CONNECT: 'The events at Windsor Castle are wholly unacceptable and a matter of great regret," said David Veness, assistant commissioner of London's metropolitan police. He's right, of course. Scores of twits in fancy dress are invariably a matter of great regret and nobody should ever have to endure such a wholly unacceptable event.
Mind you, Veness was commenting specifically on the breach of security by 36-year-old Aaron Barschak, who describes himself as a "comedy terrorist". Dressed as Osama Bin Laden in a salmon-coloured ball-gown and shades, Barschak, a hard-up stand-up, gatecrashed William Windsor's 21st birthday party, which had, allegedly, an "Out of Africa" theme.
The birthday boy reportedly chose African fancy dress because he wanted to avoid a "sterile" official function and its more usual "power" form of fancy dress. It doesn't work that way, of course. The unavoidable sterility is in the institution not the rig-outs. William's late mother Diana found that out the hard way. Clearly, a valuable lesson has been quickly lost on a new generation.
The Windsor gig, regardless of its fancy dress, title or intention, was always going to be "Out of England". In fact, the sad rig-outs on display were, for awfulness, reminiscent of those seen in the notorious "royal" It's A Knockout of 1987. Then Edward, Anne and Andrew Windsor, along with Sarah Ferguson, dressed up as vegetables to do "silly things". Whizzo! No doubt, acting the vegetable could tax even the greatest thespians. No matter what smouldering looks and soulful attitude you might bring to the role of, say, a turnip, it's difficult not to look gormless and, quite frankly, daft. Fair enough. At one level, it's only fun and fancy dress is not to be taken seriously, even if some punters spend fortunes hiring and customising their outfits.
At another level however, so much British public life involves dressing up in strange costumes that the role of fancy dress itself must be taken very seriously indeed. "Black Rod"; "Knights of the Garter"; "Silver Stick in Waiting"; "Ladies of the Bedchamber" - these all sound like the cast of a very dodgy, triple X-rated movie - yet they appear every year for the opening of parliament.
Judges in wigs and high-heeled buckle-boots with black silk stockings are another striking feature of British public life. Likewise appointees to the House of Lords with their crimson gowns trimmed with ermine. Then there are "beefeaters", ceremonial guards in bearskin helmets and assorted other forms of fancy dress associated principally with the military.
Certainly, some ritual is required to mark ceremonial occasions as different from everyday life. All countries, Ireland included, have their own forms and even the vilest of British rig-outs do not compare for sheer aesthetic awfulness with, for instance, Greek military ceremonial gear. But there's a suspicious love of fancy dress in Britain which glories in prioritising role above person.
Such dressing-up is typically defended by claims that it's honouring tradition. Perhaps it is, though many such claims are spurious and "tradition" should not always be honoured. Slavery, for instance, was a tradition. In the case of British royals, outdated stress on gradations of status dishonour the present more than honour the past. "Tradition" is not historically neutral.
Still, it persists in Britain and even its defenders understand that excessive flouncing around in "power fancy dress" contradicts guff about a more egalitarian society. Indeed, in opting for an "African theme" to avoid a more "sterile" function, the future king of England and his PR crew were presumably signalling that they intend a lighter touch if and when he ever lands the big job.
None the less, largely because of their traditional affinity with fancy dress, royals and their pals wearing strange outfits - even vegetable costumes - usually appear suspiciously at ease. Since they are reared in the midst of many of their relations wearing outrageous rig-outs, this is not greatly surprising but it's telling. It tells us how the role of role is inculcated in the privileged.
Role, of course, is inculcated across the classes. Tom Wolfe's Bonfire of the Vanities, for instance, understands that a pair of brand new trainers hold as much cachet for some Bronx kids as a silk shirt does for a Wall Street broker. Both the trainers and the shirt are role props. However, role for a prole remains qualitatively different from role for a putative king and his pals.
No matter what version of fancy dress William Windsor chose, nothing could disguise the fact that he's heading to wear a crown. His party's African theme was presented as youthful frivolity, a bit of fun, unstuffy and generally, well . . . whizzo! The fancy dress of power he has yet to wear however, is meant to be solemn, dignified and steeped in tradition. Some hope!
The problem is that nowadays it just looks bizarre. The retention of excessive dressing up in Britain suggests not so much a continuity as a tyranny of tradition. It bespeaks a world in which everyone has their allotted place and some have a right to rule.
The sterility of monarchy as an institution in the 21st century can't simply be covered up with colourful glad-rags.