‘Fashionistas’ tend to fall into two categories: those who love colour, and those who hide away from it in fright. WWP unashamedly falls into the latter category, whilst Roberto Cavalli, Anna Dello Russo and David Bowie occupy the former.
There is also the existence of the colour hyprocrites, those who insist on dressing the rest of the world in neon whilst they themselves crawl back to their wardrobes of black and grey. The profession of this third species of man? Stylists. Imagine Andrea Lieberman leopard print; Gok Wan in pink. Those who can wear colour do, those who don’t style. And the relationship between the amount of colour worn by a stylist and the amount of colour they use when styling is very often inversely proportional.
Ergo, the Queen’s stylist must look like Wednesday Addams. Why must she always wear so much of one colour? Particularly – why must she always wear PURPLE?
This Cadbury’s Milk Tray look wouldn’t be a problem if she mixed in some neutral tones, or wore simpler pieces. But she doesn’t. Everything her lazy stylist pulls out in the morning is one block colour. Nowadays, you don’t have to match your bra to your knickers, or your shoes to your handbag, so why match your hat with your jacket with your dress with your lipstick?
This problem isn’t just confined to royalty, it’s a worldwide phenomena. We as a society have been led to believe that our lives will be changed if we wear colour, and we’re predictable and morbid if we don’t. This is all down to those pesky colour hypocrites; specifically it’s the fault of Gok Bloody Wang. The ‘How To Look Good Naked’ producers would never dress their subject in a cute black shift dress in the final reveal. It has to be jewelled tones, bright lips and (for some unfathomable reason) a neckerchief.
We the people must reclaim our right to wear black. Black is easy, flattering and mysterious. Moreover, wearing colour all the time will not make you ‘fun’ or ‘edgy’ or the worst of all things – ‘random.’ Most of the time it will just make you look like a CBeebies presenter.
As for the Queen, I feel she is a lost cause until she becomes a widow. But the day Prince Philip dies will be the day I stop caring about the royal family altogether.
Despite the fact that she’s clearly a hardened, evil criminal, I’ve always had a small soft spot for Rebekah Brooks. Her hair is pretty awesome – like a better version of Vivienne Westwood’s or Grace Coddington’s – and, notwithstanding her current peril, she held her own in a men’s newsroom. She also took on the Leveson enquiry with style, in a black dress adorned with Peter Pan collar. (Of course, those less educated in fashion happenings made tedious comparisons to the cast of The Crucible – proving they really missed the point of that play.)
But the real test is how well she stands up in court. For the courtroom entry/exit has produced some of the most timeless photos of modern time. See Marianne Faithfull stepping out on the arm of Mick Jagger, drenched in fur, or Amy Winehouse turning up to her assault trial dressed like a 1950s Cuban prostitute in 2009. I doubt we can expect the same from Mrs Brooks, but let’s see what she’s got.
Appears initially strong – a classic wool – but no pale skin can truly do the camel coat justice.
A boucle jacket! The separate poised to overthrow the hideous trouser suit! Nice one Becks.
I spoke too soon. Have a terrible feeling this is a trouser suit. Girl needs some blusher and lipstick to brighten up that anxiety-ridden face of hers.
Better. Do not have full bosom in photo so cannot see whether she can pull off the hipster-button-up (there’s a fine line between chic and matron). But a refreshing change of pace.
Oh Jesus Christ. Judging by this cardigan fiasco, I’m guessing that she couldn’t pull off hipster-button-up. STEP AWAY FROM THE MONOCHROME REBEKAH.
…GO BACK TO MONOCHROME, I REPEAT GO BACK TO MONOCHROME!
Two couples of Great British refinement – are they really so different?
In terms of style, of course they are. The foundations of Beckingham Palace were built on image, even before Victoria sent out her first collection down the runway. Victoria’s style is encapsulated in that pissed-off non-smile that she always bears: cool, reserved, knowledgeable. Her husband is probably never without a stylist, or indeed a wardrobe full of free clothes sent by designers. Boy can also rock tailoring in a way only bettered by Fred Astaire. John Bercow on the other hand dresses like your average politician, albeit with a collection of flamboyant ties.
And then there is Sally. Sally of Evening Standard fame, an interview in which she tried and failed to make politics interesting simply by putting the word ‘sexy’ in front of British Parliament terms: “I never realised how sexy I would find living under Big Ben”; “The view from Speaker’s House is incredibly sexy.” Draped in a bedsheet and attempting to look like something out of Last Tango in Paris, she quite frankly came across as an uneducated tit. In clothes, she doesn’t fare much better. She’s forever showing just a little too much arm and cleavage, she never seems to dress for her body shape, and her make-up is reminiscent of a deranged, jilted bride from a 1940s film.
This wouldn’t be a problem if her output in public life offset this chaos in her wardrobe. In general, if you are a good person who does good things, shallow people like me tend to leave you alone (see: Mo Mowlam in terrible trouser suits; Steve Jobs in that stupid poloneck; Alexandra Shulman and her penchant for cardigans). Yet Sally Bercow’s lifestyle and image feed eachother. Every appearance she makes in the media serves to inflate her self-caricature further, from her frustratingly brainless disregard for libel laws, her Big Brother appearance and her description of herself as a “a personality.” She is a mess, but worse still, she is a mess with bad hair.
Which brings us to the similarities between the Beckhams and the Bercows in terms of spirit. The crucial difference here is that the Beckhams are a pair of equals. Both are incredibly successful, and hence they complement one another. Their fame has endured past their status as the celeb couple of the ’90’s and is now more a by-product of their professional accomplishments. The Bercows in contrast, appear as two separate entities at war via the media. Poor John seems to just want get on with his job; his wife is hungry for the front page of a paper that berates her husband and his colleagues on a daily basis.
Call Posh Spice a terrible singer, call Becks an air-headed footballer. But they have much more PR sense and grace than Mr and Mrs John Bercow MP.