Speaking Personally: Harry Porter prefers soup to sex

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Many, many years ago, there was a wee shop on Commercial Road in Leven, up towards the Post Office, near Mann’s the shop that sold wool, patterns and girly stuff.

But it was other girly stuff we were interested in.

This particular wee shop had yellow transparent blinds, the colour of a Quality Street toffee wrapper, probably to protect the display products from the sun.

These products tended to be ‘razzle’ mags – oh quite tame stuff compared to what can be found on top shelves these days but enticing enough for school lads to press their noses up against the window for a peek at a little stocking top.

Adolescence co-incided with the Page Three girls then the Western world threw open the doors on all that had previously been forbidden and nothing was hidden... if you looked for it.

The internet boom took it all to an entirely new level and that’s where we are today.

Well, nearly.

Because along the way came the film ‘Calendar Girls’ .

Now that not only made (near) nudity acceptable, it put it on walls, ordinary walls, not just garage workshops and the like.

So where Helen Mirren, Julie Walters, Annette Crosbie et al flashed, others were sure to follow – and everyone would surely hoot with laughter?

We’ve had firemen, butchers, WRIs galore, football teams, shop staff etc etc.

Now, at the real risk of being a real prude, I’ve had enough.

My choice of calendars tends to lean towards puffins, nice landscapes or seascapes, or even just big numbers that I can see from a distance.

Much as I want to see East Fife do well in the league I don’t really want to sit down in the morning to my porridge with one of the players grinning at me with only a football covering his... modesty.

Now the Young Farmers’ Club has just launched its take on ‘Meet our members’, all done in the best possible taste and, no doubt, for a worthy cause.

But just like I don’t want footage of an abattoir at work while I have my mince, I don’t want a farmer’s bahookie greeting me when I pop in my toast in the morning.

What is it with the fascination we seem to have with folk almost being naked?

Is this just a British phenomenon?

Maybe it’s just me. I get the heebeejeebies when I see men stripped to the waist in food shops in the summer. There should be a by-law against that.

Or the bikini-clad, suntan-oiled lass sprawled on a picnic table in Elie – I don’t want to put my thermos and meat-paste sandwich down there without it being scrubbed with Dettol.

Then again, grumpiness and disdain of the ‘body beautiful’ probably just comes with getting old.

Like the world-weary businessman who checked into a hotel and later heard a knock at his bedroom door.

There stood a beautiful woman who asked “Would you like some super sex?”

Without hesitating for a second he answered: “I’ll have the soup...”

* Harry Porter writes for the East Fife Mail, Leven