In theory, tartan should be an absolute cast iron, idiot-proof classic. It's a pattern that's so familiar, it almost works as a non-pattern. It's a bit punky. A bit, well, Scottish. What's not to like?

It's zillions of years old - or at any rate, a thousand years, and still going strong. And if that doesn't qualify it as a classic to rank alongside a trench coat or a ballet pump, then what does? It has oodles more history than, for instance, a Pucci squiggle, plus it comes freighted with plucky tales of ethnic battles, rebellion and bondage trousers. So why does it look so wrong on anyone over the age of Pixie Geldof?

Even Sarah Jessica Parker, a woman who made us think twice about over-the-knee socks (don't worry, we rejected them, but at least she got us questioning our prejudices), ran foul of the tartan curse, when she wore an exploding McQueen balldress that made her look like a dented tin of shortbread. If she can't make it work, what hope you and I?

This is sad, because tartan's a noble fabric that deserves better. It's warm, it comes in lots of colours, and you can have years of fun tracking down the one that has the least spurious connections with your family name. As I write, mills are probably churning out a fetching MacAbramovich plaid.

But I digress, for the problem with majorly noble fabrics is that they tend to attract major pillocks, who wear them in the mistaken belief that somehow their excellent taste in fabric will disguise their character defects. Mel Gibson, the Bay City Rollers, Vin Diesel, David Duchovny, Darius Danesh, Right Said Fred...how could any fabric withstand that kind of abuse?

No, lovely as it is, tartan's just one of those things that we're going to have to pass on.

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