I think I must be a relic. When I get a ‘black tie’ invitation, I dig out the old dicky bow and prepare to fumble in the mirror, knowing that whatever the final effect, skew-wiff and hand-done is better than clip-on and naff – and in my opinion, always looks terrifically smart when tucked under the collar, Harold Macmillan-style.
But what do I see at the Baftas last night, but scores – nay, hundreds – of men wearing literally black ties? I thought the long versions were reserved for Harrovians and funerals, so I must assume that a) nobody in the film world understands dress code any more; b) they know ready-made won’t do, but tremble to tie their own; or c) a new fashion rebellion has occurred, on a par with the demise of spats.
To be honest, I don’t like it. Never mind the question of what one should wear for burials and cremations, if funerary neckwear is to be hijacked by party people. For ultimate elegance, the shiny facings of the dinner jacket demand a broad expanse of white between them.
And while we’re talking about change and decay, what has happened to the royal accent? When Prince William gave his inaugural speech as incoming president of BAFTA, he sounded less posh than the Tannoy telling us to take our seats. I want my Windsors to say ‘orf’ not ‘off’, and ‘gorn’ not ‘gone’. If they are long to reign over us, we need them to be a different species, Eloi to our Morlocks. Still, one mustn’t grumble too much. At least our future king prefers a comb-over to the shaved bullet head now favoured by the balding. And he – or his valet – can knot a bow tie.
