Michaela Strachan: Nude Teenage Fantasy
When I was 19, I had the worst job in the world at Skegness Butlin's.

Think about that: Skegness. Butlin's.

Right, so anyway, one of my duties was standing by the side of the stage, pretending to enjoy the performance of whichever aging C-List celebrity was replaying their tired old act on stage, and hawking their wares: t-shirts, CDs, and so on.

After I had worked my way through the pulsating queue of punters fighting for the last Brotherhood of Man CD, I would take the money backstage and share it out with the talent: 75% to them, 15% to the house, and 10% to the light-fingered salesman. A simple, effective, and easily abused system.

In the heady late summer of '95, Michaela Strachan had secured the Wednesday night slot at the Broadway Showbar. To those of you who are either teenagers or Americans or, well, not me, I'd better explain that Michaela Strachan was a kids' TV presenter in the mid-eighties: the period of time in my life where I started to become a man and discover the wonders of self-love.

I'll be honest with you: she was shite. She sang a couple of songs and danced around, a bit of perfunctory audience participation and she was off. I wasn't run off my feet with the CD sales.

However, my disappointment at the lack of embezzlement opportunities was offset by the fact that I was ABOUT TO MEET MICHAELA STRACHAN!!!!

So I made my way backstage and, with my trademark tact, I barged into the dressing room.

Michaela Strachan was standing before me, naked and wet, fresh out of the shower, and, for a brief, almost imperceptible moment, she was perfect.

Of course, less than a second later, she was wrapped in a towel dressing gown and swearing at me but it was worth it.

I gave her my 10%. Slut.
(Greatest Bloke, Thu 24 Feb 2005, 16:16, Reply)