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Category Archives: Prince Charming

A Little Something for the Weekend…

Let’s start with a small treat for the guys:

Angelina Jolie at the Cannes Film festival

Angelina Jolie - Image via Wikipedia

 And now, a HUGE something for the girls:

Jason Statham

Phwoooooooaaaaaaaaarrrrr!

Last week I watched The Mechanic – eyes as wide as dinner plates, mouth hanging open and drool dripping off my chin.

Ladies, you have to see this film; within the first five minutes, the smokin’ hot JS had stripped down from silky wet wetsuit to black Calvin Klein’s.
Oh, be still my twitching knickers!

Despite the title of the movie, Jason doesn’t actually play the role of a mechanic – well, not in car-repairing sense of the word: he fixes people – for good.
Gulp.
That gorgeously erotic mass of streamlined, pulsating muscles is, in fact, an assassin. But he’s not a ‘shoot ’em first, ask questions later’ kinda guy, he’s smart (as well as sexy) and makes every death appear accidental.

Jason Statham

This has nothing to do with the film. I just couldnt resist...

All is going well in his world, until he’s ordered to kill his boss – a man he’s been friends with for the last twenty years…

I won’t tell you any more of the plot and spoil the story – I’ll just say, WATCH IT!

The Mechanic

And, guys, you’ll enjoy it, too – there’s action, intrigue, double-crossing, guns, suspense and hot, steamy rumpy-pumpy. Oh boy! Just those scenes’ll keep me in fantasies ’til Christmas.

The Mechanic

*squeal*

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And on a brighter note…

Hmmm...a questionable relationship advice from...

Image by jaimelondonboy via Flickr

If you’re reading this, then I’m presuming you’re not dead. And if you’re not dead you will have heard the news. Several times, I would imagine. Even the sexual exploits of the X Factor contestants have been ruthlessly knocked off the front page to make room for The Royal Wedding.

But if you have, just this second, emerged from a coma, and your first conscious thought was to catch up on my pitiful excuse for a love life, then let me fill in the missing blanks: Prince William will marry Kate Middleton in the spring or summer of 2011.

Awww! Ain’t love a bootiful thing? Real-life prince meets and falls in love with a ‘commoner’, drops to one knee in a humble Kenyan hut and  jams a fancy ring on her finger. Together they make plans for a lavish, no-expense-spared, fairytale wedding.

And questions abound. Will the ceremony be held at St Paul’s? Or Westminster Abbey? Whose career will be launched by designing the dress? Will she go for a modern style? Or traditional? I have only one simple question: who is footing the bill?

Will the Queen dip into her personal money pot? Or will she ask David Cameron for extra dosh to cover the nuptials? And can we rely on him to give the morally right answer? ‘Sorry, my love. Our country owes trillions of pounds worth of debt. And, at present, we have approximately 2.9 million children living in poverty in the UK. There’d be riots on the streets (again) if I handed over tax-payers’ money to pay for you lot to have a party piss-up at the palace. And we’ve just allocated an extra million for your Diamond Jubilee celebrations in 2012. Nope. No can do. You’re just gonna have to sell off a castle. Or how about a part-time job? I hear they’re taking on at Sainsbury’s. ‘

No, I can’t imagine it, either.

And what exactly is a ‘trillion’? It sounds like a made-up number kids in the playground might use. ‘I’ve got seventeen Barbie dolls and Barbie’s new Mercedes convertible with authentic leather seats. ‘So? I’ve got seventy-three Barbie dolls and Barbie’s new Kensington attic conversion flat with authentic stripped floorboards.’ ‘That’s nuffink! I’ve got a trillion Barbie dolls including the new princess-in-waiting, and she can talk ‘cos she’s been educated. When you pull the string, she says, ‘you know’ every 3.7 seconds in an authentic upper-class accent.’

Although it is jolly nice of the young Royals to announce their plans when the country is in such crisis. Nothing like a nice wedding with a nice frock to cheer us up, take our minds off social inequality, poverty, national debt, university fees, increased bankruptcy rates, repossession, massive job losses and Gillian’s insect phobia in the jungle.

