Brel de Jour...

Hi Swipesters,

We here at Swipe Towers can't contain our excitement at having procured a sneak preview of the blog that's about to set the www on fire. It's sexy, it's innovative and it positively reeks of moules marinieres. Please, give up your hearts and incomes to:

BREL DE JOUR: DIARY OF A BRUSSELS CHANTEUR

dimanche 29 février
Last night I dreamt about

dead mussels,
a pregnant, dwarf-eared rabbit being stewed in Chimay,
giant moustaches called Adolphus flying over Utrecht.


Then I was lying in bed with a grizzled old whore who wore too much makeup and smelt of haddock, blancmange and beeswax. We made love like lemmings in mid air, spiralling through the ether, falling, ever falling down the cliffside, plunging towards the jagged, splintered rocks until, just as I was about to come to my climax, I died.

I woke up with a headache. What can it all mean?


// posted by brel @ 3:28 PM



jeudi 26 février
I've had so many women - I lost count at 7,476. After a bit of time passes it can be difficult to remember how, why, when you liked someone - if at all - and nice to revisit it from a safe distance. Sometimes as far as several thousand kilometres. The girl with no breasts I felt up in the public swimming pool at Schaarbeek when I was 15. The relationship at school that ended because of her aversion to mussels - although I suppose, looking back, she had a point. I suppose the shells are a bit sharp. The much older woman whose skill in manipulating my body was as funny as it was frightening - I had never been folded in half before. I can still lace my boots with my teeth to this day, you know. As long as there's not too much damp in the air and I haven't eaten any sausage. Curse this lumbago. Then I recall the first time with someone I can still think of fondly, someone I fell quickly and hard for, and the thousand or so times we were together after that, and the last time with her too. Christ, that Pam Ayres was some woman.

The few whom I could not get enough of - Danielle Steele, Nana Mouskourri, Brenda Blethyn, Blossom from Eastenders, Wim Jonk. The way they smelled - haddock, carp, bloater, with a soupcon of emery board. The way they felt - like farting in a vat of linseed oil. Or tasted - mushy peas sprinkled with Ovaltine. The number of times I was with the Special Girl and wished she would just shut up and fuck me already, bec[a]use I had never come with anyone that way, ever - apart from Clodagh Rodgers, of course. But she kept on and on reciting the shipping forecast for the whole of 1957 until I had to bludgeon her with a kipper. The times sex felt as much like appearing on Celebrity Who Wants to be a Millionaire as a spiritual calling. And how those moments kept me going for weeks afterward, like mussels dotting the cord of our moribund relationship.

These are nice, these little sketches of people I have enjoyed. It passes the time while I'm having a dump.
// posted by brel @ 1:13 PM


Love on ya,

Bob

[Originally posted by Robert Swipe, 16.08.2009]

Islamofascists - an Apology...

Hi Popsters,

And before I get on to the proper apology, apologies for the delayed post. I was briefly detained and unable to break away from the free-porn and caviar kindly laid on for me by the British tax payer (thanks again Human Rights Convention - where would we be without you?) to blurb my daily blog. Still, there are worse ways to spend a day than encsconced in a warm cell with The New Age Harlot and a fellow jihadist for company. Belmarsh: What's all the fuss about?

Anyway, with typical Swipean duh-ness, I have, as we used to say in the valleys, got it all completely arse about tit again, haven't I? You'll remember my pathetic rantings at Home Office Mistress Hazel Bleeeeeuuuugggghhh the other day? OK, well, seems I've goosed up badly again. It's been revealed today that among the men suspected of attempting to overthrow western liberal democracy is one who, for some reason best known only to himself, goes only by the name of 'P'.

[Paragraph break inserted - Bob's lapsed into bad old ways again, it seems - M.S.]


Now, 'P' suffers the grave misfortune of being a double amputee. Consequently, far from being a militant jihadist who will not rest until he has eradicated the infidel and brought our legal system into line with that of the 7th century Caliphate, he is instead someone who just needs that little extra help and understanding from the rest of us. Yes, he is a disabled and, as anyone who has travelled on the London Underground of late will know, he is not some hideous monster from the depths of a 19th century gothic horror story, but a useful and valued member of society (provided he doesn't want to get off the train anywhere between Ealing Broadway and Stratford, of course, in which case he is a "how are we going to get that bloody thing up all those flights of stairs?"-type nuisance) So, under new Disability discrimination legislation, he is due to be released in a Care in the Community style gesture aimed at integrating the limbless, hate-fuelled Islamofascist community into mainstream society which is, of course, to be warmly welcomed by us all.

