The politics of white clothing
The posh code of conduct among proper aristos has always held a firm line on this. It’s akin to family tapestries vs Heals, weathered Barbours vs shiny Hunter wellies, old Landy vs glossy 4X4. The rule is simple; the less obviously new and shiny, the better. Bright, white and gleaming is deemed dreadfully declasse. The same applies to jeans and the Love Island contingent in their spray-on white trousers.
It’s the same with the whiteness of teeth and pedicures. Thanks to Instagram, we’re faced with a barrage of glacial, shiny white grins and glossy nails posturing with glasses of fizz (likely Prosecco, another bugbear of Hanson’s). The real posh is love-worn, aged, imbued with rich patinas and just a little bit rickety. New money is glossy, starched, filtered, bright and tight.
White in clothing and accessories is socially-charged, because it desperately wants to imply a degree of exclusivity and disconnection from the real world. See the ever wild-eyed Geri Halliwell insisting she only wears white these days. Real blue bloods wouldn’t dream of such stuff and nonsense; far too many dogs, sooty hearths, lower fields and granny’s old decanter swilling with claret to grapple with on a daily basis.
But back to those trainers. Of course, it’s rather unhelpful to suggest that trainers shouldn’t be box fresh when they literally have just come out of the shoebox. Of course they’re going to be pristine, and I would wager that it’s actually good manners on some fronts to make sure that your trainers are polished and immaculate for certain occasions.
For example, certain more casual nuptials now see grooms wearing trainers – the TV presenter Joel Dommett wore a suit with T-shirt and trainers – as well as trainers in the workplace, worn with suits, being more prevalent in formal environs. For those setups, box fresh is no bad thing (although playing NFL with a bunch of mucky kits in rainy south London, as the Prince was doing, may have only served to highlight the gleaming newness of his pair).
