Two news items caught my eye last week. In one we were told that surveys have shown that people over 60 are overwhelmingly opposed to gay marriage compared to their younger counterparts who are more liberal. The message implied being that the older generation are more straitlaced than their subsequent offspring.
But then on the same day we were informed of the dubious deeds of a Slovakian bike rider named Peter Sagan. The runner-up in the 2013 Tour of Flanders, Mr Sagan, standing aside on the winner’s podium, dared to pinch the backside of one of the two women who were busying themselves planting kisses on victor Fabian Cancellara’s cheeks.
Despite the symbolism of being kissed by scantily clad women and then spraying champagne all over the place, groping them beforehand is strictly off-limits and a grovelling apology was demanded and shown worldwide on television. Fair enough; I was naturally mortified to see Sagan defame the dignified and completely non-sexist tradition of Podium Girls.
I am therefore loath to admit that in my “straitlaced generation” days, pinching women’s bottoms was not uncommon. There were generally two responses. The recipient would either turn around and say, “Cut that out” with a grin on her face, or turn around and say, “Cut that out” with a face as black as thunder. I’d have to concede that the latter reaction was more common. However retribution, as far as I am aware, was never called for and so it was worth taking the risk.
This reminded me of a (true) story that perhaps best illustrates the gap between the generations.
Amelia Langdon - not her real name - was one of life’s great characters. She would have been in her seventies when I first met her, which was back in the 1960s, and she was diminutive, bespectacled, grey haired and always, when the occasion arose, the life of the party. Her husband Arthur was more circumspect. Upright and sartorially elegant he was intensely proud of his wife, despite her gregarious nature compared to his own.
I caught up with them very every year at the Meat Retailer’s conventions. Arthur was a Master butcher of good standing in a provincial North Island city. “Amy,” as she was fondly known, enjoyed a tipple and would kick up her heels at the various social functions that tended to be an integral part of our conferences. Having expended all her energies however she would often be one of the first to retire.
Such was the case one night when the convention was held at the Chateau Tongariro. A grand hotel for a conference and a party. With Amy and many of the wives tucked up in bed at about midnight the rest of us sat around the guests lounge with Arthur Langdon sitting thoughtfully at the bar nursing a whisky and a cigarette.
I don’t know why or how, but someone was describing the colour of something which they said was “nipple pink.” Without shifting his stance Arthur quietly told those of us present that there was no such thing as nipple pink. Nipples, he claimed with quiet authority, were brown. We all assured Arthur that this was not the case. Everyone knew that nipples were pink. But Arthur was insistent. He was willing to bet his last sausage that nipples were brown. The term “nipple pink”, he espoused, although regularly used, was a complete and utter misnomer.
There were a number of women in the bar, most of them not connected to the conference at all, who started to show an interest in the claim. They furtively checked out their own nipples by quietly pulling the top of their garments forward, peering privately breastwards and without exception all came up with the same startling conclusion; that Arthur was absolutely right: nipples are brown.
The least surprised in the bar was Arthur and while we looked on with new admiration for his worldly wisdom he dropped another bombshell. There was one exception, well two if you think about it, he told us, Amy’s nipples were pink. Now Amy was not an Albino, but according to Arthur, due to some minor pigment abnormality, her nipples really were pink. It was astounding fact that just a few minutes previously we were arguing that all nipples were pink, yet we now didn’t believe Arthur that Amy’s weren’t brown.
Given that we were all still in shock from the first disclosure, Mr A. S. F. Langdon, purveyor of fine meats, found himself surrounded by a bar full of unbelievers. The proof however was readily available. “Come upstairs,” said Arthur, “And I’ll show you.”
You’re never going to believe this, but we all trouped upstairs, women included, to the Langdon bedroom and arranged ourselves around the bed upon which Amy was lying sound asleep and snoring softly. “No need to wake her,” Arthur assured us, quietly pulling back the covers. He gently eased the straps of the nightdress off his wife’s shoulders, and sensitively lowered the top to reveal her breasts, resplendent with their distinctly pink nipples.
Now I need to remind you here that Amy is in her seventies, tiny, small boned, grey haired and lying on her back. Without wanting to put too fine a point on it, and hopefully without giving offence, this was no erotic scene. But it was dramatic evidence of the claim made.
We all assembled back at the bar and admitted that Arthur had indeed proved a couple of points. It was drinks all round and Arthur was the toast of what was left of the evening.
If you thought that Amy would have been furious at this invasion of her privacy you couldn’t be more wrong. But then this all took place before feminism was established; when women were still able to laugh at themselves. Arthur must have confessed to her when they woke up next morning because at breakfast she was busy going around the dining room telling all those who had missed the action what had happened.
Typically, she thought it was a huge joke.
Now, just remind me again, which is the straitlaced generation?
