All attractive are the bonny girls of Scotland, but none more so than ANNETTE FRENCH, tops among the favourite pin-ups North of the Border. Annette is just about the prettiest brunette who ever rode a scooter down Sauchiehall Street, for she certainly got the loudest whistles.
What to wear? It doesn’t matter—Annette looks lovely in anything.
The fight’s over. All kinds of people took part,including those who insisted Long John’s had no place in modern fashions and should never have been left over from the 20’s but used for car dusters.
Then there were the others, who said no girl is complete in her fashion equipment unless Long Johns were an essential part of if, and we thought by crickey, what about the look, though?
Then, of course, there were the girls themselves, and ANNE SCOTT was one of them. And these girls and Anne went along with the re-adoption of Long Johns, because, they said, what with mini-skirts and all, we need something to keep us warm.
On that alone, it seems, Long Johns became an established fact.
Without what?
Without MARION ALEXANDER. Well, she’s only got one husband and she’s rather fond of him, they live in south-east London, and she makes a lovely cup of tea and cooks delicious dinners.
I daresay she does (said Henry Hopkins), but I couldn't live if I couldn’t marry her myself. She’s my idea of how to live in superlative domestic bliss, and I haven't even met her yet.
But when we asked Marion about Henry Hopkins she said she was very sorry and all that, but all she could give him was an aspirin. She said as an extra her husband would give him a thick ear.
Henry said there was nothing for it but to shoot himself. But we haven’t heard any bang yet.
Unanimously established as the kind of girl you’d most like to take out for dinner with no expense spared, as long as she doesn’t ask for oysters at four quid a dozen, is of course SUSAN DOUGLAS. Always elegant, always eye-catching always your dream girl.
We feel the same way about her.
WHEN our photographer looked up from his hot cocoa and saw JAN KEARNEY and heard her say, “Do you think I could ever be a pin-up girl?” he said in a kind of numb way, “You’re joking.” Jan said, “Well thank you for being so frank,” and he said, “No, don’t go—what I meant was you’re more fascinating than Mona Lisa and more beautiful than Venus, and if you don’t know it you should. Have some cocoa while I load my camera.”
An example of British glamour more fascinating than Mona Lisa and more beautiful than Venus is the dream of every photographer.
One can come across the most delightful ornaments in the most unlikely places. For instance, who’d think of seeing a delightful eyeful from Italy in Harrogate?
Man from Harrogate. “What’s wrong with Harrogate, then?”
It’s lovely in Harrogate. One just doesn’t expect to see an Italian girl there, that’s all.
Man from Harrogate. “Why? They don’t speak Italian in Brighton either, do they?”
Never mind. Accept our apologies. The fact is CARLA MINELLI from Naples now lives in Harrogate, Yorkshire. She actually finds the cool climate of England bracing and invigorating, she loves going dancing with English boys, and all she really misses is Italian food and wine. She’s extremely shapely, with vitalistics of 40"-26"-38", and says she’s simply got to cut down on Harrogate fish and chips.
Please don’t, Carla.
Lots of people, especially old Herringbone, just make the place a shambles when they sit around. They're all feet and cigarette smoke. Ma Herringbone, who can stand smoke but hates feet, spends most of her time bashing his boots with her broom.
What a difference when ANN GRAINGER is the sitter. Bet you never have anything as ornamental as Ann on your carpet, and all those who would like to swap their model train sets for her are over-rating their trains something shocking.
Ann, well-known in her hometown for her trim figure and shapely legs and her volunteer work for old folk, is a very engaging Scottish housewife with the softest of accents. Sitting around she makes the prettiest picture of any domestic scene.
That reminds me, said Parsons during the directors’ lunch break, did I ever tell you about the time I went on a tiger hunt? I was after a fireside rug for Emily, she’d been nagging me about it ever since
Mrs. Gonk next door had knitted herself one. Well, there I was in the jungle with elephants all round me waiting to charge me and squash me flat as soon as I showed the top of my topee. The gun I had could lay a tiger flat but not an elephant, so what did I do? I popped up from the jungle grass like a champagne cork, and a big elephant on my right and a bigger one on my left immediately charged. Just as they reached me I sidestepped, the lumbering brutes met head-on and conked themselves stupid. Aroused by the noise, up trotted a tiger to sniff at me while I stood there all numb and hysterical. Would you believe it, just as the tiger was about to bite me in half a lady tiger whistled, the man tiger turned its head and I clouted it with all I’d got. Emily was ever so pleased. I don’t know what PINKY SANDS is doing up that tree, by the way. She looks absolutely ravishing, but it’s no way to catch a tiger and make a rug.
For the guys who don’t think they’ve had a meal unless there’s been a steak on the plate we recommend eating at a high-class restaurant in London. With any luck you’ll find yourself being waited on by MARY CONNOR. When Mary isn’t serving porter house steaks she’s taking long walks in the country. Any guy want to go in training?
Here, look where you’re putting your oar, Monty, that’s twice you’ve clouted me in me delicate earhole. You got something on your mind or something?
I say, who’s that, then? Here, don’t fall overboard yet, let’s get the perishing yacht moored first. I want to coincide with that dreamboat sailing in. Kindly give me all the necessary biographical jazz so that I don’t operate as a dead loss.
That’s it, then. Hand me all me spanking nautical impedimenta, Monty, I’m about to become an infatuated landlubber but I don’t want to look like one. Hand me also one adjustable spanner with which I may helpfully approach this incomparable dreamboat who is, I observe, having a mint of trouble with her automobile. Right, Monty, here we go then. Eh?
Oggle, oggle, oggle.
You—oggle—incompetent offspring of a Tibetan yak, where’d you put the -oggle oggle—gangplank?
Name of dreamboat - ANNETTE RIDGEWAY LE GREASLEY. Age - twenty years and delightfully shipshape. Lovely fore and aft and particularly when the sun’s shining. Dimpled, curvy, elegant.
In Edwardian days clubs used to be quiet havens where you could read your Times and forget all the complications attendant on your relationship with Edwardian women, who were always on about the necessity of getting you to church.
London club life has brightened up considerably since then. True, in many of them women are now accepted, which results in your complications always being with you, but you can’t have everything. In the Playboy Club of London all the femininity which so lights up the eyes of tired business tycoons is vested in the Bunnies, without whom life can never again be complete. Graceful, curvy, talented, intelligent, the Bunnies have reduced even further the number of men who think there’s nothing to compare with a good book.
Even old and reactionary baronets with club gout are beginning to think that a quiet two hours with the Times could be improved upon, but the first letter asking the editor to publish pin-ups has yet to appear.
Example of a graceful curvy, talented and intelligent Bunny is CATHERINE McDONALD DOLLY READ, and SHARON BYSOUTH
