I'm 58 now. Looking back, if I'd rejected every woman just because they were loud, overweight, permanently outraged and motivated by bottomless resentment, it would have been a very lonely life.
I'm 58 now. Looking back, if I'd rejected every woman just because they were loud, overweight, permanently outraged and motivated by bottomless resentment, it would have been a very lonely life.
You've been invited to a wedding reception by your studenty neighbours. It's late, the pansexual couple are eager to be off on their Venezuelan honeymoon, and everyone's had a bit too much complimentary freetrade sparkling wine.
The DJ's playing Love Is All Around, a worse-for-wear Harriet Harman's lying face-down in the toilet facility, having passed out before completing the oral pleasure she'd dragged you in there for. Her friend Diane's ranting away at you as if it's somehow your fault, while Keith Vaz is eyeing you up from the bar.
Suddenly you notice an overpowering scent of Lidl Madame Glamour, and a robust yet unmistakably female body rubbing against the back of your Moss Bros strides, while swaying unsteadily to the rhythms of Wet Wet Wet's timeless classic.
A Brummie voice shrieks alluringly in your ear: "'Ow bin ya?!"
Anyone still prepared to argue they wouldn't be looking forward to getting their head around Jess Phillips' policies in these circumstances?
You've been invited to a wedding reception by your studenty neighbours. It's late, the pansexual couple are eager to be off on their Venezuelan honeymoon, and everyone's had a bit too much complimentary freetrade sparkling wine.The DJ's playing Love