A FAMOUS GROUSE
SO long, then, to the world’s greatest ever bachelor-guy, a man-child who, in the crusty silk pyjamas he’d worn for the last half-century, has shuffled off this mortal coil at the age of 91, a libertine to the last.
A giant of our age has indeed fallen and, as you’d imagine, there has been much animated discussion here at the Mahogany Ridge on the legacy and cultural impact of Hugh Hefner, founder of the Playboy empire and, because that was the kind of guy he was, the personal embodiment of its louche “philosophy”.
The barmaid, for one, is not impressed and thinks it risible that he’s regarded as some sort of pioneer of the pants department. “If there was a sexual revolution,” she suggests, “then he was its Stalin, a monster who grew rich off the bodies of women.”
But then she would say that, for she is a young person and has adopted the fashionable position that Hefner and his publication were crude, adolescent, exploitative and anachronistic rather than crusaders against social intolerance and priggishness.
It is perhaps odd that there should be such vehemence in these parts. When South Africans were finally allowed to read the thing in South Africa, Playboy was a mere shadow of its former red-blooded and virile self.