Under the provision of the act, 'P' will be allowed special access to buses via a ramp that will invariably not work and the operation of which will necessitate a variety of impatient watch-checking/heavy sigh responses from driver and passengers alike. Once on board the bus, 'P' will be able, to remonstrate with any passengers who appear younger than him about how they have no respect, should be ashamed of themselves and aren't they blind, he has a disability don't you know and how they should bring back the birch for people like you etc. etc. until the bus finally reaches its destination. Whilst his seven children, all of whom are under ten and verbally incontinent, are allowed to run unsupervised along the length and breadth of the vehicle, kicking fellow passengers and smearing mucus on the seats at every turn, 'P' will turn on his cap-with-a-built-in-radio- receiver and treat those journeying with him to interminable renditions of 'I'm" a Barbie girl, in a Barbie world'. In between verses 'P' will be permitted to grab the handles on the doors of the bus and needlessly slam them together in a violent fashion, causing much alarm to his fellow passengers, and forcing the driver to allow him to alight from the bus at an unauthorized spot - in flagrant contravention of the Highway regulations and to much alarm from other motorists.

[See above]

Once he has disembarked, 'P' will join colleagues outside the nearest tube station where he will sit on a disgusting, vomit stained tartan blanket swigging from a can of Tennents Super and shouting things like, "Arf geddang bazzflipp shazzbolad reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeem ker" until he is arrested by the constabulary and detained at Her Majesty's pleasure under HARSH NEW TERROR LAWS. Finally, after much cost to the tax payer and and enormous repair bill for TFL, he will be deported back to the place of birth described on his forged passport and locked up, gagged and bound, in a very small [space? Cell?] at the expense of the Algerian tax payer. Keep up the good work, Hazel!


[Originally posted by Robert Swipe, 12.08.2009]

Bob continues picking the scab of Islamic integration (or the lack thereof). The theme is further explored in the following August posts; Carole Kirkwood - a national disgrace, Jihadist bags sexiest lwayer [sic] in the world, and Cack-handed b******s complain of 'alientaion', but this is probably the most successful of such posts. The conflation of terrorism with those other horrifying elements of modern urban existence - street alcoholics, care in the community mentalists, the ordinary, everyday anti-social with no officially sanctioned excuse for their mentalism - and the evident glee with which he delineates the hypocrisy of the liberal establishment makes this one of Bob's most successful satirical posts. In short, it's a terrifyingly accurate depiction of travelling on London Transport in the early part of the 21st Century.



xxx

Mort

Kaplinsky Watch...

No. 127: Thursday 4th August, 2005

Attire: Purple blouse, black slacks

Shoes: Not visible (sling-backs feared)

Hair: 4.5 on the PCMS (Post-coital/Mussing Scale)

Demeanour: Crabby/Listless.


More tomorrow.

Kaplinsky watch is a non-profit organisation which aims to outlaw this barbaric and pointless sport.

Bob

[Originally posted by Robert Swipe, 04.08.2005]

Bob's beginning to hit stride now. The first 'classic' Swipe serial, Kaplinsky Watch was a handy addition to the blogger's armoury: if in doubt, Kaplinsky it became the Swipe rallying cry. August 2005 marks the begiining of The Robert Swipe Show proper. This month saw an astonishing *50* posts as Bob discovers the quickfire, line 'em up and knock 'em out approach that came to exemplify Swipe's golden era. The series was inspired by a comment made by Natasha Kaplinsky that she'd had emails from a viewer who kept a meticulous record of how often the breakfast TV presenter wore skirts, and how often trousers. Bob clearly felt this approach didn't go *anywhere* *near* far enough. Here then, dear, gentle reader, is a compendium of Kaplinsky:

Kaplinsky watch: No. 128: Friday 5th August, 2005

Attire: Stiff creme safari number, ( think "Woman at Roger Whittaker" (jodhpurs??) and dwarf Anne Robinson specs (hmm)

Shoes: Ostentatious flip-flops, no socks (real rubies -or [prob] faux?)

Hair: 6.8 on the PCMS (Post-coital/Mussing Scale) Drool/yoghurt traces? [New styling/sickle-like side extensions perhaps]

Demeanour: Unfeasibly frisky.

Smile effort estimate: 15.7 %.

