The camera loved the wearer of the gold tie because the face is narrow like the new Doctor Who's and he held your gaze. The blue tie was incorrigibly smooth - and I couldn't help wondering how those Old Etonian velvet vowels would work on porned-out proles (eg bankers, lawyers, ennobled benefactors) once the Number 10 honeymoon expired. The pink tie neither held your gaze nor peered anywhere in particular thanks to one dead eye and one nervous. TV is cruel like that. The medium is trivial.
But no disasters except for the dark suits - sing-song tributes to the maypole of masculine tradition. The suits eloquently reassured us that all three ties were token in their variety. It's odd that mature democracy demands such conformity. The cock still rules.
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