Coming Unwrapped

There are many aspects to Christmas in films and adverts which annoy me. It's always snowing; everyone can sing carols perfectly; nobody wears the stupefied, semi-drunk expression so characteristic of Christmas Day; there's never a vegetarian alternative to a roasted turkey with stuffing up its arse. But one image in particular has an insurmountable gap from reality. The wrapping of the presents.

Picture the scene. There's generally a Caucasian mother and her two Caucasian children. Everyone is smiling. Oftentimes, everyone is laughing. They wrap their presents perfectly and with little effort. The paper is shiny. The bows are immaculate. It looks like fun.

Here's what is always missing from the scene:

a) the initial seventeen hour search for the end of the sellotape

b) the five hour searches for the new end of the sellotape after each strip is cut off

c) the moment when you fail to get the sellotape exactly parallel with the end of the paper, meaning half of it is wasted

d) the realisation that the section of paper you've cut off is just too small to cut the present properly

e) the times when the sellotape takes on a life of its own, whizzes through the air and sticks to your coffee table

f) the Dilemma of the Ends: do you stick them up as well (meaning the present is impossible to unwrap) or leave them flapping loose (meaning the present looks crap)

g) the cussing

Wrapping presents is never fun. Wrapping presents is grim work. It involves a medium designed to be written on and nothing else; and another which most of us have otherwise abandoned, for good reason, once we stopped trying to build Blue Peter models. It also requires the human race to evolve about five more hands apiece. I don't know who first devised this grisly concept. But I suspect it was somebody with the secret agenda of making us hate Christmas. (See also: late night shopping; jokes in crackers; Cliff Richard). In fact, I bet all Bah Humbugs, from Scrooge to the Grinch, were committed Yuletide-philes until they started to wrap their presents. I will develop this theory further in an essay entitled 'Twas The Night Before Christmas And All Through The House Not A Sound Could Be Heard Except The Tearing Of Paper And A Loud Swearword.'

The ASBO Chorus

Lying awake at 6am, having been wrenched from happy dreams by the dawn chorus, I decided – No, I'll be precise here. Staggering around in a sleep-deprived daze the next day, mind wandering at random, I decided the following. The dawn chorus is the equivalent of a night club. The attendees kick up a hell of a racket at anti-social hours in the hope of copulating.

I know what people say about bird song. I agree with them too. Bird song can be sublime, heavenly, enchanting. Nonetheless, it is all about bonking. Human tunes can be sublime, heavenly and enchanting too, and most of them are also to do with bonking. I've often wondered why a great majority of our songs are obsessed with love and the attending actions. Perhaps we are unconsciously just mimicking the birds.

We do so in very few other fields. It is frequently said that today's society is highly sexualised. Perhaps compared to the Victorian era; but next to the animal kingdom it is a wet Sunday in Grimsby. And the most debauched, libidinous societies in history cannot match up to, say, the average duck pond. Animals are motivated by two things only: food and sex. That's pretty much it. When they have eaten they want to breed. When they're not eating or breeding they're stopping others humping 'their' partners. They devise elaborate territorial patterns, intricate feathers or furs and, of course, beautiful songs – and it's all about sex. Whereas we have denigrated and marginalised it. A raft of new desires have been created. Sex is either shut into private compartments or defined as perverse.

I quite like the dawn chorus, when the damn thing isn't waking me at some ungodly time. (Dawn, I suppose). But it's amusing how a breed so prudish about sex has treated this shameless display of libido. It's seen as heavenly and put in the same twee category as a sunset or a teardrop. In fact it's a bunch of blokes sat in a hedge bellowing “Shag me! I'm great!” If humans tried it, the police would scoop them up quicker than you can say “Anti-social behaviour order.”

Name, Rank and Serial Number

I learned one interesting thing from the trial of Keith Owen, phoney egg retailer. Owen has just been convicted for what must be a very tempting crime. He sold eggs to supermarkets claiming they came from free range hens eating proper grain. In fact, of course, they were from battery creatures gorging chemicals. Owen was given three years in prison and forced to return his £3m profits. What I didn't learn, incidentally, was to whom he gave the money. The government, most likely. the supermarkets possibly. Almost certainly not the customers who paid mark-up prices for his eggs believing the originators bore the fripperies, like feathers and beaks, denied to caged hens.

But what I did learn was how the authorities try to prevent scams like Owen's. Every single egg in Britain is apparently stamped with a unique serial number. Every single egg. And if you have the right databases you can track down the farm where each was laid, the conditions, possibly even the actual mother. Looking at the three eggs left in my fridge, the numbers on two are too smudged to be legible. But here we are on the third: 1UK13714-B/B 18Mar. So with a few phone calls I might be able to find out which chicken squeezed this out of her nether regions.

