Valerie Hill: More is less when you want to impress

Jun 20 2008 by Valerie Hill, Liverpool Daily Post

EVERYONE knows that a woman’s place is in the wrong, whether it’s Joan Rivers being hauled off the Loose Women set for using expletives which weren’t deleted, or Ulrika Jonsson for flaunting her latest offspring in the celeb mags.

There was genuine outrage at this one, though; I mean, really, how can anyone call a new-born baby Malcom? Heartless or what?

Stories of women fleecing men in the divorce courts or taking their sexist bosses to employment tribunals (it was only a bit of fun, darlin’) are all over the news pages, with the unspoken headlines of “How very dare they”.

Whether it’s the 21st century or not, the subtext is always that these minxes are getting above themselves. Goodness me, they’ll be asking for the vote next.

I never thought I’d feel sorry for Margaret Thatcher, but watching the recent televised drama about her struggle to find a safe Tory seat in the rampantly mysoginistic 1950s Home Counties had me almost shouting at the screen.

And the sex war has spread to the most unlikely of arenas. The sport of kings and the king of sports has also been flexing its fashion fetlocks over what can, or can’t, be worn by females in the Royal Enclosure at Ascot this year.

Short skirts, spaghetti straps and false tans are out; modest hems, untainted flesh and formal headgear are definitely in.

Heaven forbid that the Royal Family should see a flash of a lady’s upper calf.

Only regal kneecaps such as those flaunted by Zara Phillips and Princess Eugenie in their mini-dresses are allowed.

No peasant patellas, please.

This is one of those British, nay English, quirks which either makes you want to laugh or cry.

Unwelcome wars are being fought in our name, the economy is spiralling into meltdown, but, in some sections of society, a life or death situation boils down to whether a certain Barbie from Billericay is showing too much cleavage. Remember the vicious comments poured upon the female race-goers at Aintree this year, whether it was about Coleen’s mini-dress or Alex Gerrard’s tie neck blouse?

Then there were the acres of abuse piled on the rest of the Scouse girls whose idea of dressing up is not to dress down. Northerners, thank goodness, don’t know the meaning of the fashion mantra “less is more”, preferring full-on glamour to the People’s Republic of China look.

The term inclusive, it seems, permeates every aspect of social debate, but not when it comes to betting on the gee-gees.

Every one knows that a glimpse of a New Look-bedecked midriff by Red Rum as he galloped down the straight would have resulted in a refusal at Becher’s Brook. It’s really that important.

These sartorial guidelines have been nick-named the “anti-chav” rules, yet statements such as “knickers are a definite yes, but not on show, please, ladies” place the whole debate firmly on the gender agenda.

Men, apparently, have not been warned about showing their underwear, their tan lines or their chest hair.

Heck, even neck tattoos have been spotted in this year’s Royal enclosure.

One might think the most heinous sartorial crime a gentleman can commit is to be heavily-pierced with interlinking chains connecting at every physiological opportunity. Gawd knows the effect on the Ascot metal detectors if a well-pierced mare approached the grandstand.

But no. The worst a man can do is to appear without a waistcoat. Ye gods.

And who are these fashion police? Are they a representative group from society of both sexes, from a variety of ages, social and ethnic backgrounds?

Why, no. They are upper class elderly stuffed shirts who are laying down the law to largely ordinary young girls about whether their underwear should be visible.

Old nags commenting on fine fillies. Ooh, it’s almost kinky.