There's posh for you

The right outfit for the right occasion - that’s the ticket! Attending a funeral dressed as, say, a jockey, might cause comment (unless the funeral is Shergar’s) and the rules for dress-down-day in the office only go so far - men wearing skirts that finish above the knee are frowned upon, fur may draw tutting and dressing up as a Borg may lead to a ruck in the loo with the Klingon from accounts.

It’s odd that in a time of apparent plenty, there’s so little evidence of choice of dress being exercised. This statement is drawn from a random sampling of the youth/chav hybrids on display outside MacNasty’s. They appear to have been produced from the same jelly mould, all wearing ‘leisure wear’, mobile ‘phones and acne.

My invite for dinner at the Savoy stipulated black tie or cocktail dress. As my cocktail dress had been partied beyond repair during the curious incident of the tequila in the night time, I opted for black tie. Black tie actually consists of a matching jacket and trousers, a shirt without the name of a sports team on it, shoes that do not do up with velcro and the finishing touch - a bow tie.

The ready-made bow tie is the last refuge of the cad and scoundrel. Naturally, when equipping myself with a bow tie I went for the self-tie version. Got myself a mirror, a set of instructions and had ‘how to look like a paedophile/wear a bow tie’ on youtube running on a loop. An hour or so of solid practice, freestyle swearing and sweating and I had the tying of the tie down to a fine art. Ready, I thought, for the big night.

Come the big night and as I’m going straight from work I’m in my office attempting a Mr Ben-like transformation from suited drone to elegance on legs. Hummn, bow tie is proving somewhat tricky. Ten minutes later it was clear that wardrobe-elves had somehow changed the tie, my neck or my thumbs. It would not knot.

Over the road to a handy clothes shop, moving so fast I left a trail of fire like the DeLorian in ‘back to the future’. Did they have a ready-tied? Yes! Result! Oooh, two choices, one in black but with little sparkly bits on it that will make me look like the compare of Britain’s gayest nightclub OR a red one. The only time you wear a red bow-tie is when you are having whitewash poured down your trousers every night and twice on Saturdays, so, easy choice.

Grab tie, fit tie. The look is ‘I am a homosexual and everyone knows this but me’. Jettison chances of pulling a bird at dinner and decide it will leave me free to concentrate on food and booze - great! More confident, I am actually impressed with my snug knot, I look every inch the cad and bounder - Terry Thomas would be proud.

I looked, I have to say, eminently suitable for the occasion. I discovered why dinner jackets are sometimes referred to as ‘penguin suits’. It’s partly because of the black and white theme but also because everyone meets at the reception before the dinner in a big room and mills around like flightless fowl on a floe. I grabbed a glass of champers, headed for the corner and kept a wary eye out for walrus.

As for dinner, I sat next to vegetarian who, I’m pleased to say, I managed to cure by the end of the evening. I simply explained that the best way to show your concern about the ethical treatment of animals was to buy free-range, organic meat. Indeed, why not adopt or sponsor a beast, so that when your cuts come they are accompanied by a booklet showing Gerald the cow frolicking happily in pasture and living a happy life - right up to the moment they meet Mr Volt and Mr Bolt.

The food? Not bad, but mass catering will never be as good as locally sourced, in season food cooked for a small party in a kitchen a few yards from the table. Even got a gift! How cool is that - like a posh happy meal. Service was great though. Wine? Free! Hoorah!