QUI VIVE STYLE ALERT FROM LONDON

Michael Roberts

Dear Common Readers,

We know how thrilled you always are to see pictures of Our Royal Self gadding about the globe on one of Our Exclusive Royal Tours and the delight it affords you to see Us greeting the Maori or meeting the Zulus in one of Our unique and perfectly acceptable choices of headgear. This year, however, the pound sterling being what it is, We have decided to adopt a more budget-conscious attitude towards Our travels. Thus We have taken a short tour, a minitour-a Cheap Day Return Royal Tour, in factdown London's King's Road instead.

We were particularly pleased to do this because here One can still meet interesting and colourful folk without being bothered by the mosquito, the unsavoury nature of the tropical sanitation, and those little local delicacies with the eyes left in. Also, One can always be back at the Palace in time for tea.

Yours Regally,

"Here We are graciously greeting three loyal King's Road subjects. The one in the middle is called Leigh Bowery. A London fashion designer. These are his clothes. We Ourself rather prefer Our tweedy Hardy Amies with clashing accessories, but chacun a son gofit, as they say. Mr. Bowery informs Us that he's 'very into' the glam-rock look for Spring '84. We tell him that Our Mrs. Barbara Cartland has been 'into' that look for years, and she is nearly eighty-four. My, how we laugh."

"Isn't this typical fresh-faced young English rose simply adorable? We must say We were a little taken aback by her psychedelic coiffure. But then We remembered that Our Mrs. Thatcher also dyes her hair—and look where she is today."

"A kiss on the hand may be quite conti nental, but We would certainly consider it more of a divine right. That is why We are aLlowing Our digits to be pawed by this pig tailed person, an erstwhile disc jockey catted Ralph. Incidentally, in situations like these We always take the precaution of wearing Our Extra Thick Wash-and-Wear Royal Polyester Gloves. Thus We can protect Our hands at all times, be it Our divine right or Our divine left."

Whereas most young London fashion designers would seem to be making clothes for Mohawk maidens, the establishment de signers are yet again up to their necks in Princess of Wales ball gowns. Oh, whom will she favor this season? they wonder, hop ing to hear the clump, clump of Diana's serviceable flat pumps pounding up to their salons. One port of call surely will be Beilville Sassoon, haunt of ev ery London debutante, where Diana will no doubt be choosing from many billowing taffeta creations like the one shown on this page. She will also be using her true identity, having dropped "Miss Buckingham"the droll but transparent pseud onym she often adopted when shopping here in the past.

When they talk about the flower of English youth nowadays, they undoubtedly mean The Return of the Pansy, for menswear is foppish and fops are fashionable, and even the most vehement heterosexual has added something a little feminine to his makeup. Along King's Road each Saturday come men who sport dresses and blond corkscrew tresses, exquisites who look like Rupert Brooke, fancy boys and nancy boys in lime green corduroys. They shop at Crolla, Margaret Howell, and assorted kitsch em poriums from Portobello to Par son's Green. They mix tradi tional tweeds with mother's beads, silk scarves with velvet, damask with pearLs, put tiepins with pendants and French bro cade slacks. Macho is over. Mincing is back.