The direct approach
A good few years ago now, when the country was still red, the economic crisis was but a glint in Leaman Brother’s eye, and Legless still lived in the UK, me and the missus had taken one of our semi-regular jaunts to the coastal idyll that was Leggy’s abode. Well, weekend abode, as during the week he spent time living and working in Redcar and offering the locals geek skills in return for not being beaten to a bloody pulp…

That night was particularly raucous, and much ale was consumed. We laughed and joked and lit up fag after fag INDOORS. Oh, the carefree life we once had. And then the missus noticed one of the regulars at the bar, staring intently in the direction of her chest, and reacted as only she could under the circumstances.

“STOP STARING AT MY TITS, YOU FUCKING PERVERT!” she bellowed. She's never been particularly subtle and the poor bastard was mortified; the rest of the bar collapsed in fits of hysterical laughter (and very nearly a collective puddle of urine).

I love my missus.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Fri 7 May 2010, 15:52, 1 reply)

Awwwwwwwwww
right back atcha :o)
( Tourette's ( . )( . ) has a monkey hair in her fried egg, Fri 7 May 2010, 16:14, closed)