Wednesday, 29 September 2010

Dirty postcards.

A businessman seeks the revival of the old saucy joke postcards. Brilliant. They were worth going to the seaside for.

That was back when you could take photos at the seaside without being branded a terrorist, a peeping tom or a paedophile, you could have a few cans on the beach and nobody minded at all, you were even allowed to smoke in the open air without New Puritan disapproval. Even - shock horror - you could have a coffee or a beer and have a cigarette at the same time - indoors!

Remember all those antismokers keeling over in the bars and cafes? Remember the bar staff with cancerous lumps all over them while each and every cafe waitress had a hacking cough and was stained yellow? Remember the St. John's Ambulance running to the aid of someone whose child caught a glimpse of a cigarette packet and suffered a seizure?

Remember those elderly matrons swooning at the sight of a rack of dirty postcards and children screaming in horror at cartoon boobs and lifted kilts? Remember the police swooping on cafes that had salt on the table, in full view and easy reach of the cheeeldren? Remember that evil candy floss (now that stuff really was evil, it was the invention of Sticky Satan) and the waddling bloated whales we all turned into as a result of hot dogs, ice cream and fizzy pop?

Remember all that? Now that I think of it, neither do I.

So in response to the pompous Mail headline:

Oo-er, too saucy? As a businessman seeks to revive classic seaside postcard, do we really want to bring them back?

Yes we bloody do. Bring all of it back.

Even the candy-floss. It made many a dentist's career, that stuff, and it was the one thing guaranteed to make any child want to wash their face.


Chris said...

The Blessed Orwell did a stonking essay on the essential decency and gentleness of the world presented in McGill postcards.

Like the Carry On films, they're just a bit of harmless, slightly naff, cosy fun. The world would be a duller and more po-faced place without them.

Ah, I see...

subrosa said...

Candy floss, my mother's nightmare. It was always my Dad who took us to the local carnival at Gussie Park and we were bought the inevitable candy floss instead of ice cream. (For some reason it was always winter when the carnival visited and too cold for ice cream outside).

I had that lovely burnt sugar stuck to my hair, eyelashes, face, clothing. In fact, anywhere a bucket of water over your head could reach.

My mother had the job of cleaning us up. Not an enviable task, although I suspect my Dad had a wee smirk. She didn't like children you see.

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