Gapping It

Back in the late 1960s and early 70s, it became apparent that Rhodesia was going to fall and become just the latest African shithole (now known as Zimbabwe).  As a result, there was a veritable flood of White Rhodesians over the Limpopo River into what was still a prosperous South Africa.  With their typical mordant wit, Rhodesians called this exodus “taking the gap”, and abbreviated it into the simpler verb “gapping”.

Of course, this was only a short-term solution, because as one wag of my acquaintance put it:  “Where are you Whities going to go next?  The Atlantic Ocean’s deep, you know?”

One of those who foresaw the inevitable Zimbabwe-fication of South Africa was Your Humble Narrator, who had inherited his longtime family tradition of cowardice (see:  fleeing France for the Dutch Cape to escape the persecution of the Huguenots), and thus took his own gap to these United States in the Great Wetback Episode of 1986, deep Atlantic Ocean notwithstanding.  And so did quite a few others, Longtime Friend Trevor actually beating me here by a few months.

Since the Mandela Honeymoon, South Africa has of course continued its own steep plummet into Darkest Africa, and the flood of Gappers has increased, not just to the U.S. but also to Canuckistan, Oz and even to Britishland (for those fortunate enough to have British passports).

I told you all that simply so that I could show you the latest Gappers, who happen to be the twin nieces of the late Princess Diana, and who grew up in Cape Town.  Ladies Amelia and Eliza have landed in London for good (Brit citizens, natch), and I’m fairly sure they’re going to do well, having been blessed with good looks, excellent dentistry, breeding and no small amount of Spencer cash.

Of course, if they follow what seems to be the new norm in upper Brit society, they’ll no doubt soon be enamored of the usual crowd of tattooed rappers and malcontent European footballers of questionable descent.

Call me cynical, or realistic.

Alternative Views

A whole bunch — at least a dozen of you — wrote to me with the excellent news that Salma Hayek has no intention of ending her stream of bikini pics, all taken during the Wuhan Panic Festival of 2020.

I’m assuming they are of this genre:

However, I have also received the occasional missive from people (men, I think) who do not share my fondness for full-figured women.  (I know, they’re to be pitied, but whatever.)

So in order to prove that this here back porch is a Big Tent, so to speak, here are a couple of skinnier women who can also wear a bikini, e.g. Liz Hurley:

…Lottie Moss: 
…Karen Gillan: 

…Amanda Holden:

…Kimberley Garner:

…and so on.  I hope you fans of the A-cup are satisfied.

Important Question

The Sun  asks:

I’m going to go out on a limb, here, and say, “You can never have too much boob”, with but one (important) qualification:  “It really depends on the owner thereof”.

There’s Salma:

   

…of whom we can safely say:  “You can never have too much.”

And then there’s, say, Kathy Griffin:

   

…of whom we can say with equal safety:  “Dear God, no.”

Sorry:  here’s Carol Vorderman, to restore everyone’s good humor:

   

…who (if I may make a teeny criticism) doesn’t show us enough boob.

And this being the Sun, there’s a followup.

Hidden Treasure

Here’s a picture of the lovely Helena Bonham Carter at some insignificant red carpet event or other, looking quite unlike her normal scraggly self (other than the hairstyle and boho sunglasses):

However, knowing Our Helena as we do, we can have no doubt that her long spotted dress most probably conceals a pair of Army boots.  Some things just don’t change… for some reason, leopards come to mind.

No Times Three

Here’s a pic of some ancient (49-year-old) model prancing barefoot through the streets of London, clutching a bottle of wine.  (One of those “candid” i.e. posed paparazzi events.)

I have to admit that she’s not too bad for an older broad — apparently she was a model, or still is (see more pics at the link).  However, that’s not what I want to talk about here, but the “barefoot in the streets of London” thing.

1)  Considering the chances of spearing or slashing one’s foot on a discarded beer bottle in the Brit capital, I wouldn’t prance barefoot through the streets of London for a bet.

2)  Given that London’s streets are cleaned about as often as are the streets of Johannesburg, the chances of catching some flesh-eating disease from said injury are higher than the average rock musician in the 1970s.

2)  Even assuming that our streets are cleaner than London’s (which they are), if one were to try doing the same thing here in Plano, there is a distinct chance of the blazing-hot surface searing one’s foot in a manner similar to this:

(pic from Knuckledragger’s place)

It makes me wince just to think of it.