Fruits Of The Bodice

Sometimes when you're reading a book, you come upon a sentence that was so enjoyable to read that you pause to re-read it, allowing the words to sink in and work their spell on the imagination, fully picturing the scene in your mind.

He regarded the delicate lines of her profile, and the small, tight, apple-like convexities of her bodice, so different from Arabella's amplitudes.

Obviously i was reading Thomas Hardy's Jude The Obscure, these words describing the comparison in Jude's mind between his beloved, unattainable Sue Bridehead and his estranged wife, the busty country wench, Arabella.

The lusty poet within me wonders whether 'tis better to cherish the sweet apples of virtuous maidenhood or the sun-ripened melons of earthy womanhood...both options certainly require a great deal of musing over.

My own cogitations lead me to draw the conclusion that Arabella had a bigger bum too but i cannot provide literary evidence to substantiate this; Jude was plainly a boobs man and the relative merits of their respective backsides counted for little with him, which is a great shame.

Naughty Nurse Roxy.

Roxy Mitchell teasingly dressed as a naughty nurse...a dream come true if ever there was one.

Watching Roxy in Eastenders is always one of my very favourite pastimes but in tonights episode she briefly strutted across the screen dressed in a saucy little pink nurses uniform complete with matching stockings and suspenders.

My eyes boggled, my blood pressure soared and my feverish imagination completely ran amok.

The scene itself only lasted a matter of seconds but the image simply refuses to fade away and leave me in peace...i thought she looked absolutely ravishing in that tarty little wedding dress when she was a blushing bride not so long ago but she looked even tastier tonight, making me ravenous for more.

Oh to be one of the scriptwriters on that show...dreaming up ever more wicked costumes and scenarios for the delicious Rita Simons (aka Roxy) to torture and enthrall the poor male viewer as he sits unassumingly on the sofa after a hard days work, little knowing that his pulse-rate is about to go through the ceiling.

I soon began to feel quite poorly and was plainly in desperate need of the kind of medical attention that she obviously had in mind for her new doctor friend and although i might have a million thoughts drifting through my head at any given time, suddenly i could only think of one thing...lovely Naughty Nurse Roxy, that wondrous vision of heavenly temptation, a flirtatious tease surely sent from the Gods above.

Eastern Promise.

As dreamy fantasies go, i've always thought those glamorous old ads for Fry's Turkish Delight took some beating, subsequently setting the tone for my own unattainable daydreams and loosening my grip on dreary reality at an early age whilst impressing me with their delightfully exotic imagery.

What a vivid impression they made on me back then because they had it all: a rare ruby-centred treat that tasted as if it were made in heaven (far too good to be a mere sweet), an enigmatic female who was beautiful, enchanting and said nothing, endless moonlit sand dunes and a charging Valentino-esque hero on horseback.

As the hero wildly dashed, the dusky beauty just stood there...and looked...she didn't need to do anything else, just stand there and look.

Sultry in her silence, letting her eyes do the talking, a mysterious unspeaking seductress with countless secrets to be explored but divulging none of them...only hinting, only looking...looking at me with such expressive eyes that they needed no words:

I am the unknown girl of your wildest dreams, desirable daughter of the desert, come here at your fervent heart's plea, seeking you out beneath the burning crimson moon this solitary night because your soul calls to my own, your senses urging my caress, your passion a flare inciting those within myself...and because i know you're fond of a nibble at bedtime.

Vicars & Tarts.

The very first Vicars & Tarts party was held in 1849, passing almost unnoticed in a sleepy shires backwater as a gathering of upstanding Reverends and some notorious trollops of the surrounding parishes congregated to debate their polarised opinions on love and life.

The dusty old clerics no doubt entertained grand designs regarding the salvation of these fallen angels but they quickly discovered that no man, however righteous or moralistic, was a match for seductively fluttering eyelashes, dangerously straining corsets or an intoxicated wiggle.

One of the attending vicars' diaries, of which only hastily-scribbled fragments remain, dwelt upon such mysterious topics as those mischievous ladies of the night and their deliciously wobbly puddings, which was followed with an unfathomable ejaculation regarding that succulent, devils gateway, lying 'twixt the fairest of thighs whence all men become drawn and are ruined.

Personally, i've never been invited to a Vicars & Tarts evening (which i consider to be a gross deficiency in my education) and have often wondered whether the Tarts do indeed get the upper hand or if the clergymen finally persuade the young ladies concerned to repent and see the error of their wanton ways.

