by Dr Rahim Said
Let’s talk about tradition.
That stubborn, unblinking relic of a time when men wore monocles, ladies fanned themselves on the veranda, and tennis was played in all-white because God forbid your ankles or your personality showed.
Take Our Club in Kuala Lumpur’s leafy Taman Tasik Perdana, for instance — sometimes still valiantly defending the last bastions of colonial decency. For as long as anyone can remember, the rule has been clear: wear white. Not off-white. Not cream. White. Shirts, shorts, skirts, socks, and once upon a time — and I swear this is true — undergarments too.
I still recall one afternoon years ago, playing mixed doubles with a lovely, unsuspecting partner who bent down to pick up a stray ball. An eagle-eyed official, clearly moonlighting as the Decency Police, spotted a flicker of red beneath her pristine skirt. She was promptly hauled off to change, presumably into something more acceptable — you know, a white petticoat, like a proper Edwardian lady.
But thankfully, whites on the court have been gone for the last decade or more. Any colour is acceptable now at Our Club.
Meanwhile the club’s restaurant and bar dress codes have also mercifully loosened over the years too — no longer demanding top hats and spats — a sternly worded reminder landed in my inbox yesterday: no slippers, no jeans, no T-shirts of any daring hue. No neon pink Crocs either, presumably. The idea is to preserve decorum, so the club remains an exclusive enclave for those still pining for 1953 or earlier.
But if you think we’ve got it bad, may I present this week’s prize for Most Absurd Enforcement of Tradition: Wimbledon. The All-England Lawn Tennis and All-Things-White Club. The one place on earth where even the pigeons are probably required to be albino.
At this year’s tournament, former Grand Slam champion Jelena Ostapenko was ordered to the side of the court when an official suspected a grave crime against tradition. In a moment of pure theatre, the Latvian lifted her pristine white tennis skirt to reveal — wait for it — lime green shorts.
Ostapenko was within the rules, as back in 2023, Wimbledon changed its women’s dress code for the first time in 146 years. But still, umpire Jamie Crowson wanted to have a word with her, which was unnecessary.
Cue collective pearl-clutching in the Royal Box. The horror. The scandal. The end of civilisation as we know it. I half expected them to wheel out medieval dress stocks by the net post.
What makes this utterly delightful is that while the rest of the tennis world has moved on — with players sporting every shade of neon, tie-dye, and leopard print — the British cling to their whites like a dowager duchess clings to the last sherry at a crumbling estate.
It’s a conflict between modesty, modernity and pure, unadulterated English obstinacy. Honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Because it’s these little pockets of ceremonial nonsense that remind us how gloriously ridiculous the world can be.
Meanwhile, back at our club, I’ll be nursing my coconut shake in proper shoes, collared shirt, and trousers with precisely zero visible stitching because someone’s got to keep tradition alive. Or at least give it a polite nudge now and then.
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