Doreen Tipton: Time to stick my neck out. . .

To me they seemed very oppressive, and a bit itchy. But I had no choice. When I was younger I was forced to wear them by my mother, who was a devout follower of Val Doonican.

Other children, in their plunge-neck dresses, used to make fun of me, as I struggled in the height of Summer to stay looking cool in my hand-knitted Fair Isle neck-hugging jumper. Polophobia wasn’t even dreamt of in those days, of course, so it was socially acceptable to taunt me.

The worst days were on the beach at Barmouth, when we visited our caravan. No bikini for me. When I did get a tan, it started at my chin, and stopped so abruptly that it looked like I’d been masked off with adhesive tape and sprayed. On a sweltering day, I used to repeatedly tug at the polo neck to let in some much needed ventilation, as my mother, oblivious to my distress, lay back on her deckchair whistling Paddy McGinty’s Goat.

I did once try arguing the case for the slightly less extreme turtle necks with my mother, but she wasn’t having any of it. “Do the job properly or not at all,” she’d say. “That’d be like calling yourself a Christian but not going to church.” To be fair to my mother, though, she was clinically insane.

Christmas, of course, was a nightmare, as she took her opportunity to replenish my stockpile of polo necks with ever-more garish patterns, and encouraged various aunties and uncles to do the same. My only escape from this systematic fashion abuse was the school uniform policy. Inevitably, I found myself dressing for school even when I had no intention of going, which was most days.

I have since denounced Doonicanism in all its forms, but the scars run deep, and even today I find it difficult to take off my brown zip-up hoody without having a panic attack. I told the doctor about this, and he referred me to a psychopath, who came up an amazing theory. He reckons my repressed guilt about secretly ditching polo necks, against the express will of my mother, is what now lies behind my psychological need to wear a neck brace. All this time I’d thought it was just about fraudulently claiming benefits, so, when I finally realised the truth, it was a huge weight off my neck.

Anyway, I wanted to get onto the wider topic of free speech, which seems to lie at the heart of this Boris Johnson saga. From what I can gather, this story seems to have split the country right down the middle, 60/40. Some say that free speech is the most precious thing of all and, if Boris wants to say he doesn’t like certain garments, that’s up to him. Others say that you should never be free to discriminate against somebody because of their beliefs (unless his name’s Boris, in which case he should be immediately sacked because of his beliefs).

A third lot go one step further, though, and suggest that it should actually be a criminal offence to not like certain garments. If that’s true, then I’m due a life stretch in prison, should the Polo Neck Appreciation Society ever report me for a hate crime. Personally I’d argue that it’s my mother who should have gone to prison. It would at least have given the care home staff a bit of a rest. But where do you draw the line? Would a disdain for flared trousers earn you three months hard labour? Would criticising flowery kipper ties result in an Asbo? Platform shoes? Double-breasted jackets with gold buttons?

It’s a dilemma, this free speech business. And there’s a terrible irony. Because expressing your views might indicate to others how tolerant or intolerant you are – but if you’re not allowed to express them? Well, that’s a direct measure of how intolerant everyone else is. And the more that people succeed in removing someone from their job and livelihood for expressing a viewpoint they disagree with, the more that ‘free speech’ becomes a luxury that only the very rich can afford. So then it’s not free at all. It’s actually quite expensive.

I’m not a rich woman – the benefits system, contrary to popular opinion, is not that generous. But I will stick my neck out and continue to be defiant in my dislike of polo necks – even if people start getting a bit hot under the collar.

Tarra a bit x