Old hat: A dinner suit for hire. Photo: Flickr/faungg
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Ed Smith: Black tie used to be about dressing up, now it’s a precursor to throwing up

Black tie is still a code, of course, but not really a dress code. It is code language. It shouts to the sober world: we are on a serious bender here, so give us a wide berth.

My first experience of “black tie” was attending a ridiculous teenage “ball” – in other words, visiting a London nightclub that could only break even by selling tickets and then alcohol (on an epic scale) to overdressed and underage drinkers. We all stood outside in our “black tie”. Once the bouncers let us in, each of us removed the tie, loosened our top button and slipped on a baseball cap, presumably to look casual and American. Black tie was just a wrapper, quickly and easily discarded, intended to legitimise the serious business of getting drunk and hooking up.

It proved a good inoculation against a ghastly dress code. The same principles that guided the mob of teenage boys still inform most adult black-tie events. The dressing-up is not about elegance or style; it’s a pretext for falling over drunk. The purpose is not to add meaning, but to eliminate memory. The point is not the possibility of elevation but the certainty of descent.

It is time, surely, to decommission the whole charade. The fate of black tie is so complete that its meaning has done a somersault. It used to be about dressing up; now it’s a precursor to throwing up. I often speak to large audiences and you learn, generally, not to prejudge a crowd. The most difficult evenings, however, almost always share the same combination of an advancing clock and a multitude of dinner jackets.

Black tie is still a code, of course, but not really a dress code. It is code language. It shouts to the sober world: we are on a serious bender here, so give us a wide berth and hope not to get caught up in the melee.

There are two annual peaks for black tie. This is one of them, the Christmas and New Year jamboree; the second is high summer. City centres are now heaving with packs of men dressed as identikit penguins, falling out of pubs in the early evening, merely warming up for the serious party that follows. (My sense of chivalry will not quite allow me to let women off the hook entirely; many of them seem to be wrapped only in several layers of clingfilm, then suspended uncertainly and unsteadily on two improbably high heels.)

The only good thing to say about winter black tie is that it’s preferable to summer black tie. Anyone who has walked through central London at 6pm on a balmy June evening will have observed a familiar spectacle: perspiring men holding pints of lager while wedged into winged-collar white shirts and shiny black suits that have been progressively let out at the waist – only now, sadly, to the point of bursting.

The question naturally arises: “Can’t you guys find something more comfortable in which to get plastered?”

There is a wider point about behaviour and uniforms. Deliberately superimposing a strict dress code on a humdrum event has a precise purpose: it confers anonymity. In dressing with the crowd, you give up a measure of personal autonomy and join a collective. Put differently, it is an excuse, a precursor to the sentiment, “It wasn’t my fault – I was just doing what everyone else was doing.”

Apart from the armed forces, no one spends more time in strict dress code than professional athletes. Some players prefer the kit to the competition. The county colleague of an injured England player once quipped: “He needed two operations when he got home – one on his leg, the other to get the England tracksuit off him.”

As captain of Middlesex I tried to reduce the cult of uniforms. A county cricketer wears playing kit or practice uniform, 9am to 7pm, five days a week. Surely, I argued, we didn’t need to travel to away games in tracksuits as well?

Tracksuits, I thought, subliminally reinforced groupthink. Team meetings when we were all wearing them seemed to be even more banal and cliché-ridden than usual. On the principle of individualism and self-expression, I encouraged people to dress how they wanted.

One coach, a devotee of blanket solutions, saw things differently. When one of our players turned up in combat trousers before a flight to an away game, the coach came to me in a rage.

“Skip,” he demanded, “what the hell is he wearing?” My reply – “If he bowls well out on the pitch, I don’t care what he wears sitting down in 47F” – wasn’t the answer he was looking for.

I’m not against all dress codes. They are supposed to help. Basic manners (usually) lead me to follow the dress code of any invitation I accept. I hope I’ll be considered merely polite rather than a hypocrite when I’m next spotted in black tie having written this column.

Phoney dressing-down leaves me cold, too. At the awards ceremony for a literary prize, I observed a television personality – who knew he would be giving a speech and must have deliberately scrunched up his shirt overnight to confer an especially tousled and casual insouciance – begin with a special message to his wife. “Babe,” he said to the assembled group, “we need to get me a proper shirt.”

The political columnist standing next to me whispered, “He must have been at Eton.” And indeed he had been.

Having warned against the misuse of the term “authenticity” in last week’s column, I hesitate to invoke it as a principle now. But there is a way of dressing more or less honestly, which is quite separate from and unconnected to dressing more or less smartly. That sentiment, not censoriousness, leads me to my New Year’s request: ditch the black tie. 

Ed Smith’s latest book is Luck: a Fresh Look at Fortune (Bloomsbury, £8.99)

Ed Smith is a journalist and author, most recently of Luck. He is a former professional cricketer and played for both Middlesex and England.

This article first appeared in the 19 December 2014 issue of the New Statesman, Christmas Issue 2014

Ukip's Nigel Farage and Paul Nuttall. Photo: Getty
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Is the general election 2017 the end of Ukip?

Ukip led the way to Brexit, but now the party is on less than 10 per cent in the polls. 

Ukip could be finished. Ukip has only ever had two MPs, but it held an outside influence on politics: without it, we’d probably never have had the EU referendum. But Brexit has turned Ukip into a single-issue party without an issue. Ukip’s sole remaining MP, Douglas Carswell, left the party in March 2017, and told Sky News’ Adam Boulton that there was “no point” to the party anymore. 

Not everyone in Ukip has given up, though: Nigel Farage told Peston on Sunday that Ukip “will survive”, and current leader Paul Nuttall will be contesting a seat this year. But Ukip is standing in fewer constituencies than last time thanks to a shortage of both money and people. Who benefits if Ukip is finished? It’s likely to be the Tories. 

Is Ukip finished? 

What are Ukip's poll ratings?

Ukip’s poll ratings peaked in June 2016 at 16 per cent. Since the leave campaign’s success, that has steadily declined so that Ukip is going into the 2017 general election on 4 per cent, according to the latest polls. If the polls can be trusted, that’s a serious collapse.

Can Ukip get anymore MPs?

In the 2015 general election Ukip contested nearly every seat and got 13 per cent of the vote, making it the third biggest party (although is only returned one MP). Now Ukip is reportedly struggling to find candidates and could stand in as few as 100 seats. Ukip leader Paul Nuttall will stand in Boston and Skegness, but both ex-leader Nigel Farage and donor Arron Banks have ruled themselves out of running this time.

How many members does Ukip have?

Ukip’s membership declined from 45,994 at the 2015 general election to 39,000 in 2016. That’s a worrying sign for any political party, which relies on grassroots memberships to put in the campaigning legwork.

What does Ukip's decline mean for Labour and the Conservatives? 

The rise of Ukip took votes from both the Conservatives and Labour, with a nationalist message that appealed to disaffected voters from both right and left. But the decline of Ukip only seems to be helping the Conservatives. Stephen Bush has written about how in Wales voting Ukip seems to have been a gateway drug for traditional Labour voters who are now backing the mainstream right; so the voters Ukip took from the Conservatives are reverting to the Conservatives, and the ones they took from Labour are transferring to the Conservatives too.

Ukip might be finished as an electoral force, but its influence on the rest of British politics will be felt for many years yet. 

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