Should i ever receive such an invite, a dilemma would soon present itself: whether to side with the good Fathers like a meek village parson or simply follow my natural course and swear allegiance to the stocking & suspender clad strumpets, smiling quiet encouragement as bras are unhooked and knickers adorn the ankles.

Dagenham Diva.

I've been falling a little more in love each week with Stacey Solomon, already the last woman left in X Factor and she finally chose Queen Week to turn on the afterburners and blow all the other contestants away with a stunning performance of Who Wants To Live Forever which i thought was nothing short of magnificence.

Watching her perform is a genuinely pleasing and highly addictive delight.

Every weekend i eagerly await her next turn beneath the spotlight but have never been more impressed than i was this week...she just gets better and better.

Who will go next is now anybody's guess after the disgraceful elimination of talented and lovely Lucie Jones last week but i dearly hope Stacey survives until the final because the show really would not be worth the effort of watching without her sparkling presence.

She also gets more sexy and beautiful each time she appears as her confidence grows and her undoubted talent shines ever brighter until the thought of a saturday night without sweet Stacey, our delectable Dagenham Diva, sends a dark shiver through my soul.

The Rumpfynder-General.

Delving through yet more dusty and long-forgotten family archives, i uncovered the centuries old tale of a particularly infamous ancestor of mine who apparently held the position of The King's Rumpfynder-General, a most noble and prestigious post which entailed many sacred duties in the service of his beloved monarch.

Deeply devoted to his work, my illustrious predecessor would travel far and wide along narrow country lanes and city thoroughfares, stopping only to inspect and assess the young ladies he so tirelessly sought, never once thinking of himself but only of his royal charge to seek out only the most pleasingly rounded and peachlike of olde England's bottoms for the King's delight.

His mouldering old manuscripts reveal that he held this enviable station in life for many years, in the course of which time he must have examined, felt and probably slapped thousand upon thousand pert posteriors and buxom backsides, all in the name of selfless servitude and a desire to please his master...surely this was a happy life indeed.

He was highly revered and whenever he rode into some leafy hamlet, the locals would eagerly thrust their prettiest womenfolk forward for his careful perusal, holding great feasts and drinking toasts in his honour whenever he eventually nodded his approval and carried the rosy-cheeked wench away with him.

Upon some reflection, i like to think that i may have inherited some of his discerning genes and unrivalled wisdom of the rump, that i may personally aspire to such great appreciation of the female form and perhaps to personally feast my eyes upon such innumerable examples of maidenly bums as did my noble forefather, it's just a shame that the job wasn't hereditary.

Secret Crush.

One of lifes more exasperating situations is to be made fully aware that somebody has a secret crush on you but to be completely unaware of their actual identity which happened to me whilst still a youthful schoolboy and after thirty-odd years i can still recall the sense of bewilderment and frustration quite clearly...it was both baffling and enormously infuriating.

Coming in one evening, my grandfather remarked that he'd bumped into an old aquaintance earlier who had asked You're Sean's grandad, aren't you?

It transpired that this womans daughter was a classmate of mine and apparently had a major crush on me at the time, with her conversations always beginning, Guess what Sean said today...Guess what Sean did today...

It became crystal clear that the girl was utterly besotted.

You may well imagine my elation and delight at receiving such unexpected and welcome news, but sadly this happy state of mind was indeed most cruelly short-lived for my grandfather had evidently known this woman for many years but couldn't recall either her christian nor surname.

Over the ensuing weeks, i tried without success to discover my secret admirers identity but not one of the girls in my class displayed the least symptoms at all of swooning, blushing or going all giggly when i was near.

And there ends the sad little tale; the riddle remained forever unsolved and the young girls love, whoever she was, remained forlorn and unrequited so to whom it may concern, i'm sorry but you really should have told me!

Orange-Blossom Angel.

Nicola Roberts has long since cast aside the unkind and grossly inaccurate tag as The Ugly Duckling of Girls Aloud, the stunningly beautiful, flame-haired singer, above all others makes me thankful the ginger gene is alive and well to provide a spark of passion and fire amidst an ocean of blondes and brunettes, variety being the spice of life and Nicola being a longstanding not-so-secret crush of mine.

