Being British Part III

But if you’ve been with me so far, you know that I am very clear that we British are different from the Continentals. I was brought up in Middle England, as I told you, under the strict rules of Purity, Piety and Hypocrisy (also half-arsed alliteration.) I was taught to treat anyone without a bowler hat and an umbrella with fear, suspicion and a sharpened bayonet.

In other words, England is England and the Continent is, well, something else entirely. To get to Europe, the British have to cross the Channel. And even then, we don’t know what Europe is really like, as our British sensibilities are still doing the perceiving.

So perhaps you’ll understand that there is still one aspect of the European way of life that I still find a little hard to stomach and that is public nudity.

The British aren’t comfortable with their bodies on the whole. The colour swatch of an average British person’s skin is Pasty White to Lobster Red with absolutely nothing in between. Although with some reluctance I may show you my nipples, there are some things that should be left to the imagination.

Let me tell you a story that I feel illustrates part of my problem. When I first arrived in Vienna, I had a period of “resting” and so was gratefully gifted some free time. I took the opportunity to look at some old buildings, take liberal lungfuls of the horse “perfumed” air of the city centre and have a general explore of what was to become my new home.

I arrived in the scorching hot summer of 2003 where from late April the temperatures rose and didn’t fall again until late September. One day I was lent a bike and decided to spend the afternoon discovering the manmade island that bisects the Danube, north of the city. The sun hung heavily in the sky, the air was smoky with pollen and dandelion heads, suspended upon thermals. Diamonds shone on the gentle ripples of the river, the melody of Strauss’ Blue Danube jumped across the ripples of my brain like a mischievous grasshopper.

So enthralled was I by the weather, the river, and the view, that I totally failed to notice three letters painted on the bike path, and even if I had, I wouldn’t have known what they meant. I was riding casually into the lion’s den and I had absolutely no idea. There was a rustle to my left, I looked over, nothing, but then from the bushes to my right spewed forth what seemed like hundreds (about four) of nut brown, elephant skinned zombies with knee length gray pubic hair and flip flops.

Suddenly they were everywhere I looked, lying on sun loungers, diving into the river, even barbecuing what I can only imagine was human flesh. To the left, sagging bottom skin, to the right, varicose veins turned a deep magenta by the sun, and everywhere flapping members and things that should only be seen by care assistants and geriatric doctors.

This was the nudist area of Vienna, without fences. And I had entered, unprepared and fully clothed. This experience so changed me that to this day I can’t look a black pudding straight in the eye.

In reality, after a few years of living here, my fears have subsided somewhat. I always enter the Naked Zone with some trepidation. But after fifteen minutes or so of trying to hide my grandeur, I start to acclimatise and even to enjoy the freedom. I develop a slight swagger and stride purposefully with my towel draped jauntily over one shoulder and if I listen carefully, I can hear the slow hum of my ancestors revolving in their graves.

Still, I am British and that will never leave me. No matter how hard I try, I will never be fully at home with being nude in public, whenever I walk through that turnstile and see naked people drinking coffee and playing cards there will always be a little voice in the back of my head trying to be heard above the gentle New Age music. A small but persistent whimper saying, ‘No sex please, I’m British.’