Tuesday, 19 May 2009

Tied up in knots

I have never been one of those fashion fascists who subscribes to the view that just because someone (usually a bloke) ties a bit of colourful cloth around their neck it automatically somehow makes them smarter and more important. It doesn't. It just means they have tied a bit of colourful cloth around their neck. Or willingly subjected themselves to the noose of the klothing kommandants.

That is not to say that Robin Bogg is not a dapper dresser. My Matalan suits are as sharp as anything those ace faces might wear. Its just I don't see the need to dangle striped polyester material from around my collar. It's no good having silken button covering scruff frippery if the rest of the look is scruffy. As Satre once said: "Un vagabond dans une cravate est toujours un vagabond."

Indeed far from elevating its wearer to some exalted plain of sartorial splendour it can have the opposite effect. Exhibit A: The comedy cartoon character tie. And does any apologist for neck embellishment really find that gingham gland garniture is enhanced by the food stains that inevitably appear? There is no more amusing but demeaning sight than a room full of city types, slurping soup with ties thrown back over their shoulders, in an attempt to keep cream of tomato off their dry clean only Tie Rack throat trim.

I am obviously a fan in principle of the notion of the old school tie as a means of appointing staff. But I see it as more as theoretical part of the interview process rather than a literal requirement of garb. The need for a nape cape is just another way that the powers that be have used to stop Robin Bogg gaining access to those in the know, as illustrated by an incident yesterday.

I was strolling along Piccadilly enjoying a morning shower when I suddenly came over a bit unnecessary. So I ducked into the Ritz to use its fantastic toilets. 30 minutes later I came out into the foyer where there was a scrum of security and press. "Not again," I thought. Can't a man answer the call of nature in a plush West End hotel without ending up in jail and splashed all over the papers, as happened when I ruined the carpet at the Hilton. But then I spotted that amidst the posse was former US President Bill Clinton.

They all headed down the corridor into a room with the sign "Strictly by invitation only" slapped on the door but I managed to sneak in and grab a seat at the back and settled down to hear the wise words of a man history has judged better than it should simply by not being as bad as what immediately followed.

Charming, charismatic and self assured. But enough about me. Clinton was rude, dour and nervous. 50 minutes of waffle from someone who seemed to think that just because he was the most powerful man in the world we all want to listen to his opinions. Not one word about umbrellas. At the end of his endless piffle stream I took the opportunity to ask him a question I had wanted to for years.

"Got any cigars, Bill?"

He didn't like that and said something along the lines of "Oi you scruffy limey, where's your tie?" before asking his heavy mob to eject me from the hotel for breaching its dress code. I managed a witty "I hope your greetings card shops all go bankrupt" as I was airborne through the grand entrance before thudding onto the Piccadilly pavement.

No comments:

Post a Comment