I'm almost tempted to try. To write a letter of thanks, perhaps, if the egg is particularly good. Or one of complaint if it has annoying features like a thick inner skin, pointing out that the art of cooking eggs is a precise one and the slightest deviation can be disastrous. Maybe, though, I should be apologising to the poor hen, free range though she is. After all, when she laid this egg she must have thought she was giving birth to a son or daughter, the next in the new generation of her proud family. When in fact she was just supplying me with lunch. Not even that: part of a lunch. Together with another thwarted attempt at chicken procreation and some noodles, whose own hopes and dreams are unknown.

To London To See The Queen

Well, not exactly. To see my friend Cara actually, who may or may not enjoy being called a queen. And certainly not to see Queen: The Musical, though I enjoyed the bombastic Freddie Mercury statue which some lunatic has erected over the theatre doors. I had a very good day out, appreciating as ever London's beauties and architectural vainglory. A few points stuck out:

Our first stop was the British Museum; Cara's first visit, approximately my fifty first. We agreed it was a little like visiting a zoo. It's fantastic seeing the things inside; but the issue of whether they should be there, rather than their homelands, is troubling. The Egyptian rooms, with their monumental statues and columns, reveals looting on a colossal scale. But the heart of the debate is of course the Parthenon a.k.a the Elgin Marbles. The British Museum was considerate enough to give a short explanation of why Greece wants the exhibits back, and why the Museum is sticking onto them. For the first time, though, I noticed that the cards next to many of the headless statues declared “Head in Athens.” Is this part of a slow compromise? One decade all the heads are returned, the next all the left feet, and so on? Or did Lord Elgin do a hasty raid, unpack the bullion at home and realise he'd forgotten some small but important details?

Equally inevitable was our visit to the Tate Modern. Star exhibit is currently Miroslaw Balka's How It Is in the Turbine Hall. It is basically a vast crate, open at one end. You can go inside; but there are no windows and no lights. It gets darker and darker as you progress until all you can see are the pale faces of fellow explorers. Still you blunder on, expecting something to happen. So it does, when you collide into the far wall. The bunf says How It Is is an exploration of knowledge and uncertainty: do you walk into the unknown or retreat towards the familiar? Cara remarked that is shows modern art's immense capacity for suckering people into doing anything. Even walking through an unlit crate until you hit a wall. Other exhibits included a colossal dining table and chairs, and a film of a masked boxer hitting himself in the face then rubbing his genitals. For sheer entertainment, the Tate Modern is better than a day at the circus.

Less uplifting was the walk there. I generally savour the walk along the South Bank from Westminster Bridge to the Tate. There's a fine panorama of buildings across the Thames, some sublime (St Paul's, Somerset House), some grotesque (Portcullis House). The vessels on the river are nicely varied too, with restored navy ships like the HQS Wellington mixing with rusting dredgers and tugs. On the South Bank itself there are treats like Da Kidz Zone under the National Theatre, the graffiti-bedecked ghetto where hoodies try to do flips on their skateboards and fall over, a lot. But the number of Living Statues on the walk has got out of hand. There ought to be a law: only one pink-painted man per five hundred yards. And another: if you're a Living Statue then you're supposed to stand still. Instead, desperate as competition grows, they've started bouncing around and waving at passers-by; and what's the point in spray-painting yourself gold if you're going to do that? Still, I enjoyed the sand sculptures built on one of the Thames' tiny and filthy beaches. A monument to London's artists grabbing the ephemeral and totally bleeding pointless.

On the subject of Living Statues: walking part the Horse Guards Parade, we agreed that these guards had amongst the worst jobs in the world. Imagine having to spend all day totally motionless, not an expression your face, while all around you gurning yahoos prance about photographing themselves next to you. Though The Horse Guards, I thought, have it better than the Beefeaters. At least they can dream of the day when their horse gets restive and kicks some tourist in the knackers. Cara said she couldn't do the job without music, and we decided that their helmets should be redesigned with ear flaps, to conceal the headphones. Still, we conceded, they don't have to actually do anything. They aren't even guarding the buildings any more. Anywhere these toy soldiers are standing to attention with their pikes and sabres, the actual security men will be lurking nearby, submachine guns at the ready. That's the charm of London.

Venus & Olympia

The nude has a long history in Western art. Rampant in ancient Greek and Roman times, it resurfaced in the late fifteenth century. This is fairly surprising considering the restrictions of society at the time. Women's bodies especially were rigidly controlled by religious doctrine. Displaying an ounce more of flesh than was permitted could bring severe punishment. Sex and nudity might have flourished in the unregulated morass of folk tales and ballads. Paintings, though, were censored and often directly commissioned by the church. Priests could condemn a painting for the crime of depicting Biblical characters as real people. (As if believing that anyone in the Bible could actually exist). Yet look what they permitted. The bush, the willy, the whole full-frontal panorama which today would bring immediate banishment to the late-night schedules. There were rules, of course. The nude had to be young, pleasing to the eye. Most of all, she (and it was usually a she) had to be distant. Not contemporary, certainly not Biblical. The reappearance of the nude was part of the Renaissance and she was supposed to remain in the fantasy world of Greek and Roman legends.

