Here I am, standing before my wardrobe in the dark, like the old Jew standing before the Ark, lost in a kind of prayer, my suitcase thrown open on the bed behind me. I’m packing for a tour to sell my book Israel Is Real: An Obsessive Quest to Understand the Jewish Nation and Its History, which, being a Gonzo take on the most fraught, controversial, fight-generating topic in the business, has earned much praise and much ire, specifically from think-tank neocons, Israel pros, would-be know-it-alls and pseudo-experts of every sort. I do not, in short, attract the sort of happy-go-lucky crowd that turns out for Sophie Kinsella’s Shopaholic series, nor even the slightly edgier fans who queue for Toby Young. The members of my audience are as keyed up as linebackers; excited, enthusiastic, too enthusiastic, supportive, pissed off, varied and voluble.

So what do I wear? The jumpsuit and fatigues? Too creepy. The motorcycle jacket and riding gear? Too aggressive. Bermuda shorts? Too festive. Members Only jacket? Too 1980s. I need clothes that can be strapped on like armour, that will both hide and display, and protect me from the slings and arrows.

Rich Cohen wears a suit by Hugo Boss, tie by Salvatore Ferragamo and shirt by Zegna

Ideally, this would be a tear-away coat and pants, like the jerseys Earl Campbell wore when he played running back for the Houston Oilers, once among the most ferocious teams in the National Football League. Leaving a shredded jersey in the hands of a stunned defender, Campbell would scamper into the end zone as free as a blue and white bird — until the league made it illegal. (I was told these jerseys, designed specifically for Campbell, were made of a very thick paper, thus entirely bio-degradable.) That way, at the close of an event, when certain members of the crowd, irate at the way I’ve described Israel or the Zionist dream, stand before the door blocking my exit and eager to tell me how the world “really works”, I could lower my head and blast through, gambolling to subway or town car, shouting: “Keep the torn coat and keep the ruined pants, for look, they already turn to rags in your hands!”

However, as both my designer and my accountant tell me – her name is Mei and her advice to me regarding tax problems is, “Make more money!” – this is economically unfeasible. Instead, while on the road I resort to the most conservative outfits: blue blazer and grey slacks; charcoal suit and lace-up loafers; grey coat and pleated khakis. And always lots of pockets.

The logic is simple. First, I want clothes that are soothing, calming, that give the impression of sanity and the most moderate kind of adulthood; that say: “I am not a firebrand attacking your core beliefs. I am a banker, and not that new kind with the derivatives and flash, but the old kind, who can put you to sleep by talking.”

On most nights, I am, after all, standing before a room of older people, many of whom look like my Grandma Esther 20 or 30 years ago, only they do not look at me like my Grandma Esther. That was pure, ecstatic, untroubled love; this is confusion, irritation and concern. Some members of my audience love me, some like me, most don’t care, but some actually dislike me, for they have heard my words and found them wanting. The danger is they will move from my words to my person. The goal is to dress to defray. Zegna is ideal for this purpose, in Jasper Johns shades of grey.

My clothes are meant to soothe people into believing I have the right to get up and speak, that I am a grandson, a friend of a friend, not a gleeful radical who goes into the Holy of Holies with taps hammered to the bottom of his sensible shoes.

Second, as I’ve grown older, I have come to believe that the writer’s main obligation is to get free and remain free; that his sentences should sing like a cast fishing line and nothing should get in the way of these sentences, least of all his clothes. So here’s my rule: the stranger the message, the simpler should be the dress. On most nights I wear a blue Hugo Boss shirt crossed with lines so small they cannot be seen from a distance, or some variation; black or grey trousers, low on the hip, like a gunslinger, a navy three-button blazer, with narrow lapels, or, if I’m feeling fancy, a jazzed-up cashmere blazer, or a slate grey Canali suit the exact colour of the sky five minutes before a downpour; transparent silk socks, the kind worn by gangsters in Scorsese movies; and square-toed Bruno Magli shoes.

Of course, if it was up to me – without thought of book or audience – I would dress exactly like Elvis in 1955: silk shirts with polka dots, white bucks and parrot-coloured pants and high-flying pompadour falling over my mascara-heavy eyes.

Yes, I would like to wear a crushed velvet sport coat; yes, I would like to wear a Nudie cowboy suit; yes, I would like to wear steel-tipped boots and carry a whip and call myself “the whip master”, but if the clothes are too interesting, the clothes become the message.

The clothes should be finely made but plain, so that, when the speaker is gone, his dress is forgotten, and only the words remain.

Rich Cohen’s book ‘Israel Is Real: An Obsessive Quest To Understand the Jewish Nation and Its History’ is published by Jonathan Cape