[Originally posted 04.08.2005]

Kaplinsky watch: No 129 Monday, 8th August

Attire: Subtle pinstripe-skirt-suit-type-thing (racy-lacy trim - or exposed under garment? More research needed)

Shoes: Strappy, sluttish. No Crimson disco? Generally preferred with p/s.

Hair: 4.8 on the PCMS (Post-coital/Mussing Scale) Has acquired hairbrush? More research required [No styling mousse. Running late?]

Demeanour: Smug, shag serene.

Smile effort estimate: 0.7 % (Still buzzing? Ball bearings?)


[Originally posted 08.08.2005]

Kaplinsky watch: No 130 Tuesday, 9th August

Attire: Linen-belt-wrap-type-thing (stretch pants?)

Shoes: (?) The Big Slipper?

Hair: 5.8 on the PCMS (Post-coital/Mussing Scale)

Eyes: Almonds under lids - Last night's motto: "no-sleep-'til-Carlisle".

Demeanour: Bored shitless

Smile effort estimate: 6.3 % Factor in Raworth envy rating of 7.8 = Seriously insincere.


[Originally posted 09.08.2005]

Kaplinsky watch: #587 - Friday 12th August, 2005

Sian Bloody Williams!!

Kaplinsky watch is brought to you by Blist-eze "for the insane jogger in your life".

[Originally posted 12.08.2005]

Kaplinsky watch: No 1,453 Monday, 15th August

Attire: Lilac power pants/suit type thing.

Shoes: (?) Matching SMERSH stillettos

Hair: 8.8 on the PCMS (Post-coital/Mussing Scale)

Eyes: Removed? Possibly borrowing someone else's smaller pair?

Last night's motto: "you're hurting my arm" - think Peter Lorre.

Demeanour: Post-coital Sudoku'd to death.

Smile effort estimate: 9.6 %

Turnbull annoyance factor: Full-on.

Kaplinsky watch is a non-profit organisation. To make a donation call 0898 288 666 3777 2666. Together we can stop this degrading, barbaric and pointless blah blah blah.

[Originally posted 12.08.2005]

>No 2,453 Monday, 19th September

Attire: Pink power pants/suit type thing.

Shoes: Matching slingbacks - scuffed. (Walls? Bedposts?)

Hair: 10.8 on the PHBMS (Post-Honeymoonlong Bonkathon/Mussing Scale)

Eyes: Beatific longing, to the point of appearing retarded.

Last week's motto: "'till the wheels come off/ungh ungh ungh...etc." - think Lawley/fax machine/jellyfish.

Demeanour: Cat who just got the cream and one almighty apocalypse of a humping.

Smile effort estimate: -77.9 %

Turnbull annoyance factor: Bill who?

Kaplinsky watch is a non-profit organisation. Every time you call 0898 288 666 3777 2666 we will be donating 0.00006 cent to the Katrina Hurricane Relief Fund. Together we can stop this degrading, barbaric and pointless sport (and buy several mops and some sponges).

[Originally posted 19.09.2005]

The series was briefly reprised in November of 2005 with this post.
xxx

Mort

Interactive Bob...

[Presumably at some point Bob has invited his reader{s} to vote on their favourite post so far (?!?) I couldn't find the post or a similar invitation - but then, I didn't really look very hard...]

Hi Swipesters,

Well, the response to the offer of choosing this site's content was quite overwhelming. A big Swipe thanks you to all of you who took part in this. Now, the votes were not [only] very numerous, but also, incredibly close [...it surely need not be added that *neither* is remotely true... M.S.] So, in order to ease the pressure on my mailbag, I've decided to post up the three most popular items in reverse order. Starting with today's entry - Stephen Hawking's revisited[,]his born-again Creationist account of the origin of the Universe - I will post up the runner-up and winner tommorow and Friday. In the meantime, enjoy!

(Bear with it - it works if you read it in the voice...)


A brief History of the Universe (Revised and updated by Rev. S. Hawking)

In the be-gin-ning God cre-a-ted the hea-ven and the earth. And the earth was with-out form, and void; and dark-ness was up-on the face of the deep. And the Spi-rit of God moved up-on the face of the wat-ers. And God said, Let there be light: and there was light. And God saw the light, that it was good: and God di-vi-ded the light from the dark-ness. And God called the light Day, and the dark-ness he called Night. And the e-ven-ing and the morn-ing were the first day.
And God said, Let there be a fir-ma-ment in the midst of the wa-ters, and let it di-vide the wa-ters from the wa-ters. And God made the fir-ma-ment, and di-vi-ded the wa-ters which were un-der the fir-ma-ment from the wa-ters which were above the fir-ma-ment: and it was so. And God called the fir-ma-ment Hea-ven. And the e-ve-ning and the mor-ning were the se-cond day. [...]


