Walking through one of Bangkok’s 689 shopping malls this week, I stumbled across a “Shoe Fair”. Actually, “Sneakers Fair” is more accurate because all items on display were sneakers, or what we English stubbornly call “trainers”.
Originally sneakers were worn exclusively for sporting activities, but for decades they have become very much a “lifestyle” thing, especially since “Air Jordan” arrived in 1984. Even Crutch likes tottering around in a pair of grubby old trainers which handle Bangkok’s ankle-breaking footpaths more effectively than regular shoes.
The sneakers on display in the Bangkok mall were in garish hues and a far cry from those we wore at school in England for sporting activities. In those ancient days it was mandatory to wear white plimsolls, which the kids called “pumps”. I used the same cheap pumps for virtually every sport, which might explain why I was so useless.
For the curious, plimsolls were so named because the line which separated the upper canvas part from the rubber sole resembled the plimsoll line on a ship’s hull. Alas, most schoolboys experienced the plimsoll in a much less pleasant form, being whacked on the backside, or “slippered”, by psychotic teachers.
Sole music
Living across the Pond in England, the first time I ever came across the word “sneaker” was from the catchy song High Heel Sneakers by Tommy Tucker in 1963. It probably vies with Nancy Sinatra’s These Boots Are Made for Walkin’ as the top footwear anthem.
The name “sneakers” is derived from the quietness of the rubber sole, meaning you can sneak up on people more effectively than with traditional shoes — sounds a bit creepy. However, while sneakers have become a huge worldwide industry, I fear plimsolls are consigned to the scrapheap of quaint English memorabilia.
Winkle Picker Blues
My teenage years coincided with the popularity of winkle pickers, shoes with ridiculously long points. They acquired their name from the winkle shellfish which required something long and pointed to extract the winkle from the shell.
Despite being uncomfortable and looking quite ridiculous — prompting a Bernard Cribbins song, Winkle Picker Shoes Blues — the shoes became very trendy. They represented a form of youthful rebellion and were quickly adopted by rock fans, juvenile delinquents and assorted thugs who found the long points particularly effective for kicking people during street fights.
My parents made it clear that no son of theirs would wear winkle pickers, so I had to settle for a “chisel toe”, which was basically a winkle picker with the toe chopped off. My dad was still dismayed I didn’t wear “proper shoes”.
Platform pain
Thai youngsters had never seemed too bothered about footwear fashions until they discovered platform shoes in the mid-1970s. It was kind of scary as young Thai men and women suddenly grew as much as five inches and were seen clomping around in their platforms, delighted to view the world from hitherto unknown heights.
Not surprisingly, that period coincided with record numbers of people in Thai hospitals with broken ankles, twisted knees and dented egos.
Shameful spuds
The Thai custom of leaving your shoes at the door has become so ingrained that I found myself doing it in the UK, sometimes prompting strange looks from hosts.
One drawback to the custom is if your socks have holes in them, or to use the correct technical term, “spuds”.
It can be a trifle embarrassing trying to hold a conversation when you know people are looking at your big toe poking out of the socks.
The custom can also be hazardous at large functions when there are lots of people, prompting lots of shoes. Wherein lies a Bangkok tale ...
Pairing off
Back in January 1983, the Bangkok Post New Year party was held at a Thai colleague’s house which could accommodate quite a large gathering. Everyone had a great time and I returned home in a suitable state of merriment.
The following day, not feeling quite so merry, I put on my regular black slip-on shoes, but walking down the soi something didn’t feel right.
Examining the right shoe I realised that it wasn’t mine, although the left was fine. It quickly dawned that I must have grabbed the wrong shoe when leaving the previous night’s festivities.
I asked around the office but drew a blank — no one else had odd shoes. After a few weeks I had given up on the missing footwear when I received a call from Alan Dawson, the Post’s Indochina correspondent at the time, who had also attended the party.
He was packing for an excursion when he noticed a pair of his shoes was, well, not exactly a pair, one being of distinctly inferior quality. Having heard of my plight, he quickly figured out the dodgy shoe was mine and a few days later we exchanged the rogue footwear.
Sala Daeng surrender
Al also discovered that odd shoes do not bring good luck.
During the brief period of unwittingly donning my missing footwear, he was walking with a colleague outside our office, then on Soi Sala Daeng, when he suddenly disappeared down an open manhole, cracking a number of ribs.
So we had the daft situation of a journalist who had survived all sorts of wartime scrapes in Vietnam, suffering his worst wounds courtesy of a Soi Sala Daeng hole. Bangkok strikes again.
Contact PostScript via email at oldcrutch@hotmail.com.