Sex in the Nifties. Batteries not Included.

by Jack Gardner
Duracell bunny.

Portsmouth City Council advertised a course offering to spice up the love making (From now on referred to as sex) of the over sixties



Portsmouth City Council advertised a course offering to spice up the love making (From now on referred to as sex) of the over sixties. It was a flop. Get it, it was a flop? Please yourself. Not enough people wanted to do it, the course, not the sex, I presume. I’m sure that qualified staff were all lined up ready to not go red when they said things like, ‘Have you told him what you want? I mean does he know that you want to be grabbed, half way up the stairs, whilst dusting the pelmets?’ ‘Hasn’t she noticed that he’s been leaving the Littlewoods catalogue open on a particular, lingerie page for months, with her spectacles pointing at a three piece set in black and gold silk?’ The council said, ‘There was a lack of interest.’ We’ve all been there. Snigger.

Now I think Portsmouth City Council are overlooking a number of issues here. First, and most importantly, Nifties are not liberated, and have no intention of becoming so. Sex for us was Barbara Windsor in, Carry on Camping, Confessions of a Window Cleaner, James Bond in Dr No, (The Dr says, say No) or Benny Hill doing innuendo with that music that got inside your head. Duba duba duba do da duba. Proper sex was on, That was the Week that was, with Millicent Martin and that folk singer girl who David Frost said he met in a lift, Julie Felix, wasn’t it? Sophisticated innuendo on late night television that would have been regarded as smutty on Tonight, where Cliff Michelmore was the supremo of keeping the lower classes away from sex, and patronising Cy Grant, the calypso singer. He also managed to interview David Bowie in 1964, who had founded, aged seventeen, the long haired men’s protection society, but called him Davy Jones.

Not to put it too crudely, sex for us Nifties is dirty, and you aren’t going to take that away from us. I mean we were lucky to play postman’s knock, at the youth club, in the church hall, but that fueled fantasies beyond Kubla Khan’s, Pleasure Dome.

Mary Whitehouse was right, sex on television was disgusting and it had to be stopped before it corrupted the whole of society. Sex, when you got permission, was often ruined by the man passing out, before congress could be achieved. A rush of blood no doubt. Pity video cameras weren’t around, imagine Harry Hill’s commentary on You’ve Been Framed.

But, where Portsmouth City Council got it so wrong is this. Sex is not to be talked about like ballroom dancing, with young people who have no embarrassment. It’s not like learning the quick step or the fox trot. Do foxes trot? For Nifties, sex is dirty, disgusting and this is what makes us the luckiest generation of all. Imagine the lot that came after us, all liberated, with no shame or guilt. Where’s the fun in that? A book, ‘The Joy of Sex,’ was published with drawings of a couple doing everything imaginable, and they were smiling, yes smiling. Why weren’t they in the dark where smiles become irrelevant? No wonder pornography has got such a grip. These liberated people need something to turn sex back into the illicit, taboo ridden, sweaty grope, it remains for us Nifties, thank goodness.

I was looking in the window of Ann Summers the other day. Now this is what the world comes to when you relax standards, and introduce universal suffrage. What happens, you offer a crocodile a biscuit and it takes your arm off? I can remember when a Winceyette nightie and having your hand pulled back from the electric fire switch, was eroticism to put, Porno titled, Like a Goat humping a Stump, back into the last century, or the one before.

Everyone thought the pink, fluff-trimmed, handcuffs, that were in the sale, hilarious.

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