London Calling.
London Walks connecting.
This is London. This is London Walks. Streets Ahead.
Story time. History time.
London has seen some sights.
It has seen plague pits.
It has seen public executions.
It has seen riots.
It has seen kings lose their heads and pickpockets gain a living.
It has seen the Great Fire.
It has seen the Blitz.
It has seen drunken Members of Parliament staggering out of taverns long after they should have known better.
Frankly, not much shocks London.
And yet.
On this day, June 18th, 1822, London got the vapours.
Because London was confronted by something truly alarming.
A naked man.
Well, not an actual naked man.
A statue.
A bronze statue.
But still.
Naked.
The scandalous object in question was Achilles, the mighty Greek hero, unveiled in Hyde Park.
And London lost its collective mind.
Now Achilles was no obscure figure. This was the greatest warrior of the ancient world. The chap who spent the Trojan War piling up military victories the way some people collect postage stamps. If Hollywood had existed in ancient Greece, Achilles would have had his own franchise, lunch boxes and action figures.
But none of that mattered.
What mattered was that Achilles was starkers. Apart from his shield, which he was holding up like a parasol. The statue had been commissioned to honour the Duke of Wellington and his victory over Napoleon. The money had been raised by a group of aristocratic ladies who admired Wellington enormously.
One can only imagine the conversation.
“What shall we give the Duke to celebrate defeating Napoleon?”
“A splendid monument.”
“Excellent. What sort?”
“A giant naked man.”
“Perfect.”
The statue was based on classical models. To artists and connoisseurs it made perfect sense. Ancient heroes were often depicted in the nude. It was a way of celebrating physical perfection, courage and noble virtues.
To a good many Londoners, however, it looked suspiciously like somebody had planted a very large naked gentleman in one of the capital’s most popular parks.
People flocked to see it.
Not necessarily because they appreciated classical art.
For exactly the same reason people slow down to stare at a minor car accident.
Curiosity.
And perhaps a touch of mischief.
The newspapers had a field day.
Moral guardians spluttered.
Respectable citizens complained.
There was much harrumphing.
A great deal of tutting.
Quite a lot of indignation.
Which, as every Londoner knows, is one of London’s favourite leisure activities.
Now before anybody starts imagining Achilles as some sort of bronze Adonis who left London speechless, a little perspective is required.
It wasn’t that Achilles was unusually well equipped.
Quite the opposite.
By the standards of classical sculpture he was perfectly respectable.
The problem, as far as many Londoners were concerned, was that he appeared to be equipped at all.
That was enough.
The objections became so loud that eventually a compromise had to be found.
And here we arrive at one of the great moments in the history of British embarrassment.
A fig leaf was added.
Imagine the meeting.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the capital is in uproar.”
“Good heavens.”
“What do you suggest?”
“We could cover the offending area with a large bronze leaf.”
“Splendid idea. That should settle the matter.”
And apparently it did.
Or at least enough of it.
Only in Britain could a nation that had defeated Napoleon solve a cultural crisis by attaching a leaf to a statue.
The whole episode tells us something rather wonderful about London.
The city likes to think of itself as worldly, sophisticated and impossible to shock.
But every now and then London reveals another side.
A side that blushes.
A side that coughs politely and looks away.
A side that pretends not to notice.
It is the same London that would later become famous for its prudery.
The same London that could rule a global empire while becoming deeply troubled by the sight of an exposed ankle.
The Victorians usually get the blame for this sort of thing.
But this happened before Victoria even came to the throne.
The truth is that Londoners have always been wonderfully contradictory.
Adventurous and cautious.
Bold and prudish.
Worldly and provincial.
Sometimes all before breakfast.
And here’s the really amusing thing.
If you go to Hyde Park today, hardly anybody gives Achilles a second glance.
Joggers jog past.
Cyclists cycle past.
Tourists photograph squirrels.
Children chase pigeons.
The statue that once caused outrage now attracts little more than a shrug.
The scandal has faded.
The fig leaf remains.
Which somehow feels exactly right.
Because London changes.
What shocks one generation barely raises an eyebrow in the next.
And what seems perfectly ordinary today will probably leave our descendants shaking their heads in disbelief.
Though I suspect even they will admire the sheer Britishness of the solution.
A fig leaf.
Not a revolution.
Not a parliamentary inquiry.
Not a manifesto.
A leaf.
A very large bronze leaf.
Problem solved.
At least until the next thing came along for London to complain about.
Which, being London, probably took about ten minutes.
And that’s it for today.
Time-travelled you back 204 years to the day.
June 18th, 1822.
A London wild card if there ever was one. A bit of London trivia you can wow your friends with. And maybe cause them to worry just a little bit about the mental realms you frequent.
The day London encountered its first public nude statue.
The day Hyde Park became the scene of a great outbreak of embarrassment.
And the day Achilles, hero of the ancient world, discovered that defeating the Trojans was easy.
Surviving London’s busybodies was the real challenge.
See you tomorrow.