Tramp Smash...

Through the spirit haze, the fug of dry ice, a straw haired siren emerges, blinking in the rhythm of the dancefloor strobe. On a platform of shiny patent red she totters, a ripped up Union flag casually wrapped about her preserving the scantest dignity, a jaunty leapardskin pillbox perilously poised above her temple. The bruise-black mouth the other end of an ebony cigarette holder smoulders: "Clivedon, wasn't it? Or St. Tropez? Long drinks on the verandah after easeful, sex-disturbed canasta. Noel boring anyone who'd listen with his latest dreary outrage. Or is one so easily forgotten?"

People are always mistaking me for Ferry. Or James May. Must be the Newcy brown...

Tramp Smash


L.U.V. on y'all,

Bob

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