No, nothing to do with making your girlfriend pay for her own cinema seat—how could you, in fact, and her only making 18 quid a week as a secretary? for this treat from Holland is HELENA BORLAND, short story writer, linguistic and lovely.
All set to go on a long tramp through the Highlands is Ayrshire girl LOUISE CRAWFORD.
A sturdy pair of denim jeans, a serviceable top and a pair of clumping walking boots were the stated requirements. When Louise got them on she said, "Help, I look like a female navy."
So, she undid a button or two just to let people know she was a real, live, curvy girl and not a navy, and everyone said that was the nicest walking outfit on record. She was ever so popular on the hike. All the fellers took turns to carry her rucksack.
It was quite by chance that APRIL SOMERS found some odd knickers. Odd is used in the bizarre sense and not because one leg was longer than the other.
They were what mother wore years ago.
"Oh well, anything for a laugh," said April, trying them on.
Well, fancy that, she thought, fancy anyone wearing them for serious. But they did, as mother subsequently told her, and they were considered ravishingly sexy and provocative.
"You could have fooled me", said April.
"Ask your dad, then," giggled mother.
"You saucy thing," said April to dad.
The funny thing was, April lounged around all day in them, and wore them for work the next day. They were just the job. April is a steeplejack.
Doorways are just doorways, but one doorway plus one pretty girl make quite a picture
We won’t introduce the doorway, but the girl is CATHY ALLEN, who lives in Hounslow, Middlesex, and she’s the one who really puts the decoration in the picture. Cathy is a 20-year-old receptionist, and she likes her job because she likes meeting people. That, brother, must be more than mutual!
With the door, half-shut it’s a bit of a squeeze, but we can still see Cathy, and that’s what matters.
Cobblers means codswallop. Codswallop means my eye and Betty Martin. Or drivel. What it all boils down to is that it’s a lot of jazz and junk to imply being aristocratic is indivisible from a pink hat and an Ascot sunshade.
For us ANNE DUKE looks aristocratic all over. Elegant, bewitching and self-assured. Maybe self-designated aristocrats have a butler to help them over a gate to ensure they don’t have trouble with their skirts, but you can’t say an elegant, bewitching and self-assured look doesn’t have an aristocratic aura to it—even when there’s a gate trying to sabotage the elegance.
Anne is Welsh. We don’t know if she can sing but she isn’t half lovely to look at. The man who lives round the next corner to her has gone off his cornflakes and gone on to carrots. He wants to sharpen up his eyesight. “What for?” asked his wife. “Oh, just to make sure I won’t miss anything,” he said.
“What’s anything?” she said. “Oh, you know, birds and flying saucers,” he said.
Some people think it's what you get at cricket when you lift your bat to a hot one from the fastest bowler the other side have got and it thunders under your bat and makes an unholy mess of your wicket.
There are other yorkers that are much to lovelier. JOY BAMFORTH. for instance.
Joy lives in a Yorkshire village near Barnsley, and that makes her a proper lovely Yorker. She's nineteen, measures 36-23-36 and worked in an office before graduating to the more exciting profession of fashion modelling.
She likes fast, sporty cars and gay, geary boys.
WELL, if you’re as pretty as PAMELA BEESTON, with the best years of your life still in front of you, you’d sing too, wouldn’t you?
Pamela is a shorthand-typist of Co. Durham, whose current hobbies are dancing and pop music, and these, together with her charm, her attractiveness and her statistics of 36-24-36 make her just about as representative of today’s modern girl as she could be.
The young senoritas of Spain or the chic young madams of France have nothing-absolutely nothing-on ours. Pamela’s pretty proof of that!
Scots girl SHIRLEY HOLDEN loves cars and also has a weakness for horses, carrying lumps of sugar around for all the noble nags in the neighbourhood. We regret that on this occasion she forgot, which is why we had to concentrate on Shirley and not the gee-gees.
There's so much sea around at Brighton that typist ZEE DORCAS can plunge about in the waves almost any time she likes.
Usually she wears a bikini. It was an accident when she plunged in wearing a dress and etcetera’s. She fell over the side of her rowing-boat. The salt water left her all sticky, so she dashed home and went straight under the shower.
What a shower. The best she'd ever had freshened her up in no time and took all the salt out of her undies.
“Well” she said demurely, "it was either the shower or the washing machine, and I didn't fancy being chucked all over the place by the spin dryer."
