One hesitates to use the words summer social season in such a hackle-raising alliterative formation. This is 2006, after all, not 1936. Nevertheless, it is summer, which even in this country passes for a season. And it is really rather social, although for a fretful nanosecond it looked as though, without the edifice of Glastonbury and its £6,000-a-weekend executive tents, entire communities of perma-bronzed, artfully dishevelled Kate Moss lookalikes would be wiped out, deprived of the 21st century’s equivalent of Queen Charlotte’s coming-out ball, and forced to take up citizenship in Ibiza.
But like nature, society abhors a vacuum. Where Glasto once operated a virtual monopoly, now there is a near-continuous cacophony of rock festivals all summer long, from the edgy-indy vibe of Tapestry in South Wales, and the glamour-cool of the Isle of Wight, to the corporate-meets-Prince Harry passeggiata of the V festival. Having fun has never been so exhausting. One can only admire these seemingly chaotic, muddy love-ins for upholding an ancient British tradition that has always been an object of fascination for the rest of the world: that is, the ancient art of networking. The Isle of Wight etc have fostered a fixed, albeit peripatetic, summer calendar that has become every bit as established as the old triumvirate of Ascot, Henley and the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition, and in their selfless pursuit of a good time, the Moss Posse is proving itself worthy successors to Lillie Langtry and Alice Keppel.
Naturally, where there are people willing to sacrifice eardrums and brain cells at the altar of out-there music, there is another group of quieter, slightly more earnest-looking types — let us call them the Lit Chicks — eager to show that reading books can be quite rock’n’roll, too — hence the increasing proliferation of literary festivals, beginning with Hay in May, taking in Port Eliot, Althorp, Charleston . . . and culminating in The Times’ Cheltenham Literature Festival in October.
Party chicks, meanwhile, appear at the Cannes Film Festival (rapidly becoming a destination for the super-rich who have no interest in film, but plenty in hanging out with film stars and scoring an invitation to the Vanity Fair party); Sotheby’s summer art sales (excellent hunting ground for aforementioned super-rich); the Basel art fair (which has its own Prada shop this time, selling one-offs and prototypes — art insiders say that it will be the place where deals, both financial and social, get clinched this season); and the Serpentine summer party — one should be grateful that, at a time when the nation has allegedly dumbed down so enthusiastically that its summer season consists of going catatonic in front of Big Brother, that large sections are hitting the road to appreciate the arts, both avante garde and ancient. That’s before we get to Elton John’s annual White Tie and Tiara shindig, and diverse glamathon parties, such as the Beckhams’ Full Length and Fabulous contribution last month, the Gorbachev extravagaza at Althorp last weekend, in aid of his late wife Raisa’s charitable foundation, at which the inherent thrill is seeing just how eclectic the mix is (ideally at least one ideologically unsound new billionaire for every 20 pop stars, Hollyood denizens, footballers and aristos).
Where the old season was essentially a scrum in which aristos and parvenus negotiated a single issue — that of class — the new season is, as befits a nation led by men called Tony, Gordon and Dave, more diverse and democratic. Yes it’s about cultcha, but it’s also about personal choice (do you belong to the tribal hobbyists who worship Sebastian Faulks and Zadie Smith, or those who pitch canvas at the altar of the Zutons and the Kaiser Chiefs?). There’s a love of nature and heritage lurking in the breasts of festivalgoers too: those fields of Cath Kidston tents and simple, organic felafel stalls are nothing if not symbolic of a touching, if vague, pantheistic yearning that beats in the soul of all Brits.
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With the new extended season comes new dress dilemmas. Once these revolved around the number of diamonds accceptable before sundown. Now the big question is just how foolish wearing sunglasses after sundown renders you (immensely, unless you have an optician’s letter). As for hats v sunglasses, it’s the latter every time, except for Ascot’s Royal Enclosure. Fake tan v tights? The former (and to think Di and Fergie once caused a kerfuffle by going bare-legged at Ascot).
Designer v Hunter wellies? Hunter, especially now they are hard to get hold of. Smelly feet or Odor-Eaters? Should you be asking? And obviously no, no, no to hair extensions. Let us not get too carried away by notions of democracy and all inclusiveness, either. You may no longer require breeding and your great great grandmother’s jewellery to navigate the season, but you need money. A weekend at the Isle of Wight doesn’t come cheap and if you’re planning on throwing a key party of the season your guests won’t get out of bed for any event that costs less than a million to put on. And naturally you should have inherited fabulous legs.