAR GOD WHAT DID I DO.” Even his geekiness is being treated with affection. Twenty-year-old photographs of him wearing a bad checked shirt, with a bad French crop, are circulating with captions such as: “Nineties Southgate is 100% your mate’s older brother who was later revealed to have lied about seeing Oasis at Knebworth.”

Southgate in 2007. Photograph: Back Page Images/Rex/Shutterstock

But while he may be unpretentious, Southgate knows a thing or two about visual branding. An unwavering signature style is a trick deployed by the savviest stylists in the world. Think of Karl Lagerfeld, with his monochrome suiting and powdered bouffant, or Anna Wintour, with her sharp bob and shades. Then there is the Queen, who has said, “I have to be seen to be believed”, and who consistently wears a rimmed hat and boxy dress in one bright colour. The Southgate look has become so recognisable that it ensures he cannot be missed, mistaken for another man on the touchline, or forgotten – as if we would. (The acid test is in the rise in Southgate lookalikes, such as Neil Rowe, a British Airways pilot, who has had a good summer posing for selfies.)

Recently, we have become accustomed to men in suits – from Brexiters such as Jacob Rees-Mogg in his Wall Street-era double-breasted blazer to Donald Trump with his overly long ties affixed with sellotape – driving a wedge between us. Refreshingly, Southgate’s tailoring has united us in joy.