Here’s an easy one. We all know that this pic of some Miss Universe (1952) contestants contains something “wrong”.  But time yourself to see how long it takes you to discover it.

Start counting the seconds… now.

Lovely, aren’t they?


Apparently, Villanelle is self-conscious:

Killing Eve star Jodie Comer might be one of the most successful actresses in the world, but she admits to having insecurities on set. The 27-year-old said she struggles playing sexy characters and admits she feels most at home playing a character while make-up free.

Just so we’re all on the same page — Killing Eve  was a nice surprise;  I thought it was going to be dire — so, as a public service to any Readers who haven’t seen the show, let’s examine the evidence.  Here’s Jodie all dressed up and looking sexy:

…and here she is in her preferred style:

Lovely, both ways.

Ginger Snaps*

Knowing that one of my (many) weaknesses happens to be redheads, Alert Reader Ken sends me this series of visions.  My favorite:

Or maybe it’s this one:

These are not your standard  moistened bints, are they? [/Monty Python]

The DM also posts this pic:

…with the rather arch (paraphrased) question:  What does this represent?

It represents that there’s a red garden of delight under the dress, you idiots.

Sheesh… and they wonder why they lost the Empire.

*It’s a pun.  “Ginger Snaps” is the brand name of a British cookie.  And like the subjects of the photos, they’re yummy.

The Trouble With Cheltenham

As the racing season gets underway in Britishland,  I can announce with some happiness that the first major race at Cheltenham doesn’t feature the usual assortment of Train Smash Women, as the clientele (various Royals and other toffs) are Not Of That Ilk, thank goodness.  Here’s a representative sample of yesterday’s Ladies Day:

And of course avid racegoer Charlotte Hawkins looked lovely, as usual:

Maybe the shivery wet weather kept the ladies in check, who knows?  And speaking checks, here’s Princess Anne’s daughter Zara (who, as a former Olympic equestrienne medallist probably knows more about horses than any other woman at the course):

But for those Readers who like me are impatient to see the Train Smash Brigade, never fear:  Liverpool’s Aintree will be taking place in a couple week’s time…

Little Beauty

Loyal Reader Dave S sends me this missive from his gun-filled bunker deep in in the wilds of The Old Dominion:

“In your quest for beautiful sports cars I’ve always wondered why you’ve never mentioned what is for me the epitome of the class, that unlike its British brethren runs, isn’t a mechanic’s hobby, and hasn’t lost itself in the American quest for Moar Power:  the Honda S2000.”

And it’s a damn good question, for which I have no answer except increasing senility.

The little S2000 was, I think, one of Honda’s best-ever cars, with a loyal and devoted fan base;  and to this day I cannot fathom why they stopped making them in 2009 — especially as Mazda still makes their Miata to this day,  to the delight of many.

I don’t accept that S2000 sales were anemic, by the way, if that’s given as the reason.  I think that S2000 was killed by the Dreaded Bean Counters (may they all sprout assholes in their elbows and shit in their food each time they reach for the salt).  These bloodless pencil-pushers looked at the numbers and decided that unless a car sells more than million units a year, it should be done away with.  “Why,”  they would exclaim, “should the mighty Honda corporation cater to a few fools who want to drive with the wind in their hair, when all said fools need to do is lower the windows of their Civics and Accords to get the same result?”  (Maybe it sounded better in the original Japanese.)

I’m not sure that’s what actually happened, but I’ll bet it’s closer to the truth than saying that Jeffrey Epstein committed hara-kiri.

Herewith a few more S2000 pics, to make up for my earlier omissions:

2008 Honda S2000

Fie on them.  If Honda still made this little beauty, I’d have it on the shortlist for New Wife’s next car, well ahead of the Miata or the Fiat 124 derivative.

And of course, this wouldn’t be the first time Honda discontinued a fine car for no apparent reason (NSX coff coff coff ).

Reader Dave sent me a pic of his own S2000, but the pic included his hot wife with her hair and clothing all windblown and tousled (no doubt because of a long trip taken in the Honda) so I used pics off the Innerwebs instead.  I’m old-fashioned that way.


I always enjoy reading Theodore Dalrymple’s articles, and this one at Taki’s Mag is no exception because as he takes on the topic of modern architects and their pulchriphobia (fear of beauty), he drops little diamonds like this into the discussion:

Taste is very revelatory of character, and though we live in an age in which we delight to talk of ourselves, in fact we do so while carefully protecting ourselves from true self-revelation or true self-examination.

Longtime Readers will know that while this may be true of a lot of people, there’s a distinct lack of that nonsense in this little corner of the Internet — most especially when it comes to discussions of architecture, or guns, or cars, or women, or practically anything which can be beautiful or made beautifully.

Pulchriphilia is more the order of the day, here.  How could it be otherwise when I marvel at things like this:

or this:

or this:

or (wrenching myself unwillingly away from further contemplation of Suzanne Pleshette) this:

…or, to return to the article’s original topic, buildings such as this:

Going along with Dalrymple’s quote above, I am quite aware that my classification of all the above as “beautiful” may reveal aspects of my character, and to be honest, I don’t care a fig.  I am what I am, it is what it is, and each of the above is a perfect example of the eponymous poem by John Keats:

A THING OF BEAUTY is a joy forever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o’er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
’Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven’s brink.

Having pulchriphobia means denying the spirit that endless fountain, and we are much the poorer for its loss.  Here’s Keats’s musk-rose:

Pause a while and smell it, while listening to this.