The Borat-ish ‘burkini’ edict that’s currently causing ripples of concern in a handful of council-run leisure centres is undoubtedly going to provide a lot of challenging design opportunities for fashionistas. Officials are attempting to bar both Muslim and non-Muslim swimmers from entering pools in normal swimming attire during certain sessions unless they comply with strict ‘modest’ Islamic dress codes. Modest dress code dictates that women be covered from neck to ankle (with headscarf) and men from navel to knee. ‘What Not To Wear’ on the beach seems to have unwittingly overtaken global warming as the contentious topic of conversation this summer.
Across the Channel, France is also in sartorial turmoil. The country that fought hard to champion topless sunbathing in the late Sixties as a symbol of feminist rights (and has subsequently prided itself on being the world’s capital of seaside semi-nudity) is suddenly facing a bit of a bikini backlash. Not only are the younger generation apparently being boringly bourgeois and rejecting the ‘monokini’, they’ve also managed to turn a simple sartorial choice into a political cause. It would seem breast is no longer best on the beach with only a skimpy 24 per cent of women finding it acceptable. Why? Because it’s not in keeping with their ‘new priorities’ and to wear one furthers the exploitive ‘cult of body sexualisation’. I blame the topsy-turvy, contradictory ideals attached to modern feminism. During the women’s lib movement in the Sixties and Seventies women fought for the right to dress (or undress) the same as men. Now that they can, it seems the majority don’t want to.
This confusion over swimwear is not just confined to women. About ten years ago I had the great wisdom to rent a farmhouse near Toulouse that I found in the classified section of The Spectator. It was pleasingly remote and surrounded by sunflower fields. There were orchards dripping with fruit, bookshelves heaving with dog-eared delights and a river running through the property that the owner assured us was ‘perfect for paddling’. He lied. The river was just a tiny, muddy ditch. It might once have been perfect for paddling but not in living memory. After three days of no water the children were turning mutinous, so we set off in search of a public pool.
Just as Archie was proudly showing off his newly acquired diving skills I heard a piercing whistle. It was the type of no-nonsense whistle I last heard at school when my swimming instructor disqualified me in the middle of a life-saving exam due to concern that my partner seemed to be drowning. A furious official stood by the shallow end pointing at my husband.
‘Vous. Obtenir hors maintenant!’
Johnnie looked about with bewilderment. The man blew his whistle again.
‘What have I done wrong?’
‘Out,’ said the official. ‘Maintenant.’
He grabbed hold of Johnnie’s Vilebrequin trunks.
‘No good,’ he pronounced solemnly.
‘I disagree. Very good,’ said Johnnie.
‘Tres unhygienic.’
After much miming, Inspector Clouseau made it clear that wearing swimming trunks in a public pool was considered both unhygienic and against the law. Either Johnnie put on a pair of Speedos ‘maintenant’ or the alternative was back home to the muddy ditch.
Johnnie whipped into the changing room and emerged wearing my black bikini bottom.
‘OK?’ he asked.
‘Oui,’ said the official. Whatever.