Purveyor of Bollocks to the Crowned Heads of Europe
Tuesday, 20 May 2014
I worship the ground you walk on
After John's tits post, I thought you might like to see the latest arse that I have been lovingly fondling recently. You can see why it is always areas like this that get dirty the quickest on marble figures.
I believe the Blarney Stone in Ireland is highly polished through all the kissing. There is a horrible, bronze figure of the Pied Piper in Hameln which - somehow - has acquired the reputation of bringing you good luck if you touch a certain part of it. I honestly cannot remember which part, but I do remember that whatever part it is, it is kept gleamingly pale and shiny through all the touching.
I sat in a nearby cafe once and, for the whole time I was there, I would see very level-headed and respectable looking German people go up to it, take a quick look around to see if anyone was looking, then take an even quicker dab at it with their hand to get the benefit of the magic.
Their furtive and guilty behaviour was exactly the same as I witnessed in the Nuremberg Stadium when they would sidle into the little rostrum built for one man and one man only - Hitler. Of course, the are places all over the world where your foot will land in the same spot as some famous or infamous person has stood before, but that little booth in Nuremberg is so well-defined and so well documented in full-colour films from the 1930s and 40s, that it would be easy to think that you were only the second person to have stood there in 70 years.
I wonder how many people have placed their common arses on the throne of Westminster Abbey when they thought nobody was watching? How many late-night cleaners have sat there, mop in one hand like a sceptre and the bucket in the other as an orb?
When you think of it, there could hardly be a greater act of disrespect than to plonk your arse on someone else's throne. It conjures up images of the French Revolution, or the downfall of a profligate African dictator - a common soldier with Kalashnikov in hand, several belts of ammunition around his chest and one of the toppled king's fat cigars stuck in his grinning mouth. Or those Marines in Saddam Hussein's palace.
The golden age for using the arse as a symbol of utter contempt and disrespect was the 18th century. Even the Hanoverian Georges were not exempt from this treatment in political cartoons, with the words that they had uttered the previous day coming from their fundaments in swags and balloons to flutter over the heads of their subjects.
I had a girlfriend once (honest) and I was particularly fond of her backside and told her so. "I like arses", is how I put it.
"Yes", she said, searching for the right words to describe her feelings about them, "They're so... friendly aren't they?"