Queen Vivienne Westwood

Somewhere, in an alternative reality, Vivienne Westwood is the queen. She’s certainly regal enough, with her powdered face, bright orange Elizabeth I curls, and grande-dame-esque haughtiness.

Last night, I glimpsed what that other England looks like, as the first lady of British fashion hosted a launch for her limited edition new book, the Vivienne Westwood Kraken Opus. The Serpentine Gallery was packed out with a huge retinue of admirers who came along last night to her book launch. Viv arrived fashionably late, holding court in the family-packed VIP area – from Ugg-wearing toddlers to pearl-sporting older gentlemen.

The dress code might as well have said ‘eccentric’ – anything short of Roisin Murphy’s dhoti pants and wide-brimmed hat looked woefully inappropriate. The designer herself didn’t disappoint either in a sparkly black all-in-one with her trademark eight inch platform stilettos, as she tottered past the photographs reproduced in the enormous tome – a white-gloved attendant turned pages of one copy so partygoers could get a good look. Quite what a picture of Kate Moss in a tartan dress and pirate hat have to do with the ‘manifesto’ against consumerism that runs alongside is past me, but it’s art, so I’ll let it slide.

But it was the presence of one courtier in particular which made it seem more like a mini monarchy any other: none other than the foppish Henry Conway, son of the Tory MP who recently proved that nepotism is alive and well in the House of Commons. (He was disappointingly nice.) Why he got into the party ahead of anyone else in the 30-metre queue outside is anyone’s guess…