Not many MPs took advantage of John Bercow’s relaxation of the Commons dress code last month. Only a couple removed their ties, unlike in the scruffy press gallery where by the end of July it was 20 per cent open collars. Fraser Nelson, editor of The Spectator, suggests that this is all about indicating status. David Cameron’s team had an unofficial dress code, he says. Those from provincial backgrounds wore ties, seeing it as what professional people do. The posher ones (Francis Maude and suchlike) went without. The very posh (Cameron and George Osborne) didn’t even wear a collar to work. And then there was Steve Hilton, Cameron’s ideas man, who padded around in his socks. No wonder they called him the Guru.
Nelson adds in a blog that he once interviewed Steve Forbes, the American millionaire who twice ran for the presidency and, at the end of chat, was given a tie with the words “capitalist tool” written on it. The point being that smart dress is the key to social progress. (And I thought it was just a way to cover up gravy stains . . . ) Nelson was touched but adds that the tie, in green and gold, was “hideous”.
Bowled over
As the England cricket team beat South Africa at Old Trafford yesterday there can have been few prouder players than James Anderson, who took seven wickets at a home ground that now has an end named after him. Graeme Swann, his former team-mate, observed: “Anderson is the most Lancashire man I’ve ever met. He would truly bleed red blood if you cut his arms open.” How extraordinary.
Before the storm
August is when MPs become normal again. Gavin Williamson, who as Cameron’s former aide and now Theresa May’s chief whip is the most powerful Tory that almost no one has heard of, has had a delightfully mundane August so far. “Gavin opens Codsall flower festival,” went one press release, on the same day as “Gavin opens Brewood bowling club”. Yesterday he was campaigning for a local road to be resurfaced. Odd to think that this is the same man who come September will be terrorising awkward MPs to vote the right way with a helping hand from Cronus, his pet tarantula . . .
I asked yesterday for fresh takes on old nursery rhymes and, of course, as with any rannygazoo I set, you sent in dozens of replies. Here are two of them. From Suzie Marwood: “Wee Willie Winkie vomits through the town. Ten Jägerbombs and 12 pints down. He’s on a stag do in sunny Magaluf, showing Johnny Foreigner the pride of British yoof.” And this filthy one from Adrian Brodkin: “Jack was nimble, Jack was quick. But Jill preferred a candlestick . . . ”
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Bad hair day
After my report about Nick Timothy, Mrs May’s former chief of staff, shaving off his magnificent beard, an email arrived from Joseph Connolly, the humorous novelist whose own whiskers are so splendid that they could win “best in breed” at Crufts. Connolly once did a book signing, he says, where an American woman asked where he gets his ideas. “Why, at the Harrods sale,” he told her. “Just like my beard.” He was surprised to see her earnestly write this down. “But,” he cautioned her, “you must get there on the first day. Otherwise the best ideas — and the best beards — will all be gone.”
