Fashion Stakes

As my Longtime Readers all know: like a doomed moth to a searing flame, I’m helplessly drawn to the spectacle of women dressing up to attend horse racing events. (I just can’t help myself, Doctor, please help me — no, don’t.)

Anyway, a couple of races have gone by and I was too busy Ubering to do them justice, but now that the weekend is upon me, I’m ready to rock and roll.

As British horse races go, Cheltenham is about as different from Aintree as single malt Scotch is to moonshine — they both contain the same basic ingredient, but…

So this year at Cheltenham was pretty much the same as it’s always been:

And even when the booze flowed, it wasn’t at all Aintree-like:

And of course, my latest obsession object of desire would-be girlfriend Carol Vorderman put in an appearance:

The men also looked quite dapper, especially ex-Top Gear Token Dwarf Richard Hammond (with wife Mindy):

…and even his partner-in-crime, the usually-disheveled Jeremy Clarkson (with his latest Irish squeeze) did his best:

…although recently-fired-from-Top-Gear Chris Evans failed dismally:

(Don’t even get me started on all the fashion faux pas in just that one outfit…)

The ladies, in general, looked quite lovely (with lots of un-PC fur, worn quite unashamedly):

This was in steep contrast to their Australian cousins at some race in Oz, who showed the class for which Strine women are famous:

But wait! How did this vision of pulchritude get in through the gates?

Ah yes, of course [sigh]:


Ladies: if you want to be thought of as classy (at least for a first impression), you need to cover up your cutaneous mutilation with clothing such as worn by cycling gold medalist Victoria Pendleton:

The last time I looked, even the pretty Olympienne has a tiny one on her inner forearm [deeper sigh]. But in her earlier days:

I’ll never understand the self-mutilation thing.

Anyway, speaking of regrettable decisions: Aintree’s coming up soon, which means… Train Smash Women!   One can only hope they do as well as they did last year.

Watch this space.

Teacup, Storm In (#1,768)

On Britishland TV (ITV?) last week there was a kerfuffle because one of the morning show presenters made a stupid observation about the little denim dress that the weather girl (their term, not mine) was wearing on the show — something about her needing to be careful wearing that dress in the rain (because, as any fule kno, denim can shrink when wet).

Needless to say, a veritable shitstorm ensued because sexism, male chauvinism / piggishness etc. etc. ad nauseam. I leave it to others to decide whether the comment was tasteless — I found it quite funny, myself — but there are a couple of comments to be made about this silliness.

First, as any fule kno (2), such discussions are futile wifout pitchurs. Here’s the  denim dress in question:

Once again, I leave it to others to decide whether that’s appropriate attire for national television (my opinion: not), but whatever, I think we can all agree that the elfin Lucy Verasamy is as cute as a button, and as such she should be used to men commenting about her appearance without getting too bent out of shape about it. (Also, she’s 37 years old[!] which makes me feel about 137.) To be fair, ’twas not she who got all upset — apparently, some viewers got a hair up their collective ass over the comment, showing a distinctly-modern lack of sense of humor when it comes to matters pertaining to the male-female thing. Idiots.

Anyway, the next day young Lucy appeared on the show wearing this outfit:

My first thought was: “Damn, she’s got lovely legs.” My second thought was: “Why is she wearing so demure an outfit? She should have worn an even sexier dress” (in other words, daring the fool to make another stupid comment). That would have been priceless.

I should point out that Miss Verasamy is usually not at all shy about showing off her body:

…especially when on one of her many vacations. Nobody seems to care about any of that, of course, because grrrl power or something. And she’s always at some gala event or other:


But woe betide any man who responds positively to her appearance: that, of course, is Beyond The Pale.

I think we all need to grow up. I’m not suggesting that women walk around in that Muslim bullshit — never in a million years — but I’m sorry, ladies: if the goods aren’t to be viewed, don’t put them in the front window; but more especially, don’t be surprised if men respond to the visual because we are men and that’s what we do, despite all efforts of womyns to change many thousands of years of genetically-acquired behavior.

And men: if you’re going to open your big yap, show a little couth — especially if you’re going to be televised to an audience of millions of viewers. (I don’t think Madeley’s comment was out of line — if anything, it was just a gentle tease. But apparently teasing is now rape, or something.)

