HOW MANY FASHIONISTAS DOES IT TAKE TO STOP A WARSHIP?
THE Department of Trade came up with the notion that Prince Andrew, Duke of York, could be a useful ambassador for British fashion, and I was instructed to introduce him to a selection of cool designers — ‘the edgier, the better’ was the brief.
A plan was hatched that I would take the Duke on a tour of design studios and showrooms from Chelsea to Hoxton, culminating in a boardroom lunch at Vogue House at which a dozen top fashion editors would be gathered.
Things got off to a good start at Jasper Conran’s studio. Jasper pranced about in an oatmeal-coloured suit, showing the prototypes for a new range of orange trousers, and made suggestions on how government might support the industry.
We were driven on to Hoxton in a royal Daimler with six police motorcycle outriders. I asked the prince how his makeover of Royal Lodge was going, the Windsor Great Park house he had recently inherited from the Queen Mother. ‘There’s a devil of a lot to do,’ he said. ‘I’m stripping out the old rose garden and replacing it with a pitch and putt golf course. And installing a bowling alley.’
We trooped into a warehouse building, used by collectives of fashion designers. Protection officers strode ahead.
Designer Elspeth Gibson was showing Prince Andrew her latest collection when an alarm sounded, followed by an intercom announcement. ‘There has been a major incident in the building. Do not leave the showrooms and lock all doors.’
Several floors below, we heard the sound of a gunshot. Eventually, police stormed in, and escorted us from the premises. They seemed surprised to discover Prince Andrew in the building.
Lunch at Vogue House felt like a sanctuary. Already grouped around the table were the editors and fashion editors from Vogue, Vanity Fair, Tatler and Glamour, primed to decode British fashion. The Duke — fired up by the Hoxton shooting episode, and by the superchic array of female editors — was in gung-ho mood. ‘Let me ask you all a question,’ he said. ‘If you were steering an 8,000-ton destroyer into harbour, how far in advance of reaching port would you shut down the engine?’ The cream of British fashion editors exchanged uneasy glances. Eventually, Alexandra Shulman, then Vogue editor, said: ‘OK, I’ll have a guess. Five hundred yards?’ The prince roared with laughter. ‘Way off! Who’s next? Come on, who’s next?’ They all guessed. I wish I could remember the answer (it was quite high, more than a mile, I think) but time had run out, and the motorcycle outriders were circling and revving.