THE RISE OF EUROTRASHOCRACY
. . that is, the foreigners we called Eurotrash finds that they are staying
THERE WAS a time when, unless you had attended an Ivy League university, worked in a merchant bank or frequented polo matches, it was quite possible that you had never encountered a group the British so scathingly call Eurotrash'. For years, they lived quite independently from British soci- ety within the perimeter of Knightsbridge and Chelsea. They would rarely venture out into the country, and they would certainly never be seen in the suburbs.
Even if you have never met Eurotrash, they are easy to spot — they have authentic suntans all year round. The men wear white polo necks under Ralph Lauren shirts. The women, immaculately manicured and coif- fured, favour brightly coloured tailored jack- ets from the houses of Chanel or Versace over leather jeans. They smoke Philip Mor- ris Light cigarettes and drive sports cars. They shop in Sloane Avenue and wear sun- glasses to lunch, even in December. They speak perfect English, loudly, along with 15 other different languages.
When Eurotrash first came from the Continent to Britain, it was to perfect their trade, usually banking or law, or to take a course at the V&A. They came over here for a year or two and would then either return home or go to New York.
The British did not really understand them or understand what they were doing in England. They were not, after all, here to watch the Changing of the Guard or to be photographed next to a Beefeater at the Tower of London. When one has the choice of living anywhere in the world, why come to a country notorious on the Conti- nent for bland food, bad weather and warm beer?
We thought them gaudy, flash and per- haps slightly vulgar — they were overpaid and over here. They thought us shabby and unsophisticated. Even so, we managed to live together side by side. Britain was the eccentric old uncle; Eurotrash were the wayward teenage niece. They had an unspoken contempt for our ways. They were non-interventionist, so when they came, they formed their own social cliques and did not bother to join ours.
Over the years the situation has changed. Eurotrash came over here and, for whatever reason, stayed. They started to branch out and mingle with British soci- ety, swapping weekends of wild boar hunt- ing in eastern Europe for stalking in Scotland. Their jobs at Morgan Stanley became permanent. They enrolled their children at school here, opened restau- rants and sat on charity committees.
A new generation of Eurotrash emerged, more influential and less complacent: Euro- trashocracy. Whilst they admire the tradi- tions of this country, they sniff at the scruffiness of it. They bear a double-edged respect for English tradition. Having gained access to British society, they have begun to voice contempt for the institutions of Eng- land. These days committee lists for organi- sations such as the Young Friends of the Royal Academy read like a Monaco tele- phone book. This is European integration through the back door.
For example, one institution they are keen to revive is the Bullingdon Club, an undergraduate society of Oxford Universi- ty, where undergraduates of good stock meet in their stately homes to indulge in youthful indiscretions. Meetings of this society involve the consumption of vast quantities of alcohol followed by the trash- ing of anything in sight. The only women allowed to attend these occasions are strippers and tarts. It was the model for the Bollinger Club in Evelyn Waugh's novel Decline and Fall. 'There is tradition behind the Bollinger; it numbers reigning kings among its members. At the last din- ner, three years ago, a fox had been brought in in a cage and stoned to death with champagne bottles. What an evening that had been!' wrote Waugh.
But when the Bullingdon Club meets on 14 June this year, the evening will take a `Frightful party — no one to talk to.' very different tone. For instead of lobster- throwing and fox-battering, a ball will be held. It has been organised by Emanueli Boni, an Italian graduate of the university, and Clifford Potter, an undergraduate from the American Mid west. They had planned to hold the ball at the Natural History Museum, but I understand that the muse- um was nervous when they found out who was coming and banned it — they ought not to have been, as it promises to be a sedate affair. A firm of professional party- planners has been hired, the tickets are £120 each and former members have been asked. For the first time in the club's histo- ry, women have been invited.
Sgr Boni and Mr Potter seem to think that the Bullingdon is an undervalued asset. Together they have made the event more sophisticated and more refined. By inviting former members, they have attempted to transform the Bullingdon into a masonic fra- ternity club — something which you take with you through life. But Bullingdon mem- bers, old and new, see Boni and Potter's efforts as curious. It is as if they are trying to reshape an institution they do not really understand. 'The ball is not really in the spir- it of the society,' said a former member. 'The Bullingdon was something that you did. Once you graduated you tried to put all that behind you, not resurrect it.'
In many ways the Eurotrashocracy are becoming more English than the rest of us: more tweed is sold in France than over here; in Italy, at the moment, the greatest fashion accessory of all is a Barbour jacket — preferably in navy blue. In London, Ital- ian girls sport Puffa jackets. Later this year Hackett, the gentlemen's outfitters, will open a shop in Milan. It is piquant that what we have always condemned as the uniform of the braying county Sloane should become the height of chic and sophistication elsewhere in Europe.
Is this really integration or is it invasion? Is it possible to integrate with a social group that lives out all our worst prejudices? We hold their flagrant talk and displays of wealth in contempt. They sniff at our lack of style and sophistication. When we travel abroad we do not leave the house without a Berlitz guide, a phrase book and a large sup- ply of Imodium. They would not go any- where in Europe without a dinner jacket.
Recently, I went to meet an old friend at a bar in Chelsea called Nylon. A curious name for a bar, I thought — why nylon? Why not satin or velvet? It was quickly pointed out to me that it was not `nylon' as in tights, but 'NY Lon.'. Here I would be rubbing shoulders with the Eurotrashocra- cy. On the whole, Eurotrash prefer to talk about polo than politics. They are better acquainted with the movements of Jemima Goldsmith than with those of her father. That night I decided to ask Sven, a lawyer in his thirties, what he thought about Europe. I was, of course, referring to the question of the European Union. 'Well,' he said, 'it really depends where you go.'
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