So often has it been said, and with such wisdom, that where there’s a will, there’s relations. In this case, the relation was Damien Samuel Calgary, medical student, delayed by an upset luggage cart at the station and hurrying through the slush on the solicitor’s lawn.

“Germaine!” – his cousin, the sister of the deceased. “Germaine, wait for me!”

“I can’t hear you!” she called back, with every sign of delight, and disappeared inside.

Damien swore what oaths he could manage until he made it, gasping, to the side-door. After knocking the mud off his shoes and attempting to clean up his trouser-cuffs, he let himself in.

“…fallen to me, as Mr Marigolds’ personal executio- er, chosen executor, to oversee the disbursement of his property. If we might all take our seats, I shall begin the reading of the will.”

The solicitor was a narrow, wheezy man, with thin, dark hair, who offered reassuring smiles to the sisters Marigold before he took up the papers before him.

“First, may I say that it pleases me to have so many members of the family here today to honour Lucifer’s memory. He wil- would be pleased to know you all could come. Now, traditionally, as you know, one’s mother and father are one’s parents. However, it has been uniformly ruled in court that the written letter of law overrules the dictates of tradition. Therefore, for the purpose of this legal will, the deceased’s parents-in-law shall be considered his parents, and his brother-in-law his brother. Thus, Violet, your husband is to be considered your brother, and you take on his parents, while he gains the late Mr & Mrs Marigolds as his own parents, making them your parents-in-law. Unfortunately, as this section specifically begins ‘To my brother-in-law, Horatio Radcliffe,’ I must consider it legally invalid and press on.”

“To my cousin Wendy, who always did so well in school, I leave my collection of first-edition French grammar textbooks, which preserve the original references to spanking and oral sex.”

Damien leaned over Mr Radcliffe’s empty seat (Horatio having drowned in the Channel some months previous) and whispered to Germaine, “why on earth did the textbooks ever have those?”

“They were a first print, Dammy-Damsels!” – she delighted in nicknaming him – “they hadn’t got all the kinks out yet!”

“To young Marten, who had such an unhappy childhood, I leave my teapot and my box of fragrant Hungarian balsams, on the third shelf down, in the bathroom cupboard…”

Again, Damien leaned over – “What was so unhappy about his childhood?”

“He came from disabusive parents. His father would spend hours every night, just debunking him over and over.. by the time anyone realised what was happening, he had hardly any preconceptions left at all.”

“How dreadful! What did the authorities do when they found out?”

“Well, the parents fled to Warsaw, leaving him behind… Aunt and Uncle Elliot took him in, and they’ve been taking him to credulity classes at the rectory. He’ll believe any old nonsense now.”

The solicitor coughed, annoyed – or perhaps it was just his troubled lungs – and glowered at Germaine until she had to hide behind her fan. “Might I remind all present that we are brought here by our dear departed friend’s secret missio- sacred message. I trust you shall respect that. If I may continue… And finally, to my Aunt Morag, who saved my life in two distinct and unrelated incidents of attack by rhinoceros, I leave my own personal bedroom slippers, embossed with the seal of the Hermetic Order of the Gilded Pangolin, on the condition that she never reveal their secrets to any unenlightened mind.”

The attendants sat, shocked, for a moment, before Violet gathered herself and spoke. “And the, ah, residue of the estate?”

“Oh, not a concern – it came off with a bit of soapy water.”

“No-oo, I meant… well.. what the hell is happening to his money? He had two million pounds in the Merdle & Mycotia Bank, last time I checked. Who gets it? Did he leave any to the Ladies Revolutionary War Fund?”

“Ah, yes, well…” The solicitor hesitated, peering at the document. “He hasn’t left it to anybody. After all, ah-heh, he’ll need it when he gets back from Russia… I mean from… dying, and… he… oh, balls.”

We’re having a federal election in two weeks! I’m following as much electoral news as I can stand – which isn’t terribly much; the rhetoric’s hard to stomach this year – but I don’t have a great deal to say about the whole business. The bulk of the campaign seems to be the two major parties alternately proposing and dropping reprehensible policies, like a pair of clowns juggling turds. I will repeat what I say every election, though: fellow colonials, familiarise yourself with our preferential voting system! We’re fortunate to have it! Remember: you can vote 1 for your favourite party, no matter how slim you think their chances, and still support the major that you want to see win. A vote for a minor party is not wasted, it won’t split the movement, and it’s a damn shame more Australian voters don’t understand this. The Greens have a handy little example page on the subject – oriented toward voting for them, natch, but the information’s sound. Oh, and to make the notoriously labyrinthine Senate voting papers a little easier, here are couple of guides: BelowTheLine.Org.Au and BelowTheLine.cc.

