Journey through space to the Planet Fabulous, where the Ruler of the Universe will see you shortly.

Thursday, January 22, 2004

Breasts. As Far As The Eyeful Can See.

Forgive this dastardly pink blog being left by the wayside for such a time, but lots of things have happened. The most drastic thing being that my dear Wife has left the country and won’t be coming back for two months, leaving me slightly distraught and with a enormous pile of washing. He’s gone off to pursue his country and western career, and I’m left on this side of the globe to look after celebrities. This means that Marti Webb, recently returned to the west end (slightly grubby so the deposit was lost) is coming over tonight. Lucky me.

It appears that without my dear, dear boy, I’ve become more obsessed with breasts than normal. Perhaps it’s motherly instinct, heading back to something I equate emotionally as my boy. Subconsciously, I have been making arrangements to see all these wonderful love pillows with fabulous people attached. Why last night I was in the delicious company of Anne, a Catholic girl with the biggest norgs this side of Seven of Nine. Catholic, but not repressed in that way. No, she uses them as arsenal, weapons of mass distraction, if you please. In meetings, if she can't what she wants, the top gets that little bit lower until her budget gets higher.

I feel left out. I mean - I don’t want to play with lady fun-bags. I just want some. I world adore a pair of enormous knockers for a weekend so I could wear fabulous low-cut dresses and swagger into hotel receptions. I would ask for the ‘Keys…’ seductively while bending over the counter to give the concierge a fabulous eyeful.

And tomorrow - tomorrow! - I shall be in the company of the wonderful lesbisexual Kimberly! Her jugs are even rated by the stars; in her bathroom has a signed napkin from Eddie Izzard noting 'To Kim. A woman made entirely from breasts'. She, therefore, must be the zenith of breasts. The tip-top of tits.

Sigh. It’s beginning to worry me slightly. I am hoping that it is part of a hitherto unknown urge to get back to the womb, and it will pass shortly. Or maybe it is simply that the last couple of mornings I have awoken to find that I’ve moved across the royal bed so far to find my wife that I’d slipped between the two pillows, burying my head up to the ears.

You straight people: it’s very warm in there, isn’t it?

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