As style-bible Vogue decrees that women should cover their cleavage up, one writer with an enviable bust declares... Leave the Great British Breast alone! 

• e-mail

Vogue has issued one of its perennial decrees, and this one strikes at the heart — or rather, the bosom — of our nation.

The great British breast, as beloved of the saucy seaside postcard as it is of the fashionable celebrity nightspot, has been declared defunct.

From being the straining centrepiece of every red carpet event in recent years, the cleavage has been reported as missing in action. A pert, but distant, memory.

Vogue has issued one of its perennial decrees, and this one strikes at the heart — or rather, the bosom — of our nation (Christina Hendricks pictured above)

For as the fashion magazine makes clear in its December issue, in an article entitled Desperately Seeking Cleavage: ‘The cleavage — those magnificent mounds pushed together to display sexual empowerment, to seduce, to inspire titillation or even just to show off — is over, or at least, taking a well-earned break.’

Were readers left in any doubt, it hammers home the message further: ‘The t*ts will not be out for the lads. Or anyone else for that matter.’

No, according to the style bible, the intelligent female follower of fashion must either cover up or at least play those bosoms down.

The evidence, Vogue insists, is all around us. From the polo-necks and prim pussybows dominating the High Street to collarbone-covering designer confections, women who want to be taken seriously are suddenly buttoning up.

The great British breast, as beloved of the saucy seaside postcard as it is of the fashionable celebrity nightspot, has been declared defunct (Christina Hendricks, above, more covered up)

And celebrities, who once loved nothing more than to leave only little to the imagination are displaying an unthinkable urge to join the modesty camp.

Take Victoria Beckham. Once the proud owner of an aggressively pneumatic, possibly silicone-enhanced chest, the Spice Girl-turned-fashion designer has reverted to a more discreet embonpoint, concealed beneath over-sized shirts and jumpers.

Then there’s former Wonderbra icon Eva Herzigova, whose Hello Boys advertising billboards caused many a motorist to take his eyes off the road. You will have to rely on your memory for that eye-popping cleavage, for it has long been buttoned up underneath jacket and high collar.

Even Mad Men starlet Christina Hendricks, famed for her show-stopping decolletage, has taken to hiding that fabulous bosom under yards of fabric.

Where celebrity skin is bared at all, it tends to be in areas honed to perfection by the gym: midriff, thigh, or muscular back and arm combinations. While what cleavage remaining is small, unshowy and distinctly uncantilevered. Think Elizabeth Debicki, the willowy beauty in the BBC’s adaption of The Night Manager, with her diminutive, barely-there bosom.

But why this new reticence over breasts? Of course, high fashion has long despised the bust.

According to the style bible Vogue, the intelligent female follower of fashion must either cover up or at least play those bosoms down (Elizabeth Debicki pictured above showing off her cleavage)

From the polo-necks and prim pussybows dominating the High Street to collarbone-covering designer confections, women who want to be taken seriously are suddenly buttoning up (Elizabeth Debicki, pictured above, in a more modest blouse)

The impetus originated from male fashionistas — typically gay male designers — who preferred to design clothes on paper, rather than taking into account the undulations of the female body, making the small-bosomed likes of models Kate Moss and Alexa Chung the perfect human clothes hangers.

Today, this trend finds resonance with a raft of female designers — notably Stella McCartney and Celine’s Phoebe Philo — who claim to be rejecting man-pleasing fashion in favour of the shapeless hoodies and shifts of the unflattering ‘athleisure’ movement.

Accordingly, we are told that this is fashion doing feminism: women dressing ‘for themselves’, rather than a male audience.

Not once do these supposedly female-friendly designers acknowledge the fact that women may actually like their figures, with all their lumps and bumps.

But then, as with so many pronouncements in the world of fashion, the death of cleavage is actually a statement about class.

For years now, a pair of enormous — ideally exposed — synthetically enhanced breasts have been the chosen means for young women who believe E-list celebrity can be found in an E-cup.

Celebrities, who once loved nothing more than to leave only little to the imagination are displaying an unthinkable urge to join the modesty camp

From reality TV cast members all the way through to provincial High Street revellers, a heaving cleavage has become a necessary, if vulgar, accessory.

This debasement of the female form has only been solidified by the proliferation of super-enhanced human Barbie dolls such as Kim Kardashian and Katie Price, who have managed to inspire ordinary young women to follow suit.

Even the red carpet, once the stage for true, unadulterated — but tasteful — glamour was hijacked by the cleavage-flashing brigade.

Instead of competing with each other on the basis of beauty, talent and elegance, certain female celebrities opted to compete instead on the depressing basis of who could flash the most flesh.

And, naturally, once the prevalence of cosmetic surgery enabled hoi polloi to have access to what writer Jay McInerney once referred to as ‘party breasts’, then those who regard themselves as truly stylish decided that only the opposite would be truly chic.

As Vogue declared in an elitist tone: ‘The amount of skin there is on show is an indicator of how little power a woman really has.’

As Vogue declared in an elitist tone: ‘The amount of skin there is on show is an indicator of how little power a woman really has' (Eva Herzigova for Wonderbra)

The magazine also cites the scourge of internet ‘trolling’ as a reason for celebrities buttoning up. The more bosom one bares, the more likely one is to be on the receiving end of social media’s misogynistic hatred.

It quotes Elizabeth Saltzman, stylist to Gwyneth Paltrow and actress Gemma Arterton, lamenting what takes place when she dresses a ‘super chest-heavy’ client.

Saltzman says: ‘I try not to focus on that when I dress her. But on those occasions where her cleavage is more visible, I see what happens on her Instagram feed afterwards and, out of 100,000 comments, 90,000 will be about her boobs. That’s not healthy, it’s creepy.’

Creepy it may be, but changing the way one dresses in accordance with these aggressors feels creepier.

Personally, I love breasts — from Jane Russell’s scandalously hoisted bazookas in 1943’s The Outlaw to Marilyn Monroe’s generous bust.

Nature has rather compelled this affection. Scientists may have identified seven shapes of breast, but Betts women (I am a 34E and nowhere near the largest in my family) come in one size only. Vast.

At its best, fashion should be pure pleasure. The moment it starts telling us how to re-shape our bodies, women should beware that it is less fashion and more fascism (Eva Herzigova pictured above)

In fashionable quarters, reaction to my figure has been one of horror. Looking for a frock, I was kindly advised that Vivienne Westwood clothes were for women who want to look as if they have breasts, rather than those who already have them.

A female dresser once struck me curtly across the bosom and intoned: ‘These are not Armani!’

‘No,’ I replied. ‘They’re mine.’

Nevertheless, I maintain that a touch of cleavage is the epitome of glamour, whether sported on the silver screen by sirens such as Dolores del Rio and Claudette Colbert, or in glorious Technicolor in the shape of Elizabeth Taylor and Marilyn Monroe.

Breasts are a woman’s natural asset, the emblem of our femininity.

And if it means rebelling against people who tell us to put them away, then I’m all for displaying a little of the flesh that makes me female. We shouldn’t have to flatten them for fashion, or dress like nuns so as not to invite abuse.

At its best, fashion should be pure pleasure. The moment it starts telling us how to re-shape our bodies, women should beware that it is less fashion and more fascism.

My Christmas party purchase this season has been a resplendent shirt, slashed almost to the waist. Fashion dictates that this should be worn nonchalantly by the barely-breasted. However, I intend to don it in all my 34E glory, glimpses of cleavage and all.

And if that bothers anyone, that is their business. Fashion, and fascists, be damned.