There was nothing but sunshine and perfect peace around when DEBORAH STEPHENS first sat down to her picnic. They say that after seven years even the best of husbands (or wives) are inclined to get an itch, but only seven short minutes had gone by on this occasion when an itch attacked our Debbie.
She’d just got herself comfortably settled on her tummy— without lying on the strawberry jam sandwiches—when she found herself idly scratching her leg. Debbie has a very nice leg, but she doesn’t often also have an itch.
Initially, let’s face it, she wasn’t all that bothered. She was, in fact, scratching her leg fairly absent-mindedly, until quite suddenly the cause of the itch actually bit her.
“Help!” yelled Debbie. “It’s ants with long fangs!”
No help in the form of, say, an anteater being around at the time, Debbie panicked and dived headfirst under the picnic tablecloth, where she waved two shapely legs very wildly in the air—until a sense of dignity overcame a sense of flustered retreat. Whereupon Debbie sat up. Who won the day, Debbie or the ants?
“I won,” said Debbie, “I’m sitting on them, and if every ant isn’t as flat as a pancake then my eight stone two pounds counts for absolutely nothing.”
You can’t beat a pair of thigh-length boots if you want to be looked at this year. They’re in, you know. SUSAN DOUGLAS had to have a pair and be as swinging as the other girls. You can have a hat or a jerkin or a bolero top, but you’re not swinging unless you’ve got boots as well.
Smashing.
Living on the north side of London is a blonde dolly called VIKI HILL. Viki adores really geary clothes, like long leather boots, slinky nylons and eye-catching suspenders.
Other girls may go for draggy skirts reaching the ground and no make-up except lamp-black, but Viki likes to make the most of her shapely legs and her healthy figure.
What's a healthy figure?
Oh, something that measures up to 36-23-36.
To me, said Fred, that's cuddly.
Well, what's healthier than a cuddle?
Paris may have decreed that hemlines will become longer and longer, but gay leggy girls like ANN JAMESON, London fashion model, are going to fight that decree on a blow-by-blow basis.
The first blow Ann struck was to turn out in her itsy-bitsy mini, which was just about the briefest in town.
It was so brief that Mr. Jarvis Parkinson thought she was wearing a long-sleeved blouse and had forgotten her skirt. With the faintest tinge of embarrassment, he drew Ann aside and said. "Er-pardon me, Miss er-urn-’’
"I'm not Miss Er-Um," said Ann, “I'm Miss Jameson."
"Well-um-pardon me. Miss Jameson, but I wondered-er-if you knew-well, um-the fact is- “
"You’re very kind," said Ann. "but what I don't know I don’t worry about. Ignorance is sweet bliss, isn’t it?"
“Your wonderful, “said Mr Parkinson, “and I just hate having to leave you. but I’ve got a train to catch."
Beautiful Britons No 167 – October 1967
One way of spending a couple of chatty Hours with your girlfriend is to ring her up and let her pursue her natural talent for making a phone conversation last all day.
It’s even more like that on the Continent. The Continentals being naturally loquacious it’s asking for trouble to phone them when you’re in a hurry.
There was that nice feller Arnold, whose speciality was buying old electric kettles from gullible housewives and turning them into steam irons for the price of a new tweed suit. They never worked, of course, but he had such a way with him that no housewife ever complained. Anyway, he met an absolutely beautiful damsel called BARBARA VALENTIN when he was on the Continent.
When he got back to London he rang her up to ask her if he could see her in Cannes later that year. After listening to her answer, which was all in lovely lilting Latin and took two hours to deliver, Arnold managed to get a word in.
“What was that you said?” he asked numbly.
“Oui,” replied Barbara, and then in fascinating English she added, “And please, zat steam kettle you sell me, it do not work, no, never, it only spits hot water at me.”
“Oh?” said Arnold embarrassedly.
“Please,” said Barbara, “you send me back my money or I knock your big head off and queeck.”
It’s Friday night and SHIRLEY CAMPBELL has got a date and it’s just occurred to her what a giggle it all is. Well, there she is engaged in the pressing business of ironing her smalls and there he is, already waiting on the corner and wondering what’s keeping her. Shirley’s giggling at the idea of inviting him up to help her out with the ironing.
The trouble is when you’re in a hurry everything goes wrong, and those collapsible ironing tables are all too collapsible, and then the phone rings, and the doorbell buzzes and you can’t get your foot out of the under-structure. Never mind, the girls of Glasgow always come up smiling, even under circumstances like these, and Shirley is no less a typical Glaswegian than all the other cute lasses.
