Of Scope Magazine, folk dancing and anacondas

Before I moved to Europe, an enthusiastic traveler promised me: “In Sweden anything goes”.

This rumour probably originated when Hollywood directors started to use stunning blond Swedish film actresses in femme fatale roles. They were favoured above stunning blond German film actresses because they shaved their armpits.

“Anything goes” doesn't apply to South Africa. Especially not during the years when Nelson Mandela was still in jail. In those days nobody really knew what nipples looked like. If you were married you probably had seen one pair, unless your wife preferred to have the lights switched off on Saturday nights. If desperate, you could travel to KwaZulu-Natal, where the ladies walked around topless and will likely continue to do so until the next ice age reaches subtropical Africa. These ladies had nipples in various shades of black. If black was not your favourite colour, you would have to resort to a farm with suckling pigs. There you would encounter plenty of pink ones.

Most people in the country thought nipples came in the shape of black squares. I saw plenty of them from paging through my father's Scope Magazines. There you could see delectable ladies with black squares pasted over their regions of interest. According to the then reigning morality act the exposure of nipples could lead to unspeakable sins. You could still see the naked lady minus the nipples and therefore Scope was the best sold magazine except for Huisgenoot and Farmers Weekly. Playboy was completely forbidden and was just a twinkle in the eye.

Once, the censors of Scope Magazine forgot about the law of reflection. A busty model sat in front of her golden framed mirror. One could see her honey coloured back, and in the mirror, a glimpse of her one erect nipple. All hell broke loose and the readers of that month's copy were doomed to a certain death and an eternity spent in hell.

Some people were lucky and had contacts in the underworld. When a friend of mine moved to London, he asked me to store his collection of two hundred blue movies. He kept them in strict alphabetical order, starting with “Animal Farm” and ending with “Zululand does Debbie”. It was an offer that I couldn't refuse.

Oscar Wilde said “Try everything once except incest and folk dancing”, so armed with a big packet of salt and vinegar chips and a glass of Sauvignon Blanc I started to work my way through the collection. The first thing I noticed was that unlike popular belief, George Orwell didn't write the screenplay of “Animal Farm”. I worked my way through "The Empire Strikes from the Back", “Lawrence of a Labia” and “One came over a Cuckoos Nest”. The wine was finished by then and I didn't quite make it to Z. I fell asleep somewhere after S with “Sperms of Endearment” starring Wild Oscar.

When night fell in Croatia at the clothing optional holiday resort, it was time to look around for some night life. On the premises were a few clubs. One with the name of “Anaconda” seemed like the safest option. I always thought that anacondas were only native to tropical South America, but it seemed like they were found in Croatia as well and not all of the reptile family.

On entering I paid the fee which included access to a fully stocked self service bar. The proprietor showed me around until we ended up in an indoor garden where he pointed towards a large cage. “Do you like animals” he asked. In the semi darkness I saw a curled up snake. It was lying still, minding it's own business. However, the night was just a puppy and by midnight I knew that Sweden was not the only country where anything goes.