Tomorrow,

"He do the Police in funny Voices" - What T.S. Eliot really meant to say.*



Love on ya,


Bob

[Originally posted by Robert Swipe, 03.08.2005]

It perhaps needs actually to be heard - that grating, mechanistic, robot drone of his - to get the full effect and make the gag work; the trampling under shining silver cyberbooted foot (or in this case, wheel) of all nuance; the ineffable and the mysterious - the glorious *imprecision* of our understanding of our existence arrogantly swatted aside with a sheetful of - what? Equations. Our purpose in life? To be told which stop we're approaching by a mechanised voice. The age of reason, eh?

Was it Socrates - or am I thinking of Zico? - who said that all he was prepared to say he knew was that he knew nothing. If it's true that there are many religious leaders who could do with a little humility, then how much more so the average, rat-dicing, thalidomide dispensing scientist? Don't get me wrong, I'm all for *rationality*. But to believe that science as we experience it today is theobjective, disinterested pursuit of knowledge stretches the the incredulity more than would the news that there are, indeed, little green men on Mars. Bob's view? A plague on both their houses, probably. He's in fine fettle laying into media interest in 'The Rapture' in this post from 31.07.2006. But, just to prove that there's no ideological gulf that can't be bridged with a little pointless and offensive satire, this post not only shows Bob as being prepared - if this is indeed possible - to play devil's advocate for God, but proves once and for all that even the most heavily foregrounded irony still appears to be beyond the comprehension of many Americans.


So, as the man said, may your God (or stop announcer) go with you...


xxx

Mort


* Unfortunately most of the links no longer work, but you'll get the idea after clicking a couple of them should you feel so inclined...

Zoe Telford Appeal...

Hello again Swipesters.

You wait months for a post and then 15 come at once, yeah?

But seriously. I have scoured the web for photographs of English rose actress, Zoe Telford, in police uniform for her role as Maggie in the BBC America series, Teachers, and can I find one? You got it - a dirty big nyet on that one. Zilcheroonie. So, it's over to you, Swipe-geeks over at cyber.dot.nerds. r-us.com - I await with baited breath. And remember; this is urgent - OK?

Full body shots are preferred, but if you can only find the legs, I guess I'll just have to make do.


Thanks for your assistance and co-operatioon on this,

Love on y'all,


Bob.


p.s. ...handcuffs would just so make my day....



[Originally posted by Robert Swipe, 01.08.2005]



This one would run and run...

Bob posted Zoe Telford Revisited on 04.08.2005, Zoe Telford - a further appeal on 18.08.2005 before widening the net somewhat with a similarly wretched importuning of Zoe's 'Absolute Power' co-star, Sally Bretton (unfortunately the picture seems to have disappeared - doubtless because it was hot wired or whatever you call that thing where you link to another website rather than to a saved copy of the image...you see, crime *really* doesn't pay...) Then there's this (actually rather frightening) morphing photograph of Zoe posted on 23.09.05. And we *finally* get to see her legs on 24.08.2005. The series concludes with a one last update, which seems little more than an excuse to post up a saucy photo of Bob's then current eye-candy bint of choice, Dita von Teese.

Bob's motivation for this sequence of posts appears to have been two-fold. It seems on the one hand to be a comment on that peculiar phenomenon which anyone who's ever monitored their site meter will be all too aware of; the smutty google search. Bob will feast copiously on such carrion over the next few months. There also seems to be additional delight in having found an especially esoteric niche within that already highly specialised interest group that Bob will go on to make his own; the completely obscure celebrity smutty google search would provide Bob with many a 'hit' over the entire span of his career. These are detailed (often to quite painstaking extremes of dullness) elsewhere. Some posts, indeed, consist of little more than a screen grab of the offending search, allowing the world (or, at least, that small part of it who had had the misfortune to come into Bob's orbit) to trace the students of such compelling areas of research as: "Silverton+butt-grab+bacofoil+nonce" and so forth.

