One of the many criticisms levelled at 21st-century politics in Britain is that it has become too reliant on the tools of the marketing industry. Consumers buy a brand rather than an ideology, with the politicians as low-rent celebrity endorsers of their product. As Jennifer Aniston is to Barclaycard or David Beckham to Adidas, so is Tony Blair to Labour or Michael Howard to the Tories, only with worse hair. But with proper celebrities you get an image and style unique to that person, one that the companies hope will rub off on their products.
Voters get no such help. Messrs Blair, Howard and Kennedy may have their individual sartorial flourishes but for the most part appear much the same: neat, short hair; suit and tie, with tie left off if they are going semi-casual.
It was not always like that. As with the parties' policies, in the past, voters had sharper visual clues about what the leader they wanted to see in Number 10 stood for. From Harold Wilson's Gannex raincoat in the 1960s to the duffel jacket sported by Michael Foot in the 1980s, Labour party fashion had a socialist stamp. The Liberals had Jeremy Thorpe's trilby or Paddy Ashdown's Barbour. For the Tories, the Establishment fashion of the party's one nation era gave way to Maggie Thatcher's shoulder-padded power dressing as the 1980s roared on. No more.
If one individual could be singled out for the transformation in political fashion from party uniforms to cross-party uniformity it would surely be Peter Mandelson. Under his watch Labour got more than a new logo and a New prefix. Advising behind the scenes under Neil Kinnock's leadership, by the mid-1990s any aspiring male Labour MP knew he had to get himself a shiny new single-breasted blue suit if he wanted to get along. The same held true for Labour women: in 1997 the army of newly elected "Blair Babes" and their smart business suits were dutifully paraded with the dear leader.
The pressure on politicians to converge on the new Westminster fashion consensus is fierce, and deviations meet with regular sneers from the media. William Hague was ridiculed for wearing a baseball cap on a log flume. Hardly an outrageous dress decision, it showed that even outside their parliamentary setting politicians are expected to look the part.
A weekend session of blue-skies thinking for the Conservative party, also on Hague's watch, was reported on almost entirely for the efforts Tory MPs went to in dressing down for the occasion. A collection of disastrously chosen sweaters overshadowed whatever political point the meeting might have had. Labour politicians, too, have fallen foul of the fashion police, with the prime minister a particularly frequent target of scorn.
In spite of the occasional frown over an unwise outing in dad-jeans, Tony Blair's dress sense gets the most attention when it appears he is trying to be too fashionable. The PM packed a Paul Smith shirt for his trip to Australia in 2002 complete with a naked woman on each cuff, prompting much hilarity in the papers and a cheeky shirt mock-up in the Mirror. A trip to India in which Blair sported a Nehru suit also raised chuckles largely because the prime minister appeared to be making just a little too much effort with his wardrobe - the phrase "designer diplomacy" was cruelly bandied about.
Elsewhere on the political stage, Theresa May received reams of press attention at the Conservative party's 2002 conference for her comments about the Tories needing to shed their image as the "nasty party" but hardly less for being spotted wearing leopard-skin kitten heels, a first for a chair of the Tory party, at least in public.
Ann Widdecombe made headlines for the blonde hair transformation she underwent courtesy of GMTV, maybe not a cutting-edge fashion move but at least some kind of nod towards chic. She was promptly voted the person with the 10th worst hair in Britain.
During our political leaders' increasingly regular trips to the chat-show sofas there is little room for manoeuvre either, with open-necked shirts the order of the day. And Gordon Brown won't even dress up for his annual white-tie bash at the Mansion House, standing out in a lounge suit against the evening dress of his dinner guests.
So in 2005 we are left with little to choose from in the fashion election. Although style pundit Stephen Bayley managed to discern on a Radio Four discussion that, in style terms, Charles Kennedy resembled a Highland sack of potatoes, Blair an ageing male model, and Howard, while more all of a piece style-wise, had glasses which made him look like a psychotic dentist, to the untrained eye they all seem trapped in the uniformity of their well or not-so-well cut suits. Our politicians can't dress down and can't try to dress up either.
Fashion statements for the men are largely limited to the choice of tie. Michael Howard manages a rare political achievement this month - a splash in Vogue. But pleasant as the pastel pink tie he is sporting may be, his outfit for the fashion bible is hardly earth-shattering. Meanwhile Tony Blair seems to be wearing a higher than usual number of white shirts for his podium appearances: good for disguising sweating and emphasising his remarkable English spring tan, less so for distinguishing him from his rivals. And Charles Kennedy has the ultimate political fashion accessory - his very own baby to kiss (but alas the sleepless nights that go with it and all the policy muddle that leads to).
Whatever the outcome of next week's election, we can expect more of the same for the next four or five years. Politicians won't be taking any fashion chances and if they do dress up or dress down a little too much they will appear in the papers complete with sneery caption for the knowing reader: are you thinking what I'm thinking?
Richard Pattinson is a producer for BBC 'Newsnight'