Such matters of method aside, there is one matter of policy I wanted to comment on… specifically, I wanted to say that asylum seekers, as an election issue, is a fart in a teacup. The Coalition’s attack ads paint the government’s stance as criminally negligent in the face of a looming threat – but the number of refugees who attempt such entry is so pitifully minute, and the objections to their coming are so weak, that it’s the ultimate non-issue. The latest round of “stop the boats” adverts was so offensive, both morally and intellectually, that I simply had to create something equally absurd, hysterical and meaningless. Thus: VOTE 1 ANTI-SAILOR PARTY.

(Incidentally, overall, I think of Facebook like a cockney ‘fixer’ from a 1960s English heist flick – it’ll reliably do what it’s asked to do, but you wouldn’t trust it with any information that could possibly be used to defraud or otherwise incommode you, in any way, ever. But, if you have ventured to work with Facebook, while being careful not to leave it alone with your “bird” or your “bread,” here’s the FrillyShirt Facebook page.)

Today’s Public Peacock is the Presidential Model – a fop who rose so high, his rank had to rush to keep up with him. He changed the face of American politics like no head of state since Lincoln, and he did it his way, from his pince-nez to his riding-boots. He was a man of legendary tenacity, physical resolve and derring-do, and as such, his name is now synonymous with adorable, huggable children’s toys. I speak of Theodore Roosevelt, statesman, scholar and adventurer.

Though he became the twenty-sixth President of the United States largely by accident, Roosevelt’s importance in the history of the American left can hardly be overstated. Early twentieth-century progressivism was a beast of many eccentricities, idiosyncrasies and abortive experiments, of course, but the lasting achievements of his political career include the foundation of the national parks system, the regulation of production and distribution of food and medicine, the breaking of business monopolies, protection for vulnerable workers, and the strongest showing of any third party in American political history.

Roosevelt’s brand of progressivism was a system of state paternalism, achieved through national power and personal bluster – a philosophy quite unalike Wilde’s idealistic libertarianism. He was also known for his feats of physical might – leading charges of his cavalry regiment in the Spanish-American war; mapping uncharted stretches of the tributaries of the Amazon; experiencing an assassination attempt without letting it interrupt his public duties of the day – and it should be noted that he survived that event by the ingenious method of blocking the gunman’s bullets with his body. He was, in short, a man’s man’s man; the sort of man that man’s men aspire to be.

He was also a raging fop. He was already known as an exquisite dude on his entry into the New York State Assembly in his early twenties; a tight-trousered fashion plate, all stripes and hair oil. His style got more butch as his political ambition grew, but he always retained a taste for the dramatic, a certain strength of detail, and, of course, his signature pince-nez. Whatever his station, TR could find something smart to wear. His spell as a Dakota rancher, he illustrated with an elaborate country suit, bedecked top to toe with tassels and furs. When the Spanish-American War broke out and he felt it was his patriotic duty to be on the front lines, his cobbled-together uniform, with slouch hat and enormous cavalry gloves, became a personal and national icon.

His style grew more sombre and his trousers more voluminous as he advanced in age, but the precise cut of his cloth is immaterial so long as that cut was decidedly his. His life, like his wardrobe, was styled exactly to suit him, and such was his personal influence that his followers in office are still wearing his political hand-me-downs. In short, he expanded the power of the presidency, giving his successors in the executive greater scope to remake the world in their own image. Not always for the better, natch – the one way to ensure moral objections to everything one does is to go into politics.

In short, even if one questions the legitimacy of the power he wielded, he did a lot of good with it, with great style and panache of his own making. He was a kind of pre-war Batman, in short – and given that he was actually Police Commissioner at one point, the facetious comparison looks more likely the more I examine it. In any case, he is one we can look at and say, “Yes, this fop, this grandiose clotheshorse, changed the world.”

A postscript of sorts: you may wonder whether Roosevelt at any time combined his interests and addressed the question of dress reform. I have read some of his letters and diaries, and while they contain some highly endearing descriptions of kittens and ponies, I do not recall any particular discussion of dress – I would be happy to have my attention drawn to any, of course.

For some national leaders who did opine upon clothing, I might point to the leaders of the Indian Independence Movement. Many had their own distinct style; the socialist Prime Minister Nehru gave his name to the style of coat he favoured. Muhammad Ali Jinnah wore a particular style of loose-fitting, high-waisted three-piece suit, often with a large, bold necktie. Mohandas Gandhi himself is iconic for his traditional wraps, though he wore very English three-piece suits during his early days in law. Their styles come together in the movement’s anti-colonial action including a call for Indians to reject mandatory importation and to produce their own clothes; to take up looms and weave, and wear what Indians had woven, and so help restore their livelihood. The act of producing cloth was thus accredited both practical and spiritual importance – a lesson any good fop would do well to remember as they dress.