Oscar Wilde once insisted that a well-knotted tie is the first serious step in life. Of course he was only thinking about men, but the quote came to mind the other day as I watched some old Beatles footage from the 1960s in which, incredibly, every single male in the shot except for the Fab Four was wearing a white shirt and a dark-coloured tie.

The same happened when I tried to make up for the complete lack of UK representation at the recent Euro 2008 tournament in Austria/Switzerland by playing back scenes from the 1966 World Cup. The whole crowds then were just like a massive wave of church congregations, all of them in white shirts, jackets and ties, happily acknowledging the great Bobby Moore as he, like Casillas in Vienna last Sunday, lifted the Rimet Cup over his head.

Suddenly, I realised how I have hated wearing a necktie since I was a teenager, and it all came back. I never kept my school tie on after lessons, once even getting punished for having been seen, by mama’s little helper the class prefect, without it on the school bus.

Then when my voice really broke, it seemed that all the aunts and uncles could come up with for Christmas and birthday presents were ties, and when dad did a vanishing trick, I had a wardrobe full of the hated things.

What a motley collection: narrow plain ones, wide plain ones, narrow colourful ones, wide colourful ones, narrow patterned ones, wide patterned ones, glossy ties, knitted ties, square-cut ties and a couple of black specimens I particularly disliked. I am in complete accord with the adage that says nothing lasts as long as a necktie you don’t like. I still have dozens of them to swap with other long-suffering, reluctant collectors.

Happily, it was at a time when fashion for the young was changing fast and we could opt for the more comfortable alternatives in clothes and shoes.

The late 1960s did not just rid us of the ridiculous mortal-sin-if-you-vote-Labour syndrome. We could also somehow experiment and come up with ideas, usually copied from our favourite beat groups and up-and-coming folk and rock stars of the day.

Most of us youngsters played in a beat group. There was probably a beat group at every village corner anywhere in Malta, and I dare say Gozo, perhaps. I mean, if you could squeeze us all into one sardine-packed band you would hardly have got a reasonable musical note produced, but try we did, especially with clothes. I belonged to The Beezers, the group that only played once in public – at the Kalkara parish hall, without me and my guts – and were overwhelmed by the reception. The audience simply could not find enough pastizzi to throw at them.

On one special occasion, however, the comic-inspired band decided to achieve in fashion what it could not in the music business. So we all went to watch the 8th September Regatta races at the Valletta waterfront when it was still known as Ix-Xatt, wearing – in dog-collar mode – a kind of claret velvet strip instead of the hated old tie. It was something of a fashion fad the popular Dave Clark Five had then made famous.

You can imagine the horrid looks of utter disbelief we got from those regatta masses made up mostly of brawn rather than brain and who could hardly be expected to come to terms with the Carnaby Street styles of the day we were supposedly sporting. To this day I get the shivers from just thinking how we could have had the temerity to go out like that in a crowd like that.

Awkward moments in awkward clothes never lack. During a short holiday with my wife in Tunisia, I realised that some of the fellow hotel residents were, strangely, taking me for granted. If I went to get a sun-bed, they seemed to want one too. If we decided to have a dip in the inviting cool water of the serpentine pool, they followed us in. When the ice-cream lad passed and we opted for the good stuff, I was asked by the sun worshippers nearby to order the same thing for them.

It was only when my wife abruptly laughed out loudly and amusedly explained the mystery that I realised what was happening. My bright canary-yellow top over sky-blue shorts was exactly the outfit that all hotel poolside employees were wearing! I quickly took the lift up to our room to change my top, only to be expected, on the way up, to push the buttons for some other guests sharing the same lift. Reception must have handled a few protests that day about a nameless employee who swore back in some language at guests when they asked for sundry services.

Everyday, journalists know also only too well the problem of wearing the right clothes for the right occasion. Many of us have been caught wearing tatty jeans and open-necked tops at urgently-called press gatherings at The Palace and other prim and proper places, which is why our bosses later, and rightly, always insisted we had a spare jacket and, yes, tie, to use in such emergencies.

In time, one learns to cope with such situations. Politicians have different reactions to ill-presented members of the media. Some complain tacitly with bosses, while others prefer to turn a blind eye. Today’s new generation of politicians seems less interested in what the media person wears and is inclined to have a wardrobe with clothes and outfits for every occasion. Joseph more than Lawrence, of course, though there should be no problem between Jason and Paul…

Church strictures too have changed or been amended and, though they still vary from one parish to another and from one congregation to another, there is, for those who still go, an agreed level of tolerance. There was a time when the women, all wearing the mandatory veil, were segregated from the men, all wearing white shirts and dark ties, of course. The Second Vatican Council, again in the spirit of the decade that it took place in, finally blew a refreshing breeze against such mediaeval antics and men and women mixed and mingled in church safely away from any hint of infernal condemnation while we, their liberal offspring, happily formed our mixed youth clubs.

Sounds like the Flintstones? Can’t blame you for thinking that. One thing is certain – the reason nobody wears old clothes anymore today is because the kind being sold wear out before they can really get old. It is also true that 30 years ago “half way to the knees” meant from the ground up, not from the shoulders down.

Fashion is like youth, alas. Both fade very quickly.