This is another example of Bob's interest in the pornographic process that will ultimately see him becoming personally involved in the production side of the process. For the time being though, there's enough distance between the author and his subject to enable his evident titilation to do no more than peek out from behind a wafer thin veil of irony. Towards the end, unfortunately, that won't be all that's peeking out - but I'm getting ahead of myself here. As will be seen, this subject - the appeal to producer and consumer alike of erotic iconography - will become increasingly problematic and personally engrossing for Bob.



xxx
Mort

Rip Her to Shreddies...

"Christ on a bike! Could this broadband speed *be* any slower???"

The Girl With a One Track Mind is already at the laptop and she's barely even started her bowl of Shreddies. "And to what do we owe the dubious pleasure of your fresh-from-the-boudoir, barely clad state of wanton slatternliness, oh infinitely patient one?" I ask, running the sartorial ruler over Abbie's nightshirt, hairnet, baggy socks and slippers ensemble. She's also wearing a pair of flesh coloured tights regularly patterened with tan-coloured spots - either that or she's been 'bumping into things' with quite extraordinary precision or sunbathing beneath an extremely large colander. "Can't you see? That's *exactly* the point!!??" Abbie wails, pouring another liberal slug of vodka over her breakfast ceeral. "I can't get dressed until I've consulted Goop or the Zoe Report, can I???"

"Ah, Goop - I know him. Seen him on the telly; mincing little Oriental fella with the pointy hair and glasses," announces a still yawning Stray Photon. He plonks a freshly poured pint of Strangely Brown Ale and a piping hot mug of Bovril onto the table and proceeds to make stereotypical slitty eyed and buck-toothed Chinaman faces in a remarkably non-PC manner. "Or am I getting him mixed up with that Richard Hammond chap again?" Stray stretches expansively then goes back to solving his inner television presenter conundrum. "No, Abs", is talking about Goop - the new fashion advice website set up by that American actress - you know the one? I was reading about it in the Ffestinyog Ffashion Ffolio ("The definitive guide to what the young Welshman is wearing") just the other day. Lovely looking lass - well, she was until I'd given her a Salvador Dali moustache, a nose ring and a rather unsavoury array of boils and pimples - lithe, lissom, blonde - married to that gurning idiot from Coldplay...

"Palmtree!!" exclaims Photon triumphantly. "It's trow, actually Stray, not tree..." Abbie corrects him. "Sorry Abs, so it is. Anyway, what's this Gwyneth Palmtrow doing setting up a fashion advice website ? I mean, surely she's got better things to do - like learning how to speak properly and keeping her husband fed and watered? Hungry job, I should imagine, ridding the world of famine and putting an end to global poverty. And she could surely put a bit more time and thought into naming her kids. What was that ridiculous thing she came up with for the first one...? "Apple." "Nah, you're alright Abs, I'll stick with the Bovril thanks very much... And while we're on the subject, that Zoe Report - she could do with a good feeding up herself. I've seen xylophones with wore muscle tone... I like something I can get my hands on me, none of this flibberty-gibbety wasting away to size zero mallarkey..." Clearly inflamed, Stray slouches over to the flatscreen and turns on the Breakfast News. (I keep telling him to put some ointment on it, but will he listen?)

"Here, Abs, you could do worse than the pretty smock thing that nice young Katie Silverton is wearing," Stray suggests, trying to be helpful. "Not so sure about the spangly pinnafore and hobnail boots, I'll grant you..." Abbie's silence speaks volumes. "At last! it's finally opened the page. Now, what do you think boys?" Stray and I join Abs in a huddle around the laptop. "Hmmm, I don't know about you Mort, but I'd certainly give Ms. Palmtree one. Not so sure about yours though..." he says, squinting at what is either a sideways on picture of Zoe Report or a kaftan on a pitchfork wearing a curly blonde wig. We're soon despatched back to our pews for being "unhelpful" as Abbie frantically scrolls though the websites for inspiration.

"So Abs, what does the oracle have to say?" I ask, wondering what on earth has possessed Kate Silverton to cover her lower portions and much of the BBC Breakfast sofa with a what appears to be a large, shapeless black table cloth. Has she converted to Islam, perhaps? "Well, Gwyneth seems to think you can't go wrong with the little black number and she's *dead* keen on a nifty little capelet thingy...a *snip* at $2,400. Whereas Zoe Report has a very nice line in shredded tunics, tank tops and dresses in her "Rip Her to Shreds" collection.....oh, decisions, decisions, decisions...." Abs is soon away off upstairs in search of the garden shears, leaving Stray and I alone to ponder the laptop and Kate Silverton's decolletage.

