Having just gone into the other room to find our music-loving seven-year-old watching a You-Tube video which involved a semi-clad woman lying on her back and crossing and uncrossing her legs (not particularly interesting until you realise she has tiny hot-pants on with not a great deal underneath them). “Er, I’m not sure that’s appropriate,” said I in the understatement of the year and she giggled and flicked over to the film I’d uploaded of myself wearing a polo-neck sweater and slacks. “That’s better,” I smiled, as I patted her on the head and walked out.
It’s not that I’m a prude - although fawn is my favourite colour – it’s just that I want to say to these girls, “You don’t have to show everyone your fooftie as we quite like your music anyway!” I can see that in five years’ time, these women will grow up a little bit and will decide that they want to be taken seriously and they’ll be miffed that they are judged on their looks and seen as sex-symbols rather than artists.
Now, because I’m over forty and have three kids, the cry will be, “She is only saying this as she’s a saggy old beast with hairy toes and problems with skin-thickening on her shins”, so I want to give out this test:
If you do something risqué, imagine that the person helping you choreograph it is not some arty boundary-pusher, but a bloke in a mac with his penis in his hand. Suddenly swinging about naked on a wrecking ball and licking a sledge-hammer seems a bit naff.
Off to wax my toes.
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