Archive for July, 2019

Hampton Uncaught

July 26, 2019

I’m lying here in the sun, relishing the sensations of one’s buttocks being gently toasted, wondering how long before Plod tells me that nude sunbathing is not allowed in Hyde Park.

One of my less successful ventures was the establishing of an upmarket Nudist colony with a strict Eminent Members Only policy.

Within this criterion there would be a certain egalitarianism. Not just my fellow nobs, but those whose standing had been achieved by actually doing something – actors, politicians,sportspeople, poets, Page 3 girls. The only exception was ventriloquists; after all, ‘you can’t see the lips move’ could be misinterpreted in a nude environment.

At first there was great excitement. Nudism was very a la mode in those days, but the great and good were fearful of doffing their clobber in public lest they were gawped at by the Oi Polloi (a nudist colony is the last place one wants The Great Unwashed). Actors being the notable exception – in the Swinging 60s many insisted on  ‘tackle out’ clauses added to their contracts. I don’t recall darling Agatha Christie ever writing a nude scene for Miss Marple, but the also darling Margaret Rutherford absolutely insisted on it.

We bought a somewhat dilapidated Manor House – briefly owned by Dozy or was it Tich? – just outside fashionable Hillingdon with enough acreage for outdoors frolics, even including a lake for skinny-dipping, climate willing. We called it, chortlesomely, Hampton Uncaught!

Our first influx of members was a  veritable roll-call of the Big Cheeses of the day: Reg Varney, Malcolm Muggeridge, The Dolly Sisters, Bob Kerr’s Whoopee Band, Monica Rose, Mrs Mills, Stanley Unwin, Eamonn Andrews, Charlie Cairoli, Pinky but, oddly, not Perky…

We’d rather hoped for a younger (preferably female) clientele, perhaps The Ladybirds or someone from the Young Generation, but we consoled ourselves that careers were so brief at the time, that while someone eg Clodagh Rogers may be the hot new thing when they joined, they may be yesterday’s news before they’d even taken their socks off.

Our Grand Opening was covered by all the Press – with, naturally, discreetly staged photos – and we considered it a great success. Alan Whicker made a documentary about us. Mary Whitehouse condemned the whole project, her lips splattered with foam as she thundered about our depravity. We even had a discreet inquiry about discount family membership from Buckingham Palace!

We immediately got carried away with dreams of a nude empire. Maybe we could open further branches? Locations were tricky; anything further north than Watford and it was rare that the climate offered anything to Nudists except frostbite of the Johnson.

We were utterly overwhelmed with requests for membership. Sadly, many of these were from oiky members of the public who had no interest in the nudist lifestyle per se, just a salacious desire to leer at the favourite TV stars au natural. We rejected as many plebs as humanly possible, but inevitably a few peasants slipped though the net…

So instead of being a a charming idyll where the well-paid could retreat to indulge in sans trews delights, such as feeling the breeze rustle through one’s short and curlies while browsing the Telegraph, or enjoying the sensation of one’s anal cleft getting a thorough rinsing while indulging in the doggy stroke, or simply relishing the freedom of one’s orchestras gently colliding against one’s knees while yomping through a secluded glade, the members felt more like they were exhibits in a safari park, where a voyeur with a Polaroid could so easily take a snap of them partaking of some innocent pastime – eg What’s the Time Mr Wolf – and sell the offending photos to the gutter press.

(We could always tell which prospective members worked for the tabloids; they insisted on keeping their rather grubby underwear on at all times.)

The final straw was when two repulsive perverts by the name of Boggle and Lugg had to be escorted from the grounds for the seventh time for ogling the young ladies who were playing lacrosse. That was a privilege reserved for long standing members only.

Sadly, on the advice of our lawyers and several Bishops, we reluctantly shut down Hampton Uncaught. It all happened rather swiftly and it wasn’t possible to let all out members know. Consequently the new owners were forever fishing nude men out of the bushes or the lake for months afterwards; the nudist equivalent of Jap soldiers who were unaware the war was over.

Who knows, one day when climate change has made our little island a tropical paradise, perhaps Hampton Uncaught will rise from the ashes, and we English will proudly unfetter our tackle and  show the world exactly what we are made of again.