I was at the barber’s the other day, I am of an age when barbers cut my hair and not hairdressers, hairdressers are for gals, or is that a sexist statement? Let caution be my watchword, and like the Spanish Inquisition, the Thought Police are all around us, and you don’t know they’re there until they are.
I am also of an age when most of my hair is leaving without reference to me or my hairbrush, so the need to visit a barber is not exactly pressing, I reckon once every six weeks for a general tidy up.
Over the recent past, I have taken to patronising my local barber, and besides a reasonable haircut, I get the chance to read their well thumbed copy of the Sun newspaper. I say ‘newspaper’ advisedly, as there are regular efforts to reclassify it as a comic.
I remember those halcyon days when I was first called to the Bar, ready to hit the ground running on my way to fame and fortune. As I rattled along by Underground to my date with destiny, I hid the Sun inside my copy of The Times, so the casual observer would think I was actually reading the law reports, when in fact I was feasting my eyes on the Page 3 Babe of the Day.
It seemed to me then, as it seems to me now, to be perfectly acceptable, but sadly, the feministas and raddled harridans think otherwise, and whether because of, or in spite of, their persistent carping, the Page 3 Girls have now covered up. They are still drop dead gorgeous, but no more titillation. And it’s interesting to note that the wannabee Page 3 Babes who are now denied the chance to show off their wares were the most vociferous in opposing the cover up.
Fast forward to the madness that has permeated the media since Harvey Weinstein was hung out to dry, and somebody may wish to ask if the lunatics are running the asylum. I do not condone sexual abuse in any form, but where do you draw the line? Do you attend the BAFTAs as a female starlet dressed in black, knowing as you should that your career may be in danger of hitting the buffers over a point of principle. That point of principle includes the simulated sexual act on celluloid, it happens, and make no mistake, it sells tickets and moviegoers enjoy watching it. And why not?
But some of the starlets who have decked themselves out in black don’t want to appear in movies that include a sex scene unless it is totally sanitised. That resolve may weaken when the bank manager comes calling, but that remains to be seen.
I don’t wish to sound prudent, but some of the steamy sex scenes may have crossed the line. Almost a daily treat and therefore unremarkable is an explicit sex scene leaving very little to the imagination, so there may be an argument for drawing in the horns. But celluloid sex can sometimes be magnificent. One obvious and memorable example, for me at least, was one of the most famous sex scenes in a movie, and I refer to “From here to Eternity” starring Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr. It was filmed in 1953, and is as alive and passionate today as it was 65 years ago. And who can forget the epic film “Last Tango in Paris”, when Marlon Brando mumbled his way through numerous sex acts with Maria Schneider and a packet of butter?
The worm has turned, and who can say what will happen as more and more allegations, real or imagined, are milked for all they are worth by the media. Hopefully, somewhere down the line, reason and common sense will prevail, and we can get back to a more balanced approach that does not compromise a woman’s right to say no, whilst at the same time allowing her to say yes without being pilloried by the raddled harridans.