"Oh well," says Stray, "at least it keeps her mind off the rising tide of right wing extremism around the globe..." and goes back to his Bovril mug.


xxx
Mort

Blonde Ambition...

"I wish we could go back to the way things were..."

The Girl With a One Track Mind is distractedly chalking her cue while Stray Photon takes his turn at the Cow & Snuffers' brand new bar billiards table. She's currently going through a rather pronounced Madonna phase and, as much as the crunchy platunum wig and hod-carrier's arms suit her to a tee, the pointy Jean-Paul Gaultier bustier is perhaps not the most appropriate choice of clothing in which to be hovering over the green baize for any sustained period. A stickler for Health & Safety observance at the best of times, I can sense that Stray is far too tense with the worry of potential impairment to the nap of the pristine potting surface to be attempting the awkward triple cushion kiss off the red he needs to escape the fiendish snooker Abbie has confronted him with. Either that, or the effects of the cannister of butane that proved the only inducement to get Stray to play in the first place is beginning to kick in.

"How do you mean, Abs?" I ask, setting aside for later the review of the new Tim Footman in the North-East Monmouthshire Gleaner and Star (including free sample issues of Le Zeitgeist fanzine and What Ethno-Methodologist? consumer supplement). Unable to get beyond the first sentence - it takes up several paragraphs, mostly in French slang - I'd in any case been too absorbed in giving Leonard Cohen a gigantic Billy Preston-style afro made up of several million pen spirals to absorb fully the gist of the reviewers critique. From what I was able to gather from the rather garbled prose, it sounds as if poor old Tim's made rather heavy work of it. But then I'm surprised that the publishers felt an earnest and metaphysical songsmith such as Cohen to be a suitable subject for the 'Look and Learn' series in the first place. One assumes they know their own business...

"Are you referring to the pre-fame days, Abs?" "Yeah, kind of," she shrugs in between practicing sliding her Drambuie Breezer bottle as far down her throat as it will go. A good job Stray can't see her dicing with suffocation like that - he's either taking the Cliff Thorburn, patient Zen Buddhist of the snooker hall approach to the shot or having an acid flashback, it's difficult to tell - he'd have the St. John's Ambulance on to Abbie in less time than it normally takes to push her love over the borderline. I nervously cradle my 660 cl. bottle of Strangely Brown Ale lest she get the urge to practice with a more well-endowed penis substitute. "Don't get me wrong - I mean, the money's great and everything and being holed up here with you guys is much more of a laugh than I'd ever expected it to be. But don't you just wish you could do something *normal* just once in a while? Like go to the shops, or a club or just do a bit of sightseeing or something....without all the....you know... Fuss?"

"Ah, they'd tear you apart limb from limb and have your haunches stuffed and mounted as soon as look at you if you were ever to set foot on Swansea High Street, let alone That London. It's too late, Abs" I tell her. "You've made your pact with the devil. Just lie back and enjoy the rewards. You've earned it, after all. Leave the blogging to those hacks the publishers pay to trot your posts out for you and consider it a job well done. After all, you've got everything you'll ever need right here - beer, skittles, the widest flatscreen television this side of Offa's Dyke. A constant stream of eminently shaggable and commitment-phobic young sharecroppers. And don't forget the inimitable Stray Photon. What more could a girl want?"

"Shit and buggeration!!" Abbie ejaculates as she steps sharply away from the billiard table. (I do wish she wouldn't do that in public...) Photon's made an absolute hash of of his shot and sent the cue ball flying through the air. It comes to rest somewhere in the padded depths of Abbie's elaborate, Madge-esque network of fetishistic lingerie and webbing. Indeed, it's a good job she's got a pair of baggy trousers on beneath the gussetless undies and rather complex system of suspender belts she's wearing or she might otherwise have been liable to yet another nasty bruise. Honestly, either she spends half her life 'just bumping into things' or has the skin of an over-ripe peach to judge by all the bruises.

Abbie retrieves the ball from her nether regions and places it calmly back onto the table. She rapidly puts 2,500 points on the board, barely pausing for breath and is just about to put the frame safely beyond Photon's reach when a horrifying ripping sound accompanies the motion of her cueing arm. Abbie rises slowly from the table, a length of green felt dangling from the point of her right breast. "Don't either of you *dare* say a word!!" She threatens with a glare that brooks no dissent. And with that she's off into the night, quicker than a ray of light.

xxx
Mort