I'd gone into my usual state of trance when it occurred to me how much things have changed sartorially in these liberated times. Ahead of me, some young ladies were in the process of passing through the system, their convoy of trolleys so richly load
ed that the gastric senses reeled at the sight. However, it wasn't the provisioning that caught my eye, it was the attire favoured by the purchasers, who were of the wholefood and kaftan persuasion and favoured close-fitting wooly hats with ear-flaps. My first thought was that they were members of the detachment of Brownies from Bolivia, but, on further consideration, that seemed a long-shot.
The hard fact is that this sort of change is rife and has crept up on people like me, who, without noticing, have been overtaken and left trailing in the wake of fashion. I have never owned a woolly hat with flaps and, in the days when such things mattered to me, had I ever owned one, I wouldn't have worn it. People, I feel, would have remarked on it. It's not that there's anything wrong with such headgear, it's simply that at one time they weren't normal accessories for the uniform of the day and now they are. They have become, apparently, part of the "new" uniform and can be expected to be around until the fashion has run its course.
Even in golf's stuffy corridors of power, there have been stirrings – rumours and stealthy moves towards relaxing dress codes relating to course and clubhouse. Straws are in the wind and it seems only a matter of time before caps begin to be worn backwards and the flutter of unrestrained shirt-tails brings colour and a sense of festival to the links. It might not appeal to everyone, but as those most liable to experience feelings of festering resentment are unlikely to last much longer anyway, that's probably neither here nor there.
The idea, I gather, is to make golf more attractive to the young, though why this should be achieved by encouraging them to turn out like blots on the landscape, escapes me for the moment. I would have thought that role models might figure in all this somewhere. Tiger Woods and his fellow professionals are, as a general rule, impeccably turned out for tournaments. It seems reasonable to think this might have some bearing on how young admirers would want to dress. After all, it seems unlikely that a young footballer aiming to become the next Cristiano Ronaldo would take to the field wearing a boiler suit and wellington boots.
Still, I suppose we all go through the strains of change and do our own bit of rebelling. I remember, many years ago, feeling decidedly bolshie when I was given the fish eye by the steward of an Edinburgh club when I asked, with due deference, for a pint of shandy after a round. I was wearing a blue sports shirt with a soft collar, which was open at the time. The steward stopped short of summoning the police, but suggested tartly that I would either have to leave, find a new shirt, or wear a spare tie they kept mouldering in a closet for just such emergencies.
With some acerbity, I settled for the tie, which turned out to be one of the most appalling specimens I'd ever encountered. I can only suppose the sole reason that Mickey Mouse did not appear on this tie was because of some legal objection raised by the Disney corporation. The identity of the original owner of this mess is a matter for conjecture, though whoever it was had surely been certified long before I fell foul of it.
Salt was rubbed into the wound by the fact that I was expected to wear the tie knotted in the usual way, but, of course, set among the exotic folds of the floppy collar of the sports shirt. The whole effect was bizarre – a riot of colour as a centrepiece, topped by an uncontrollable collar which ringed my neck like a mad ruff. I realise that the club rules demand a tie, but the compilers couldn't have had this particular tie in mind when they wrote the book and I'm willing to bet they didn't envisage an outcome which would feature Coco the Clown sitting in the middle of their lounge bar.
I once witnessed another example of rules running amok, when two Americans tried to order a round of drinks. The steward in question this time was very patient, did his best to soften the blow and explained he couldn't serve them as they weren't wearing the required jackets and ties. They were, as it happens, clad in cashmere from head to foot and looked as if they could buy the clubhouse had they been so minded.
A couple of elderly members came in. They wore jackets they'd kept in their lockers for years without benefit of cleaning and the shirts and ties in which they had played. They were a pair devoid of style and faintly whiffy. They were served without demur. Shaken, the Americans left, no doubt with a new take on the Old World.
The full article contains 887 words and appears in The Scotsman newspaper.
