By Lawrence Gartshore.
The notion of clothing has always been one that has perturbed me. Quite simply, I cannot in all good reason understand its necessity. Why is it that we, as the human race, are the only species of animal to have evolved to be ashamed of our naked flesh?
Now, as a good theology student, I am well aware of the biblical narrative here. Whisk your minds back to your school chapel services and the tale of the Book of Genesis. Man was created to walk freely in the Garden of Eden, a perfect paradise devoid of any pain or suffering. Indeed, I use the word ‘man’ here keenly, for it was of course, according to the biblical account, the bloke who first stepped foot on the earth, with woman coming a little later from the ribcage of the chaps. All was perfectly fine until the woman, Eve, was tempted by the devil, in guise of a snake, to eat from the prohibited fruit tree and thus gain extra detrimental knowledge – a crucial part we are told, and indeed the bit that appears to tip God off as to the fall of mankind, was a newfound shame of nudity. They fashioned leaves to cover their most intimate parts, God thus saw that they had disobeyed him, and cursed humanity to wander the earth with pain and hardship for the rest of time.
Now, unless you happen to find yourself in the bible bashing Southern states of America, then few people would take this account as verbatim. Thus, the question remains – why on earth are we quite happy to have so much of our body on show, from the face and neck to one’s thighs, and yet publicly revealing the meat and two veg of a man, or the personalities of a woman, is to be feared.
Nowhere, I would argue, is this more ridiculous a concept than in the comfort of one’s own home. So many people I know would find the notion of being nude in front of their parents, or indeed their parents being nude in front of them, a horrifying state of affairs. Is this not mad? By walking around, tackle-out, at home, one is not in some way coming-on to members of one’s own family! I know Freud and his Oedipus concept, but I’m not sure even he believed that sons literally wish to shag their own mothers.
I do not contest that clothes do, in fact, have a place. Were I to find myself in the Arctic Circle, I should, for my own sense of bodily wellbeing, rather like to be sporting a coat. The world is such, and the human body poorly designed, that in order to avoid the pain of frostbite, protection can be a necessity. But in the temperance of mild heat – no damned need!
Now, and I must say that as a proud Englishman this is most painful to write, I think the Germans have the right idea here. You cannot walk through a street in Berlin without seeing a frankfurter wobbling in the breeze. And all power for it! Why is that any more affronting than seeing a morbidly obese male chest at a football match?
No; we, particularly as the British public, are prudes. The mere mention of sex drives most of us into a fit of uncontrollable giggles and, whilst I make no secret of my adoration for the feminine physique, I would so hope that men and women could exist perfectly well in unity without the need to hide our God given rigs.
So, I say my friends, let us move past our animalistic urges; let us throw off the shackles of our Orangutang ancestors; and let us allow the boys and girls to breathe. Life would be far simpler, and far better ventilated.