Julian Assange - those poor Ecuadorians are probably smelling a rat by now

Julian "Stinky" Assange

The media is full of reports that Julian Assange is a bit of a stinker. Not morally – his behavioural deficiencies couldn’t be more obvious – but literally. He is, apparently, somewhat careless about personal hygiene. Which suggests that if the British government were to leave him holed up long enough, the Ecuadorian embassy would eventually throw him out into the street and call in the fumigators for a top-of-the-range de-whiffing session.

Of course, I don’t smell. Let me modify that claim. I am pretty sure – because I’ve asked my nearest and dearest and they don’t normally spare my feelings – that my breath is usually neutral, my feet don’t smell and the rest of me passes muster, even in abnormally hot weather. I never use deodorants (that strikes me as cheating, and I have sensitive skin), but I take all the other standard precautions – twice-daily teeth-brushing, daily change of shirt, underwear and socks (apart, I’ll admit, from trouserings, but these get changed long before they’re capable of standing up on their own). I’m not proud about not usually smelling bad – I hate feeling dirty. Besides, I like to feel that I have consideration for others.

I remember, years ago, working as part of a team, one of whose members almost invariably smelt disgusting. The reason for this wasn’t that hard to discern – you could see the dirt in the creases on his face, and we used to keep count of how many days in a row he’d wear the same shirt. We weren’t digging ditches – we were making TV programmes, and part of this chap’s job was to interview people face to face and involved spending hours in small, sweaty cubicles with video editors and reporters. I remember meeting one defence correspondent – an impeccably well-mannered Englishman – looking distinctly distressed as he fled the VT suite in which he’d been ensconced with Mr. Smelly for at least an hour. “Does that man ever wash?” he demanded angrily as he headed upstairs for some fresh air.

We sent a delegation to our programme editor to ask if someone couldn’t have a word with the polecat. “I know he has a problem,” the editor said. “But, I mean, I just… couldn’t.” Needless to say, the Human Sewer was the scourge of smokers. “I have asthma,” he’d wheedle, just like Steptoe’s dad. I suspect the truth was that his respiratory system was occasionally overwhelmed by his own obnoxious stench.

This chap was married, with kids. Why, we used to wonder as we nursed our post-transmission beers, didn’t his family say anything? How could his kids sit on his knee without clutching their hooters and shouting “Whoa, dude!” How could his wife kiss him without gagging?

Now, it’s possible – just – that the chap I’m talking about never realised that he was regularly making people’s stomachs do a back-over flip. But famous people can now read about their hygiene failings online (yes, I mean you as well, Bill Gates) and you really would imagine sheer embarrassment would encourage them to turn their armpits into charmpits, and to apply the knowledge gained from that most subtle of all TV advertising slogans, “These odour-eaters really are… ODOUR-EATERS!” (“My Bill’s a sweet guy, but his shoes smell like he pooped in them” – well, something like that anyway).

By the way, I absolve – partly – politicians and suchlike who have problems with bad breath. Missing meals and having to talk a lot can cause halitosis: there are lots of things to take to counteract it these days, but let’s cut them some slack. What I can’t forgive is people in Western society who have to spend a lot of time in close proximity with others and yet can’t be bothered to bathe or shower and change their tops, underwear and socks at least once a day. How hard can it be? 

Anyway, good luck to those poor Ecuadorians. Perhaps we should send them in some anti-chemical warfare equipment – or a tent so they could isolate Julian Asswipe on the embassy roof.