Fear and clothing: Right ho, Bo, here’s a sartorial swipe at a scruff
A weekly reverie on the vagaries and charms of fashion
On the occasion of the new prime minister’s investiture, or whatever they call that thing that they do when British prime ministers make their presence known to the queen and then stand and wave to the press in front of the black door of No 10, I feel that I should turn to literature. PG Wodehouse to be precise, because – Boris. A man who has variously been declared a latter-day Wodehousian protagonist should be lionised in apt quotations.
It goes without saying that “Red hair, sir, in my opinion, is dangerous”. Blonde is infinitely better. Sartorially speaking, this little interchange probably happens daily in Boris’s walk-in closet, as he peers at the mirror and tousles his hair: “There are moments, Jeeves, when one asks oneself: ‘Do trousers matter?’” “The mood will pass, sir,” answers the implacable Jeeves.
Boris may not be so sure. Take the time he was trussed up over the millennial bridge stuck immobile midway on the wire as he made his mayoral descent. As his trousers rode fetchingly up his crotch and he remained suspended like a very large blonde butterfly impaled by a passing pin – the mood did not pass...