Gentlemen, if ye'll permit me, I will recount an act of sartorial barbarity and hilarity which I was witness to last weekend.
Saturday saw the annual dinner of the Irish Association of the Sovereign Military Order of Malta, which was held in the Kildare Street & University Club, St. Stephen's Green, Dublin. Dress was black tie with orders and decorations. As someone who is due to become an aspirant to the Order in the coming months, I was invited along; I was looking forward to the event as I had been last year and the current Mrs. Gallowglass was accompanying me this year.
All went well until I caught sight of one of those who would be at our table - the fellow in question is about
5.11", and must weigh close to 22 stone (at least). His other redeeming qualties are that he has a head like a turnip, sweats like a pig, imagines himself to be the epitome of Englishness (he lives in
London, speaks with an atrocious put-on accent, but has Irish parents and an Irish surname - think potatoes...), is obnoxious and, ah, shall we say, suffers (gladly) from the 'unbearable vice of the Greeks'... However, these 'qualities' aside, the thing which really did it for me was what he was wearing - I should point out that this fellow, despite being English (well, ostensibly), is an aspirant to the Order in Ireland (because the Grand Priory of England told him to foxtrot oscar). This fellow was wearing the dress cloak of the Italian
Carabinieri, if you don't mind, which he had apparently acquired in
Brussels of all places. Additionally, he was wearing said cloak indoors, at the pre-dinner reception; this natty sartorial statement was complimented by the black braces he was wearing with his cumberbund.
Words failed me then, and they fail me now.
God alone only knows what he'll be wearing next year, as he's already talking about having the full dress uniform of the Order made up for himself (one wonders if there is enough scarlet cloth in Western Europe for the purpose?).
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