Saturday, 14 May 2011

The Frock Coat And: Rough-Necks Don't Bovver Me

The frock coat has recently stirred some strong feelings over on a site which is in the course of re-aiming its appeal to those who appreciate style icons such as Mr and Mrs David Beckham E.B.O. I see no need to point out one's dislike of anyone unless they push themselves (and are also pushed by others), in our faces as much as is this duo and, given the number of times that images of this pair are just there for me to see, I think that I might protest: so far as I recall (and I do recall the bitter televised moments), Beckham has let the English side down so often by falling over his own feet and muffing important moments out of shaking, shivering terror, that he does not deserve to be 'in our faces' so much; Mrs Beckham, formerly the artiste known as 'Posh Spice' (maybe, because she was the only member of the Spice Girls who could read 'n' write), cannot sing; maybe she can design clothes but, if they are like the ones that she wore to the recent 'royal wedding', then I fear for the yoof of the nation.

Anyway, enough of that airy persiflage and back to our sheep: the thought occurs to me that there is one occasion for which I might be tempted to wear a frock coat (but with a fold-down stiff collar) and that is: to give my daughter away at her wedding. Knowing her, she would lightly protest but, secretly, be rather pleased and, in any event, I shall do it only if she wears emeralds that match her eyes, and carries gardenias and orange blossom, and her bridegroom shall bring her to a house where, in Yeats' fine words:

"all's accustomed, ceremonious".

In today's picture, from the left - damned fine examples of frock coats on: WSC, WSC and, far right, Randolph Churchill at the Christening of one of his children (and I suppose that I might be tempted to wear a frock coat for the Christening of at least a first grandchild).

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