She has blossomed into an absolute Goddess as her confidence and self-assurance grows with each passing day until she comfortably surpasses the sirens surrounding her in that most delectable of girl bands, her unique allure shining forth like a beacon that puts even her divine colleagues into the shade.

The girl is quite simply drop-dead gorgeous, wonderfully stylish and a hypnotic magnet to the eye...a veritable orange-blossom angel.

When watching a Girls Aloud video, i may think Cheryl looks ravishing, Nadine desirable, Kimberley appealing and Sarah inviting but it is always upon the heavenly Nicola that my gaze dwells longest and with most relish, she never being anything less than the perfect image of celestial, feminine beauty.

A Gentleman's Private Diary.

Seldom, if ever, do i take the slightest interest in domestic affairs or the household servants, until this morning, that is, when my gentle perusal of the morning paper and quiet breakfast were rudely interrupted by the appearance of our newly appointed young French maid.

She breezed into the room without the slightest self-consciousness or deference to her noble Lord, by which i mean myself, of course, and proceeded to butter my muffins in a manner which caused my limbs to tremble and my hands to shake.

How the blue blazes, i wondered, did such a devilish good-looking young filly aquire the perfect touch of buttering a much respected peer of the realm's muffins? I could already sense the oozing and dripping of the melting butter...

Furthermore, my breath came in gasps and my heart quickened as she presented the morning kippers for my inspection, bending across the table and threatening to burst out of her uniform without further notice.

Her soft hands fondled my teapot so lovingly and with such expertise that i almost felt myself swooning away like an elderly maiden aunt, arousing tumultuous sensations within me that had virtually lain dormant since my boyhood days.

As any gentleman would, i fumbled quietly with my breakfast, pretendng not to notice the lascivious licking of her lips nor the suppressed giggles at my marmalade-and-crumb-ridden moustache and i can only be thankful that my newspaper concealed the true extent of my guilty shame.

Wish You Were Here?

A thought that keeps returning to my mind, every once in a while, is the idea of one day being able to travel back in time to have a holiday wherever and whenever you like. Just to spend a few days in the era and location of your choice would be simply beyond amazing.

There would be many places, people and times in history that i'd love to visit, spend a few days soaking up the atmosphere and getting to know it all so much better than i could simply from reading a book or two.

There will be the week in spend in Tudor times cosied up with some mediaeval strumpet, all bursting bodice, wild hair and fruity laughter...feasting and drinking to my hearts content...a true taste of merry olde England.

Then i'll have a week in Victorian days, strutting about in top hat and looking very severe whilst twirling my finely waxed moustache...flirting politely and very correctly with the well-bred young ladies who blush furiously every time i turn my eye in their direction.

I would also want to see Egypt for myself and i'd book my holiday for the time when Cleopatra was Queen of the Nile, sitting proudly aloof upon her throne and bewitching all who cast eyes upon her with a sultry, majestic beauty.

How i'd love to sail down the Nile with her in the Royal Barge, reclining upon a comfortable couch and allowing her to pop grapes into my waiting mouth whenever she desired. Then, back at the Palace, i'd sit with a goblet of wine as she luxuriated in her bath of asses milk before requesting my presence in the magnificently furnished royal bedchamber...those particular holiday snaps would be well worth seeing.

A Star Is Born.

As you may or may not know, i'm very partial to divas of all varieties and am always pleased to discover new ones to appreciate and admire, which is why i was so pleased to open up my sunday paper yesterday and find an article about The New Katherine Jenkins, a 21-year old London girl who goes by the name of Camilla Kerslake.

In fact, although her good looks and sweet classical voice are bound to draw comparison to the divine Miss Jenkins, Camilla sounds rather more like Hayley Westenra to my ears which is likewise no bad thing at all although i must say that i've only heard a few of her tracks as yet...all of which are excellent and leave the listener hungry for more of the same.

And who do i have to thank for finding this celestial new talent?

Gary Barlow, that's who, the Take That legend who listened to a demo and handed her a recording contract, becoming enthused with her undoubted star quality...and so may i take this opportunity to say, Mr Barlow, thank-you and well done, sir!

Her version of Rule The World (Il Mondo E Nostro) is wonderful and quite outstanding, and to Camilla i'd wish every success and a very long, happy career because i have the feeling that she has a very bright future indeed...i, for one, will certainly be keeping my eyes and ears open for her from now onwards.

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