On the bright side, with the new cuts to legal aid, at least we won’t be paying the bill for the Royal Divorce…

Whatever happened to Perry Bacon?

Wham Careless Whisper

Image via Wikipedia

The year was 1986: George Michael had big hair and was singing with Wham! Kids all over the country were nervously sitting the new GCSE exams. Margaret Thatcher was busy fucking up the country, but took a day off to open the new M25 motorway – the biggest car park in the world. And I fell in love.

I was 19 and in the second year of my teacher training degree. Although we were affiliated to Hatfield Poly, our campus was in Watford, so us girls would bus over there on a weekend, or they’d come to us and crash on our floors. Not that any of us ever slept – we were too busy with parties and live music, end-of-term balls, country pubs and finding lurve. Who am I trying to kid? We were students. All we wanted was beer and sex.

Oh, they were halcyon days…

And smack bang in the middle of this was Perry Bacon. My First Love. Aged 18, studying chemistry and The Finer Points of Theakston’s Ale. I don’t remember how we met. Oh yes, I do. I was dating his mate, David. He was a bit of a knob, too.

Perry had ADHD, but in those days we just called it annoying. He was funny and loveable and smart. Always laughing, generally causing mayhem, and usually chucking beer. Oh yes, whenever I saw him, we’d end up in an infantile, enthusiastic beer fight. What can I say? We were kids. It was foreplay.

And each night apart we’d feed our food money into cramped campus phone booths and smile our way into the early hours, whispering our fears and breathing our dreams along the phone line.

And the funny thing was, we never once spoke about being in love. Never once said the words out loud, or acknowledged it, even. We were friends. Good friends who just couldn’t stop snogging. I bought him a huge floppy teddy bear and that’s how we communicated: ‘Come for the weekend? Theodore really misses you!’ or ‘Tell Theo I need a Bear Hug!’  

Teddy bear

Bear Hugs!

And one day, two years later, it was over. I don’t remember the details, but we were on a train travelling through London. I was crying and then he was gone. Or maybe he left, and then I cried. But there were certainly tears. And he definitely got off the train. And I’m pretty sure it was London.

I bloody loved that bloke, and I often wonder: whatever happened to Perry Bacon?

My mate, primate…

Promotion photo from Snow White and the Three ...

Image via Wikipedia

It’s happened! I think I may – at last – have found my Prince Charming! I am rushing around  the house, all overheated and excited, and for the first time in my pitiful excuse for a life, I am squealing. Squealing!  I can’t breathe, my tummy’s a mass of swirling butterflies and I’m having palpitations. I’m really and truly in lurve. Or I’m having a heart attack.

Either way, it’s exciting.

And I’m trying extra hard with this one; a good male friend of mine has suggested that my ‘oddness’ is attracting the Wrong Type. I have to be normal and girly, simper and giggle, flutter my lashes and flash coy smiles. I’m following his advice, so advance apologies if  my simpering gets on your tits.

Okay, so we ‘met’ online *sound of girly giggling* and he’s just soo lovely! He’s intelligent, has a fantastic sense of humour and an impressive grasp of English grammar and punctuation. *swoon* No text speak at all. OMG, he’s gr8!  We’ve swapped photos, and I’m smitten. He has the most smouldering, wise eyes, the exact colour of  a Cadbury’s Whisper bar. With broad shoulders and a hairy chest,  he’s perfect. Women like wide shoulders on their men;  it’s an indication of  the protection he can offer. *coy smile* He makes me feel so safe!  And  I can feel my fingertips running across his chest, gently tangled in dark, coarse hair. I tug. He growls, deep in his throat, throws back his head and moans. *lots of blushing*

He also rather likes my large and wobbly bottom *more titters*

But, alas! Alack! Alliteration! The course of true love never did run smooth… *Back of my hand is resting dramatically across my frowning brow*  Lady Luck is a meany mare; she has shown me a glimpse of true love, and, with an evil laugh, has torn it away.  *Sound of high-pitched evil cackle* My life is over (again). My Prince Charming? My One True Love?  He is a gorilla…

Gorilla 2

Image by nailbender via Flickr

I don’t know how I’m gonna break it to my mother…

Re:grets…

Waaah!.

