The truth about black socks

Feet are ugly enough, let's not.

Get those things off my furniture. [Photo by The Happy Toe on Unsplash]

In my CONFLICTED series, I weigh up the pros and cons of a thing, place, person, moment, whatever. This week: black socks. See previous CONFLICTED posts

The case against

The humble black sock. That is part of its problem, its humility, its ordinariness. Like the most sanctimonious ex-smokers who cough and fan exaggeratedly with their hands as someone standing 0.4 km away pulls on a Superkings, my loathing for black socks comes from being a reformed addict. Once I’d left school and began buying my own socks, I would select five-packs of unassuming black cotton numbers from M&S and every Christmas, would ask – actually request! – the same.

Why?

Because I was, on the surface at least, a straight man. Or rather a man who wasn’t quite sure whether he was gay but trying his best to airbrush away tells – other than his voice, mannerisms, breathing etc, but Rome wasn’t built in a day. My sock collection was a festival of darkness. I wore them because most other men did, and I was under the illusion that conforming offered protection. So, there’s psychological reasons, but that’s not all.

The ugliness of black socks can, I believe, ruin an entire look. How disappointing it would be, once I had got over myself and embraced colour, to pan down a handsome gentleman’s outfit and see a pair of faded black socks holding the entire thing together. Like Michelin-starred canapés being served on a Thomas the Tank Engine plastic tray. Most of these men fell foul of the most common black sock aficionado’s ailment – mismatched shades. Odd socks are an instant emetic to me – I can’t even imagine someone wearing them without feeling ill, I know this is weird, don’t worry – but somehow a pair of slightly different black socks that have lost their true twin and are making the best of it is the saddest pity hookup of all.

Why do men buy black socks? Laziness. The idea of not having to think as they peruse their sock drawer, yet another responsibility shirked. So they gaze at the sea of various shades of black – not even bunched together, I’ll wager – and pick any two.

Despite black socks’ chokehold on masculinity, you may counter that there are infinite, gorgeous and glorious socks available and plenty of style-conscious dudes are wearing them, but two things can be true at the same time. And antiquated views on hosiery can endure. I remember a few years ago – okay, fourteen, I tend to dwell, okay? – posting on Facebook a photo seconds after finishing a 15K in Hyde Park, thumbs-up, full fromageux victory pose, and someone I hadn’t seen for decades commenting that my socks were a bit bright or outrageous or something. They were red socks from Uniqlo. That was it. The most subdued toe-botherers in my entire collection. And the stupid thing is, I felt perceived in an unpleasant way. I was taken back to a past where self-editing was my default option. Closed minds open unpleasant doors.

Remember when people still liked Justin Trudeau, and he appeared at an important summit in Star Wars socks and people were livid? The socks were, actually, horrible – not all colourful socks are winners, that’s not how it works – but it was fascinating to see a politician reject the soulless statesman uniform. Black socks are a disguise, a lie. The unobtrusive flash of black is supposed to signify that the wearer is serious, can be trusted, thinks only of his country/business/dear wife and has no time for fashion’s frivolity or revealing a hint of their personality. Yet these men eventually show you who they are.

Nick Clegg, who earlier this week was whining that his favourite “It’s better to ask forgiveness than permission” fridge magnet was somehow not a decent enough argument to justify stealing copyrighted data to feed A.I., almost certainly wears black socks. Really thin ones, a hint of his gooseflesh ankles showing through. Bobbly from his carpets too – I doubt he wears slippers in the house, thinks it’s cooler not to, as if such an affectation could make him seem any less of a weak flashlight shining through a reusable hessian Tesco bag.

It’s been disheartening to witness black socks enjoying a resurgence. White socks are unfashionable again and young men’s black trainers – I will NEVER – are crowned by equally inky thick sports socks. I see them everywhere. Even on my godsons, a betrayal so deep, it loosens the elastic in my own socks.

There is so much to love about socks that aren’t black, and bobbly, and mismatched. Socks are the last thing I put on in a morning. They can enliven a subdued outfit, bring down something a bit lively, or complement a pattern or a colour you’re not sure about. They can make a drab shoe pop, or team up with a magnificent trainer to wow the crowds. The right sock is a confidence booster no amount of pub-toilet grade blow can give you.

That said, I do have a couple of black pairs of socks in my collection – but they are threaded with glitter.

Oh, and grey socks are bad too, unless they involve polka dots.

The case for

Good for funerals, I guess. Burglars probably like them. And ninja assassins.

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Book five news coming soon.

Previously, on The truth about everything*: