Image provided courtesy of Mike Thomas of Encyclopedia of British Dance Bands
It is a truth universally acknowledged, and deeply regretted, that the sub-species prudus miserabilis is everywhere among us, like some incurable crotch rot. I’m not talking about people who simply don’t like seeing this or doing that. I’m talking about those people who, due to their own personal shortcomings, not only don’t want to see this or do that but they want to make sure no one else sees or does either. In other words: I don’t like it so you can’t do it. These are the practitioners of the sharply indrawn breath, who cast a pall of gloom over any gathering they attend because they make it known that they disapprove of what is going on, and ruin things for everyone. Was there ever a phrase more guaranteed to make the adult heart sink than “good, wholesome family entertainment”? Well, to the prude, that is almost pushing the envelope.
John Cleese put it best. Whenever someone says “I’m not a prude but…” what they really mean is: “I am a prude and…” And then they go on to say how they want to spoil everyone’s fun. If ever there was group that deserved to be loaded into a rocket and fired straight into the sun to receive a humane but justified end, it is the prudes of this world. However, there is probably some law or regulation to prevent this extermination devoutly to be wished. All one can do is try to ignore them, deplore them and discard them.
Prudes On The Prowl was the title of a series of articles in the Daily Telegraph in the 1890s, which lampooned and derided the followers of a vinegar-faced Victorian prude, a certain Mrs. Ormiston Chant. She had got it into her head to change the status quo at the Empire Theatre, a music hall much beloved of officer cadets from nearby Sandhurst, where ladies of the evening would parade themselves in the wide area behind the dress circle, which was lined with bars at which cadets, students and others drank before, during and after the stage performances. This delightful mingling of Bacchus and Venus went undisturbed for years, until the prudes decided that they wanted to put a stop to it. They forced a craven theatre management to erect canvas screens between the bars and the area where the girls walked. This was obviously an age where good people did not sit still and allow prudery to overpower them, and the following day a crowd of enraged students and cadets attacked the screens and tore them down. They were never erected again. The cadet who led the mob, I am delighted to report, was a hero of mine, Winston Churchill, then in his early twenties, who later went on to distinguish himself in resisting other tyrannies
But cut one head off the hydra and two more grow in its place. Prudery is everywhere. Witness the moronic reaction to Janet Jackson’s five-second exposure of a nipple on national television. The latest depressing example, though, comes from Paris.
Yes, Paris. The one In France. The same Paris that was Mecca to so many progressive artists, authors and musicians between the wars. The Paris where Josephine Baker danced topless at a time when Hollywood was being smothered by a prude conspiracy called the Hays Office. About the last place on earth you’d expect the cancer of prudery to raise its filthy head. In 2001 they had the brilliant idea of actually building an artificial beach on the banks of the Seine (do you build beaches?) – a real, live, sandy beach where Parisians and tourists who couldn’t get to the Mediterranean or Atlantic coasts could relax and sunbathe.
Now, the French have the right idea about beaches. Mattresses are often provided, as are food and drink. No deck chairs. And there is nothing remotely remarkable about topless sunbathers, or people wearing thongs. There is no drivel about children who see bare breasts being traumatised or damaged. No one bats an eyelid. In fact, anyone who dared complain would probably be laughed off the beach.
But not, it seems, on Paris Plage. Not only have they seen fit to ban thongs and topless sunbathing, but they are also imposing fines for transgressors, 36 euros being the tariff. What are they thinking? This is like building a bar and then announcing that wine is banned.
Luckily the popular press has rightfully been heaping ridicule on the prudes in the city government. The mayor, Bertrand Delanoë (openly gay and therefore should know better than to cave to the prude faction) and his deputies have found themselves on the defensive. With luck the press will keep up the pressure and put an end to this utterly ridiculous situation. Maybe someone should suggest to these stinking killjoys that they should all move to Kansas, join an old ladies’ church quilting group, watch good wholesome family entertainment, and go round telling everyone that they are not prudes but…