The history of the nude is not entirely honerable. The best painters could make her an immediate and plausible figures, allowing the mythical settings to fade into irrelevance. The increasing perfection of the portraits and the meticulous attention to detail was linked to the Renaissance interest in biology. And there is a sensuousness in some works which empowers rather than degrades the subjects. Yet the nude is still invariably part of the old male creator-female formula, with all the corresponding power relations. Rather a lot of artists have taken advantage. A great many nude paintings – and the oeuvre of William Etty springs to mind here – are basically porn. Not always soft porn either. The arch façade of the nude has been used to excuse rape (those unfortunate Sabine women in many works), paedophilia (some of Balthus' dodgier moments) mutilation and snuff. At its crudest, the genre was a painter hiring a local prostitute to pose as Diana and boinking her in the studio afterwards.

Titian may have hired a prostitute too and may even have boinked her. Otherwise, though, his Venus of Urbino is unimpeachable. The mythological title is an irrelevance given to please the censors. This is simply a vivid study of a beautiful young woman. His Venus reclines on a couch, every part of her body a brilliant portrayal of comfort. Her legs cross easily, her heads leans back towards the pillow and her golden hair splays across her shoulders, offsetting her soft pink skin. In the background an older woman is watching a girl rummaging in a chest. An ordinary domestic scene, and its mundaneness emphasises the natural sense of Venus' pose. She has simply dressed as she chose and sees no reason to be embarrassed when we stare in.

Yet the eroticism of the painting can't be denied either. Make what you will of the expression on her placid face – the faintest of smiles, possibly a hint of an invitation? Regardless, our gaze is drawn towards her left hand. On the surface she is just discreetly covering up her private parts. Her fingers are curling inwards, however. Maybe, just maybe, the Venus is starting to masturbate herself. This hint, lying in almost the very centre of the painting, epitomises the whole feel of the work. It is a masterpiece of subtle sensuality; a celebration of a woman perfectly in control of her body, able to present it without humiliating either herself or the viewer. The next two nudes I came across as I flicked through my art books – Francois Boucher's Miss Louise O'Murphy, a courtesan presenting her fat arse for the taking, and Corregio's Jupiter and Io, a woman being raped by a cloud, for God's sake – confirmed how rare a truly erotic nude is.

Three centuries after Titian, the conventions for the nude were still intact. They were especially important to the conservative Royal Salon in France, to whom Manet submitted his Olympia. Olympia was, superficially at least, a deliberate copy of Venus of Urbino – a naked young woman reclining on a couch. But the details which Manet changed and his treatment of the subject make this a very different painting.

Olympia lies as stiffly as Titian's Venus is graceful. One hand clutches a dead bouquet of flowers. A black servant woman is presenting her with a fresh bunch. They give colour to what is almost a monochrome image but they are garish and rather unappealing. An unfriendly black cat arches its back at us; a perennial image of evil. The servant's race is also significant. In the nineteenth century black women were a symbol of, amongst other things, unchecked sexuality; witness the exaggerated buttocks of the Hottentot Venus. And no 'proper' lady at the time would have had a black woman as a personal servant. All the details build a horrible suspicion. This Olympia is not a goddess, she is not even a courtesan. Manet has not just used a prostitute as his model, he has made her his subject. She is a common hooker and the flowers are from her latest john.

And look how she has been painted. Her body is rather scrawny, her pose awkward, her skin pallid and unhealthy. Her eyes are empty and dead. None of the tricks used to portray the third dimension are employed here. She is flat and unnatural, barely more than a blob of paint. In fact, nothing at all has been done to give Olympia beauty, none of the schemes which normally wrap the nude with a spurious respectability. If her vacant expression says anything at all it is: “Tits! That's what you came for, isn't it? Well, here they are. Tits!” There they are, as erotic as a torn-out page of 'Jugs' magazine stuck to a wet pavement in January.

We find it hard now to understand the controversy which Olympia evoked, all the caricatures and criticisms and pure hatred. It wasn't because Olympia was a bare body. It was because she was nothing else. As Gilles Neret said in his excellent book, “Olympia was not a nude; she was naked.” Manet blatantly broke the rules for the nude. Worst than that, he was mocking them. In giving his prostitute the name of a goddess and the pose of a Old Master's beauty, he was implying that all nudes were nothing better than his. Simple porn, the product and satisfaction of male lust. If I was a member of the Royal Salon I would have been outraged too.

Nudes still exist in art today. Thankfully, they very rarely pose as nymphs or goddesses; and they don't have to be Beauty personified. Their bodies have been stretched, distorted, made almost demonic (most memorably in Picasso's Three Dancers). And other women other than the young and perfect are depicted. The most famous in recent years is Lucien Freud's Benefits Supervisor Sleeping, an overweight middle-aged woman presenting herself. The Impressionists dramatically widened the possibilities of art. Manet was their leader; and though Olympia is hardly an Impressionist painting, it has all the movement's daring and invention. With a single painting Manet overturned a centuries-old tradition. Flat, awkward Olympia became the future. For all her beauty, the Venus of Urbino belongs to a remote past.