Socks, please, we're British?

Dear readers,

With the return of something approaching summer, I have been inspired to turn my thoughts to an area of great danger and peril for the gentleman, the ankle. (I should say at the outset that there is a special place reserved in my own personal Hell for those who use and perpetuate the word "mankle". Portmanteau words are all very well if they bring added meaning, but this is just inane. I wouldn't call a lady's ankle a "lankle" or, God forbid, a "wankle". Behave yourselves.) In more temperate weather, the ankle is an opportunity rather than a problem; I generally wear red socks (though fuschia occasionally feature), and I take the accusation of being a "red-socked fop" as a badge of pride rather than anything more derogatory. But advent of hot weather brings a new set of challenges.

Let me say very clearly that I do not believe a gentleman can never go without socks. No indeed. (Indeed, dear readers, if your delicate constitutions can stand the shock, I can reveal that I am sockless as I write this.) Clearly, the crime of socks-and-sandals is a heinous one, unless one cultivates the appearance of a paedophile or a rambler. So, at the casual end of the spectrum, if one is disporting oneself on holiday in, say, a neatly-pressed polo shirt and a pair of shorts, one would be fully entitled to throw on a pair of deck shoes over wantonly naked feet, and socks might be an unpleasant distraction from the general air of gentleman-at-leisure.

So far, so good. But we may go a step further away from outright informality. With a casual shirt (I am told such things exist) and a pair of chinos, I see neither harm nor foul in allowing a pair of loafers to display a well-turned bare ankle. Hygiene may suggest that so-called "secret socks" could come into play here, though I confess that they have always struck me as somehow dishonest, rather like backless waistcoats. But needs must when the Devil drives. Surely no crime has yet been committed.

To approach from the opposite end of the spectrum, it seems very clear to me that no right-thinking person would contemplate dispensing with socks when wearing formal suit and proper shoes, whether Oxfords, brogues or whatever. The discomfort caused to the wearer would be as nothing compared to the mental trauma inflicted in spectators. I have seen just such an approach recommended by more outré opinions in some gentlemen's magazines, but - being charitable - I can only assume these ideas were formulated after a good lunch or a heavy session with illegal drugs.

This brings us, however, to that most difficult terrain, the centre ground. Assuming you have friends who are Continental, gay or work in advertising, it is not inconceivable that you will find an occasion which suggests, say, a linen suit sans tie, and you may be tempted to sport a pair of loafers or driving shoes, and may be further tempted to leave the sock drawer untouched. Well, now. This month's Gentleman's Quarterly lectures me in no uncertain terms that, "Whatever the Italians might do in their own country, never even think about wearing socks with a driving shoe. You have to bare your ankles - of this, we're sure." I am not possessed of such certainty. "Sir" Bob Geldof recently appeared on the BBC's light entertainment Clarkson vehicle Top Gear, and was to be seen in a suit and no socks, and argued that it was perfectly acceptable on the grounds that he had beautifully-turned ankles. So, as it happens, does the Sybarite. But I would not encourage those who are amply-endowed in the trouser department to embrace a life of naturism. More fundamentally, for those who are tempted down the path of Godiva-like ankles, there is this question: do you wish Bob Geldof to be your fashion guru?

The Sybarite's view (and therefore the right one, of course) is this. Sockless fun is fine in a casual context, if you have ankles which are pleasing to the populace, and, naturally, if you are otherwise well-dressed. If, however, there is even a hint of formality, however trendy and cutting-edge, just wear socks. Go to town with them, by all means, but don't leave them at home.

(On a wholly unrelated note, can I wholeheartedly encourage those of you who have not so far done so to sample a cocktail called "Death in the Afternoon", one of Papa Hemingway's favourites? A jigger of absinthe in a flute, topped up with iced champagne. Excellent, refreshing and potent, a little like Don Ernesto himself.)