Over a hundred dapper chaps and chapettes sauntered sans purpose through London.
On Sunday 5th May 2024, a crowd assembled at the junction of Piccadilly and Jermyn Street, London W1. Usually the only notable aspect of this corner is the life-size statue of the great dandy Beau Brummell, but on this day even the Beau himself would have shielded his eyes. For this group of flaneurs, dandies, quaintrelles and boulevardiers held no truck with Brummell’s dictum that a well-dressed man should never stand out from the crowd.
For this merry band of 21st century flaneurs, standing out from the crowd is precisely what they want to do. Today’s lamentable clothing styles, for all ages, seem determined to ensure that each individual blends into a seamless entity, entirely dressed in shades of blue, grey and black (ironically the very colours Beau Brummell wore). On this day in May, the key words were instead elegance, flair, eccentricity and elan. Any ancient sartorial rules concerning appropriate Town wear were entirely abandoned, but with the joyous spirit of those who know damn well they are breaking the rules, yet whose clothing style somehow seeks a kind of artistic harmony within itself, as a group.
Every style of clothing from as far back as the Regency period was represented, from Napoleonic-era military uniform, through Victorian formal wear, Edwardian Town clothing, 1920s flapper style, 1930s boating ensembles, forties demob chic and Neo-Edwardian teddy boy style. Those who were not observing a specific period of history merely threw something together that ultimately made sartorial sense and blended successfully into the eclectic mix on display that day. There were more hats on display than have likely been seen on the streets of London since about 1952, and more walking canes, umbrellas and parasols than you could shake a swagger stick at.
Once the general preening and peacockery had been completed, as well as a reading from Virginia Woolf’s 1930 Street Haunting essay, the flaneurs were finally ready to proceed with the business of the day, which was to saunter sans purpose in whichever direction whimsy dictated. It was spontaneously decided that they would head in a southeasterly direction, taking them under the glittering signage of The Ritz towards Green Park. It was too early to pause for refreshments and, besides, even the Ritz would be unable to provide a table for one hundred at such short notice.
After crossing the bucolic greenery of the park, the flaneurs strolled along Constitution Hill, past Buckingham Palace and into the motor-car maelstrom of Wellington Arch. At this point a few flaneurs fell back from the pack, having been distracted by the legions of photographers trying to get the shot that would make their fortune. Those that survived made it to the first hostelry they encountered, the Grenadier on Wilton Row. This being a quaint Belgravia pub, there was no room at the inn for 100 thirsty flaneurs, and thus the group was forced to split, the second contingent ending up at the Star Tavern, Belgrave Mews.
The words of Virginia Woolf, heard hours earlier on Piccadilly, now echoed in the flaneurs’ ears:
“What greater delight and wonder can there be than to leave the straight lines of personality and deviate into those footpaths that lead beneath brambles and thick tree trunks into the heart of the forest … where live those wild beasts, our fellow men? We see the whole breadth of the river Thames … through the eyes of somebody who is leaning over the Embankment on a summer evening, without a care in the world. Let us go in search of this person – and soon it becomes apparent that this person is ourselves.”
The final staging post for this peregrination of popinjays was The Antelope on Eaton Terrace.
