You might miss your tie, but I won’t miss looking at it
What I am about to say may cause grave offence. But I make no apology for saying it. The first duty of a journalist is to report the truth – even though that truth may shock or appal. And so I must confess that on Thursday, when John Bercow, the Speaker of the House of Commons, announced that MPS were no longer required to wear ties, I was delighted.
Because – and I can’t stress this enough – ties are awful.
Oh, come on. They are. They’re uncomfortable. They flap about. They’re a magnet for soup stains. They make fat men look even fatter, by causing a roll of flab to bulge revoltingly over the top of their collar. And, above all, they’re ugly. They’re almost invariably crowded with the kind of zany colours, motifs and patterns that would get you laughed out of the building if they appeared on any other item of clothing. Look at the shiny, purple-striped monstrosity I’m wearing in my byline photo, for pity’s sake. It looks like a shred of wrapping paper from a child’s birthday present.
At least when a man wears novelty socks they’re largely obscured by his trousers. The sight of the novelty tie, however, is inflicted on everyone.
I appreciate that the Speaker’s decision has angered traditionalists. Peter Bone, a Conservative MP, says it constitutes “dumbing down”. Personally, I’ve never thought of putting on a tie as a test of the intellect, but perhaps for Mr Bone it is. Mr Bone, I might add, routinely sports the eye-wateringly hideous tie of the Eurosceptic Grassroots Out movement, which is emblazoned with luminous lime green stripes.
Perhaps it was that very tie that made up the Speaker’s mind.
The other day in a charity shop, I picked up a Victorian guide to etiquette, originally published in 1897. Entitled Manners for
Men, it was full of advice on how a gentleman should treat a lady. It was quite an eye-opener.
In a downpour, for example, on no account should a gentleman offer a woman his umbrella – unless she is already a close personal acquaintance. “No lady would accept the offer from a stranger,” sniffs the author – herself a woman – “and the other sort of person might never return the umbrella.” In other words: let the silly little girl get soaked.
The reader is are also warned that any young woman who invites him “to meet her at restaurants, subscription dances, bazaars, or any other place” is clearly “lacking in modesty and propriety”. Similarly, he should beware the kind of “lowermiddle-class” girl who deliberately drops “a parcel or sunshade” in the street “with a direct view to scraping acquaintance with young men”. The brazen hussy is shamelessly seeking a “‘flirtation’, as they may be called”. The rule that really struck me, though, was this. Before marriage, a man must not only buy the house that he and his bride are to live in, but furnish it from top to bottom, right down to the bed linen. Every last household item is to be chosen by him. It’s difficult to imagine any 21st-century wife standing for that. I can barely buy a pillowcase without my wife’s written approval. All decisions about decor and furniture are hers.
Lord knows how the typical Victorian bride must have reacted, when she was carried over the threshold of the marital home for the first time.
“What the bloody hell do you call that, then?”
“What do you mean, what do I call it? It’s wallpaper. William Morris. The man in the shop said it was the latest thing.”
“Well, it’s giving me a splitting headache. It’s going. And that grandfather clock. And that commode. And that mangy old goat’s head on the wall.”
“It’s not a goat. It’s a gazelle. I shot it myself.”
“If I see it there tomorrow morning, it’ll be your head on the wall next. Hang on, where’s the telly?”
“Telly? This is 1897. Television won’t be invented for another 30 years.”
“You mean that every evening for the next three decades I’ll have nothing better to do than darn stockings and try not to catch typhoid off our 17 children? Oh God, what have I done. I knew it. I should have listened to my mother.”
Supposedly, very few Victorian marriages ended in divorce. I find that hard to believe.
Yes, he’s done it again. George Osborne is now a professor of economics at the University of Manchester – as well as editor of the Evening Standard, adviser to Blackrock, chairman of the Northern Powerhouse Partnership, fellow at the Mccain Institute, and speaker for the Washington Speakers Bureau.
Has anyone ever held so many jobs at once? I decided to investigate.
“Interesting question,” said the new editor of the Guinness Book of Records, George Osborne. “We were thinking of including it in our next edition – but by the time it reaches the shops, I’ll probably have gained another three jobs, so it’ll be instantly out of date.”
Members of the public seemed impressed by the former chancellor’s achievements.
“I’ve always admired him,” said George Osborne, a bricklayer in Milton Keynes.
“The one job I’d really like him to do is prime minister,” said George Osborne, a waitress in Guildford.
And she’s not alone. Were the former MP for Tatton to replace Theresa May, a remarkable 100 per cent of the electorate would vote Conservative, according to a shock poll compiled by the new boss of Yougov, George Osborne.
“If the Tories want a leader who can win, they need George Osborne,” said chief political commentator at the New Statesman, George Osborne. “In tough economic times, he’ll create millions of new jobs. And then take them all.”