If you were out in a pub, supping on a pint and nibbling away at some nuts, when a group of girls strolled onto a stage, and removed all their clothing – minus a pair of knickers and some nipple tassels, would you consider that ‘art’, or just stripping?
On the 28th July, around 100 burlesque ‘dancers’ barged their way onto the streets of Camden – a place already festooned with the biggest amount of pricks per square mile than anywhere else in London, and protested over a new ruling by the Council which classed them along with strippers and lap dancers. I’d be offended by that new ruling too – especially were I a stripper or a lap dancer and being compared with such talentless cunts.
I’ve got nothing against burlesque per se – I understand it’s a way for extremely average looking girls to try and gain some false self esteem whilst lining their pockets with bearded perverts hard earned cash, but it’s far more sordid than people initially think. Yeah, it might be a bit of harmless titillating fun when you’re first watching these ridiculous people roll down some £2.50 stockings, but when you actually think about it, how can anyone be thrilled by this? In fact, where is the thrill at all?
Call me a fool, call me an idiot, call me a charade, but the only difference between a burlesque dancer and a stripper is that a burlesque dancer practically pleads with the crowd as they’re about to take their ill-fitting corset off, whereas a stripper just does it with no faux shyness, and no fake sense of grandeur. “Please accept me!” a burlesque dancer thinks in their head as they run through their routine frequently motioning to the crowd to whoop and cheer to make it seem that they’re not just taking their clothes off to a baying mob of fools in cowboy hats, and women in ripped tights. Isn’t it all just a little bit pathetic?
Maybe I’m wrong, maybe I just have no sense of fun or spontaneity (I’d disagree on both points – I’ve just created a baby elephant from a balloon whilst scratching my balls with a crayon) or maybe the whole tawdry business of burlesque is one that deserves to stay in the gutter along with a Chlamydia-ridden forty year old stroking her saggy tits for a group of coked up businessman, or a sexually abused teenage girl pole dancing for crack.
It’s all just disturbing cheers to excuse the nudity, when it comes down to it I’m a nineteen year old with a slightly paedo beard paying to watch girls strip masquerading as feminism. The purity of Motown mixed with the crassness of burlesque – when I put on my glasses to watch the show I feel as dirty as a pig in seven kinds of shit. So Camden Council was right, and their step down reeks of the same guff that emanates from a Burlesque dancers mouth as they try and justify their filth. If they just admitted they were nothing more than paid sluts I’d appreciate that and probably give them a pat on the back, but alas they don’t.
How many burlesque dancers does it take to change a light bulb? A hundred. One to change the light bulb, and ninety-nine to complain that they’re not sluts. Really they’re not – they wear tassels you know!