Mind you: nowadays, just gently complimenting a woman on her appearance (which she probably devoted hours towards) can make you Literally Worse Than Hitler.

Here’s the thing: if I can see that a woman has put a lot of effort into her appearance, I always compliment her. I was taught that this was a gentlemanly thing to do. But hey, I’m just a 1911 man, trying to get by in a 2017 world… no doubt there’s a prison sentence in my future.

Don’t care. I’m not going to stop.


A long, long time ago, in a country and culture far, far away from ours, a Monty Python sketch involved a quiz show wherein the contestants had to answer questions about Marcel Proust. Of course, nobody was able to successfully encapsulate the rococo intricacies of The Most Boring Writer Ever, so the quizzmaster instead awarded the prize… “to the lady in the front row with the big tits!”

Such, I fear, is the result of the epic search for Nigella Lawson’s replacement in my obsession affections. So here she is, the errrr lucky lady: Carol Vorderman, who took the prize with her three outstanding attributes (boobs, buttocks and brains).

She’s no Nigella, in that she once confessed to being a lousy cook* — but Miss Vorderman can pilot an aircraft, which should count for something when we finally decide to carpet-bomb Washington D.C. et al.

*so’s Nigella, but nobody cares.

Gone For Good

That does it: Nigella Lawson has been officially terminated as An Object Of My Desire, following this appearance:

The Daily Mail, always ready for a little gratuitous flattery, describes her thus:

Posing for snaps, Nigella showcased her slender waist, in the form-fitting sweater, black leggings and comfy trainers.
She left her mahogany tresses to fall loosely around her shoulders and slung a casual purse over her shoulder, also in black.
Nigella injected a pop of colour to her pout by painting her lips in a salmon pink.
The presenter enhanced her natural beauty with deftly [sic] touches of make-up to bring out her eyes and highlight her youthful complexion.

Are you kidding me? She looks like she just got out of bed, pulled on any old stuff lying on the floor from a week ago, and stepped out without even washing her face or hair.

No, I’m sorry: there’s only so much a man can take. Nigella is dead to me now.

By the way, here’s what Salma Hayek looked like when she stepped out the other night:

‘Nuff said.

My Favorite Color

I remember seeing this and laughing out loud:

Ditto. I wish I knew the origins of my fatal attraction towards redheads. Was it first-grade crush Judy Hickman, who wouldn’t let me kiss her all the way through fifth grade, when I left the school, my longing forever unrequited? Or was it flame-haired teacher Miss Cooke, who set my boyish heart aflutter every time she came to school with her gorgeous red tresses flowing down over her shoulders instead of being tied up in the normal stern bun?

I have no idea. Nor do I wish to examine it in too close a detail now, because I’m old and it’s too late. So here are a few who have caught me over the years:

…and to prove my point:

And just in case you’re think I’m stuck in the past — an altogether fair observation in most cases — here are a couple of youngins:

Priceless, every single one of them. Feel free to add your favorite gingers in Comments.

Dramatis personae, from the top:

Amy Adams
Kate Walsh
Julianne Moore
Jill St. John
Ann-Margret (again, because Ann-Margret)
Karen Gillan (who turned the TV show Doctor Who into Doctor Who?)
Nicola Roberts (of the pop band Girls Aloud)

Back Then

Before I was born — hell, before my father was born — women dressed in the fashion of the day without regard to what it actually looked like. (Yeah, not much has changed.) Here’s one example, from the Roaring Twenties:

Of course, while that was what women wore in public, in private was a whole ‘nother story, as they say. Here, for your delectation, is a series of pictures of some of the Ziegfeld Girls of the era — most of whom were physically tiny, by the way — dressed (or rather, partly-dressed) in some private fashions.

This all came about when I was looking for some reference pics for a novel I’m working on — I needed to describe how a female character dressed back in the day, and suddenly, as so often happens on Teh Intarwebz, I ended up looking at these.

I’ll get back to the research any day, now…

Dramatis personae, from the top:
Adrienne Ames
Jean Ackerman
Olive Brady
Madge Bellamy
Lillian Bond