Rachel Johnson

Sex and the city

Sex and the city
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We don’t do burlesque here. We do bawdy, Benny Hill, end-of-pier prurience instead. Montmartre may have the Moulin Rouge, but the closest we get to saucy is John Major not ‘on’ Edwina Currie — titter — but on our tradition of music hall. As a nation we can-cannot do the can-can.

So I found it intriguing that impresario Harvey Goldsmith has imported one of Paris’ most distinguished and long-running titty shows, Crazy Horse, to London’s Southbank. I went, to sit in a hot tent in the dark with a lot of mouth breathers, to watch young women without any clothes on, apart from strange pants consisting of large Band-Aids that barely covered the Hitler-moustaches painted vertically on the pubis.

If that floats your boat, I suggest you go. For on the evidence of the audience, lots of women as well as men enjoy looking at other women’s bodies. If they liked looking at men’s bodies, believe me, Harvey Goldsmith would have taken their money and supplied fit young males instead.

But he doesn’t. What we have are skinny-rib clones with high, round breasts that must point upwards. After a bit one longed for them to put their clothes on, as they were so much sexier then. All the small perky breasts became boring quite quickly. I found myself longing to see some real women with proper bosoms and bushes, in a foul mood, rather than these writhing pouting porn-bots, with as much personality as department store mannequins.