It’s surprising how something as ordinary as a pair of shoes can generate such an unordinary discourse about authority, convention, and belonging.
In April 2024, Victorian MP Georgie Purcell came in Parliament wearing purple Crocs—not as a blunder, but as a calculated gesture. The bright clogs contrasted dramatically with the black suits and polished boots often seen in such formal spaces. They were not just shoes; they were a silent challenge to what respect is meant to look like.
| Location | Parliament of Victoria, Australia |
|---|---|
| Incident Highlighted | MP Georgie Purcell wore purple Crocs during a session |
| Time of Event | April 2024 |
| Action Taken | No formal ban, informal disapproval noted |
| Dress Code Policy in UK | No written Crocs ban, but “smart shoes” expected |
| Broader Discussion | Balancing decorum with comfort and modernity |
| Source | theage.com.au |
Purcell wasn’t simply wearing comfortably when she opted her Crocs. She was making a statement about generational shifts, inflexible standards, and who gets to define what’s “appropriate.” It reminded me of when I attended a corporate panel when the keynote speaker wore pants with his blazer. There was a bustle, but the temperature in the room remained unchanged.
In Purcell’s instance, no official dress code had been violated, although some of her coworkers plainly considered she had strayed out of bounds. Interestingly, there was no written provision in Victoria’s Parliament that forbade Crocs. Still, rumors followed. Some deemed the footwear “disrespectful,” while others, particularly online, found it refreshingly honest.
This type of tension—between formalism and personal expression—is playing out across numerous legislative domains. In the UK’s House of Commons, while there is no formal footwear requirement, MPs are expected to wear “businesslike” clothes. Speaker Sir Lindsay Hoyle encourages members to look as though they’re attending a business board meeting. Whether Crocs could pass that optical test is dubious.
Yet the Commons has encountered its own share of dress code turmoil. Remember when disputes raged over MPs wearing slogan T-shirts or open-necked shirts? Each scenario brought forth the same question: is it more vital to look the part or to do the job well?
There’s a great irony in legislators being sluggish to adapt on visual appearances, even while the problems they debate change swiftly. In an age of climate crisis, internet privacy, and pandemic recovery, are we really still hooked on shoes?
Still, appearances do matter—particularly in areas historically centered on spectacle and symbolism. Polished seats, gavels, and robes all have a role to play. However, contemporary actors are no longer performing for audiences from the 19th century. They’re conversing to constituents via TikTok, campaigning on Instagram, and attending hearings over Zoom.
I once spoke with a junior employee who said that she maintained an emergency blazer in her office drawer because she felt compelled to wear it while entering specific rooms, not because she wanted to. There’s something dishearteningly old about dressing up only to be taken seriously.
The very fact that Georgie Purcell’s purple Crocs were so commonplace made them stand out. Millions wear them on shopping runs or school drop-offs. Inserting that everyday reality into a political arena felt, to some, unprofessional—but to others, humanizing.
The occurrence provoked conversations not just in Australia, but in other parliaments too. Could the UK Commons see a Crocs moment of its own? Possibly. Would it inspire comparable reactions? Almost definitely. However, that might not be a negative thing.
Purcell assisted in reopening a discussion that many believed was already closed by highlighting the subtle norms of inclusion—what is worn, what is presumed, and what is policed without being legislated. And while no explicit rule was adopted in response, the ripple effects remain obvious.
Interestingly, a similar Crocs ban exists—albeit humorously—in the self-declared micronation of Slowjamastan in California. Its imaginary president outlawed them totally. Even though the gesture was sarcastic, it highlights how heavy even the most basic shoes can become when they are placed in a symbolic or political setting.
Ruth Ellen Brosseau, a Canadian MP, recently faced backlash over what onlookers thought were yoga pants. No dress code had been broken, yet scrutiny followed. It’s a trend that recurs—one that reveals not just sartorial worry, but underlying uneasiness with shifting norms.
Through this lens, the Crocs moment feels very significant. Not because it disturbed parliamentary function, but because it highlighted how flimsy and subjective our emblems of authority can be. It challenged the premise that tradition and professionalism must always look the same.
Purcell, when later asked about the reaction, said that younger people—especially women—are often expected to comply to inherited ideals. Her quiet disobedience, then, was as much about generational visibility as it was about footwear.
For institutions that aspire to be more inclusive and representational, perhaps the larger risk is not the color of someone’s shoes, but the failure to adapt to the times they walk through. If democracy is about representation, then certainly it extends to personal presentation as well.
And if we’re being honest, Crocs are surprisingly durable. They’ve weathered scorn, resurged in favor, and proven themselves exceptionally versatile—from medical wards to high fashion partnerships. That alone makes them a good metaphor for change: delicate yet durable, surprising yet persistent.
The House of Commons may never officially endorse them. But the next time someone slips on a pair and moves into a place of authority, the conversation will start again. And perhaps that’s the point.