Image via Wikipedia

That’s it. My life is over. I’m retiring to bed, broken-hearted, and pulling the duvet up over my head. I shall never love again and will, instead, succumb gracefully to my fate as an old, withered spinster.

My prince Meringue has eaten a poisoned red apple and been bewitched by the affections of another.

‘I’ve just kind of hooked up with someone…I shouldn’t have been speaking to you at all, really…It’s such a shame. We’ve got so much in common, so much to talk about…I’m sorry. I doubt this’ll last though, to be honest. I’ll look you up when I’m back on the site…’

My Destiny has been snaffled. The cow!

I shot off one last message: ‘Good luck, Meringue Man. I really hope things work out for you :-)’

Lovely, kind, big-hearted me, pouring wishes of happiness and great sex on all my fellow love-hunters. And if it all goes tits-up?  I am soo gonna be that booty call! 😉

Online dating. You’re sure to click with someone…

Brown Sugar Pavlova with Strawberry-Rhubarb Fi...

Image by Polkaroo via Flickr

Okay, the search is over. It’s official. I’m in lurve. My prince has arrived, weapon in hand, and God knows I do like a decent bit of swordplay.

Imagine raspberry ripple ice-cream and freshly sugared strawberries, dollops of delectable clotted cream, all nestled and wrapped in sweet, crunchy meringue and drizzled with thick, melted chocolate. Pour all that gorgeousness into a man’s body. Add sparkly brown eyes and a slightly lop-sided, cheeky grin et voila!  Meet Mmm…Meringue Man.

Oh be quiet my rumbling tummy!

And he’s a professional chef. I have visions of him standing at my hob, whipping up delicious dinners with unpronounceable names while I lounge around admiring the view and sampling his wares. He is, of course, naked. His cute buttocks peeking out from behind a crisp white chef’s apron, and we’ll grow (even) old(er) and morbidly obese, together…

Mmm…Meringue Man is my Destiny.

If I could pluck up the courage to send him a bleedin’ message, that is….

I blame Walt Disney…

Once upon a time I believed in love. You know, Someday My Prince Will Come, thundering through the forest, muscular mount between his thighs, and our eyes would meet across a crowded glade. Sparrows would chirrup, deer would skip and those furry, black-eyed creatures with stripy tails would do – well, whatever it is that furry, black-eyed, stripy tailed creatures do when they’re feeling the lurve. Sparks would fly. Breasts would heave. And we’d all live Happily Ever After, Amen.

Happy ending, my arse.

You see, time has passed. The world has changed. I’m old now – so old I’ll soon be losing my teeth, forgetting my name, bulk-buying incontinence pads. And in all that time, all that searching, all that hoping, all that bikini-line waxing, not one measly, distant, on-the-horizon, fleeting glimpse of Prince-Chuffin’-Charming!

And that pisses me right off!  True love should be mine; it’s my right as a fairytale fan, a Disney disciple. God knows, I’ve done the homework. I’ve read the stories and sighed. I’ve watched the movies and mooned (moped, not bared my bottom). I’ve lived the life, goddamnit! I’ve toiled and scrubbed; I’ve dressed in rags; I once had Shrek in the shower. I’ve dated my share of the vertically challenged (Bashful was boring, Dopey was dull and Happy turned homosexual.) I wasn’t afraid of the Big Bad Wolf ‘til I caught him in Granny’s knickers; my fingers have suffered too many small pricks; they put me to sleep every time. I’ve let down my hair; I’ve danced with the Beast; I’ve gobbled a Ginger-haired man. I held Jack’s magic beans for a while and boy! did his beanstalk blossom!

I’ve put in the hours. I’ve served my time, now where the bloody hell is he?

I’m 45 years old for God’s sake. I’m nearly dead. What’s he been doing all that time? Wandering the dusty forest paths on his trusty steed, too thick to plug-in the Sat Nav? Even Dappy, who’s too dumb to put his hat on straight, had the sense to search on Facebook.

Nah, it’s time I faced facts. My time has passed. My knight in soft, crinkled-at-the-crotch, stonewashed denim? The bastard’s obviously been hit bit by a truck.

Image sourced from here.

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