Liverpool opinions
Scent of a conman - Raising a stink in Liverpool
By John
Williams
George Orwell, a brief visitor to Liverpool, where he labelled the newly built Bullring apartments as 'slums of the air', once said that you could forgive a man anything except halitosis.
He also observed that the working classes would be far more acceptable to the upper and middle classes if only the plebs ceased to reek of body odour. For the fastidious George the revolution would be achieved when the workers ceased to smell of sweat and toil. What would he have made of Patchouli oil?
Georgy boy was writing all this in the 1930's*, and yet, when in the 1990's even the meanest supermarket is likely to stock a range of toiletries ranging from perfumed baby wipes to jasmine scented geriatric sprays, the gap between the rich and the great nu-washed[sic] is wider than ever. Apart from those desperate alcoholics, who rate Old Spice on a par with fine claret, the only people who have gained are the perfumiers.
What a word! Perfumier. I mean, in a world where the lowest Hindu caste, the Harijan, eke out a malodorous existence reeking of shit and shame, perfumiers glide through the world in a haze of self-scented satisfaction. And why shouldn't they? After all they have pulled of the biggest scam since the Romans persuaded their legions that salt was not only good for them but that they should pay for it with their lives, by accepting salary [Latin salt] as, well...their salary.
The scam goes like this. We are all born with our own unique fragrance. However, encouraged by the likes of Georgy boy and a fifty year old mass advertising campaign, that made deviants of anybody that didn't use X brand of soap, we assiduously sponged away our individuality. The poor settled for bottom of the range perfumes and deodourants, thereby falling into another despised category,
"She was wearing cheap perfume your worship" (She must be a whore your worship).
The moderately well off can turn to great perfumiers like Chanel and Yves St Laurent. So one can be in the aromatic vanguard of a fragrant phalanx, if one can afford it. There are scented and streetwise gangs the world over bearing names like The Calvin Klein Mob, (Reds with an Obsession), The Nina Ricci Posse, (Permanently L'air du Temp), The Yves St Laurent Apaches, (left bank Opium addicts) and the Coco Nuts, (Chanel swimmers).
Still, they are not quite rich enough to buy their own individual bouquet, but, and this will incense them, the perfumiers themselves can afford to create their own unique personal essence, and they do. They reside in the Garden of Eden, back to being unique human beings, each redolent of their own sweet savour, and the even sweeter smell of success.
When the perfumiers can re-create the smell of a new born baby, the scent of an autumn frost, or the aroma of a fresh baked bread I'll buy it. Until then I'll stick to soap with, perhaps, the merest hint of Madame Gres Pour L'Homme.