Born in the USA

So, Brandi came round for “kawfee”, and deep deep joy, she likes football or soccer as she insists on calling it. Apparently she played to quite a high level in the States; goodness knows how, what with all the surgery she has had something must have been in danger of dropping off or slipping substantially when she gunned around the pitch. Husband was enraptured with Brandi’s tales of soccer in the good old Yoo Ess of Aye, couldn’t take his eye off her incredibly well supported chest. I am still not sure about the right nipple, it seems to be in a different position from when I last saw her at the cricket match, maybe once you pass a certain number of pump ups and lifts and the original nipple has become hopelessly disorientated you are awarded with a packet of stick on nipples as substitutes for the original, that is now, like a tiring footballer, hopelessly out of position. Apparently at the age of sixteen Brandi had been a junior cheerleader for the Tampa Bay Rowdies, an American soccer team who snapped up fading footballers from around the globe to come and play in their “world league” that consisted of American teams only. Brandi had first hand experience of Rodney Marsh, and produced a dubious looking photograph of her at sixteen sitting on the knee of the slightly sozzled former England striker. She had also met Pele at a party but had lost the picture, along with a box of matches signed by George Best. Brandi went on to give a demonstration of her teenage Cheerleader routine in the front garden before she left; my husband complimenting her on her suppleness, my mouth gaping at the sight of a forty something pneumatic Yankee cheerleader high kicking her way around our garden in a t-shirt two sizes to small, and tight gold shorts. Throughout the strenuous routine her chest moved not one inch, the closing number of bending over looking through her legs, gilded butt high and proud while shaking two t- towels that were doubling for pom poms drawing audible gasps from the folk leaving the church.
Now if I had performed in such a manner in front of our Christian neighbours my husband would have been in a fine bate, the family name would be scarred and embarrassment and scorn would surely pour down on this household, not to mention the fact that my chest would have been swinging left, right and up and over my shoulders. My son would have dodged inside, and I would be up before the beak to explain my bizarre behaviour.
Brandi’s performance drew applause, an affectionate squeeze from husband and an invitation to pop in any time. Brandi departing down the road with her adolescent chant,

“Hi there y’all we’d like to say howdee
We’re the soccer team called the Tampa Bay Rowdies
You want some action give us a call
We’re demon bitches when given a ball
Run down the right run down the left
One of our dudes will sure find the net
Come on y’ all sing it louder
Two four six eight come on the Rowdies.
Yeah! (Shake pom poms vigorously above head while pushing fake tits out)







“She is such fun”

Said my husband, retrieving the t-towels from the pampas grass and going inside. Quietly seething at this west coast harlot, I came up with a few other surgically enhanced irritants and moulded them into a football team.
First choice goalkeeper Dolly Parton, she would certainly fill the top half of the net but may be vulnerable to shots along the ground. A pair of unusual looking full backs who happen to be siblings, it’s a toss up between the Neville brothers from the North, or two from Michael, La Toya and Janet Jackson. In the centre of defence I would pair a couple of spice girls, LA based soccer mom Victoria Beckham and flame haired Geri Haliwell. The midfield engine room would be filled with the surgically and chemically improved MrTerminator and Rocky, messrs Schwarzinegger and Stallone flanked by Joan Collins and Linda Evans who must have had something done by now. Long John Silver himself – John Wayne Bobbit would provide added inches in attack, alongside John Merrick, who despite a successful career in the circus must be cursing his luck at being born one hundred years too early for the current surgical improvement fad. Sven Goran Errikson would manage (the man is too vain not to have had something tweaked) with Cherie Blair as assistant (when surgery goes bad); Mr DIY - Vincent Van Gogh would provide all round cover from the bench. A phalanx of medicos required to keep the team in one piece, and clear up the puddles of weeping botox and collagen alongside an army of psychotherapists to provide succour when their performance or appearance is not one hundred percent perfect.There that’s got that off my chest, which may not be the pair of perfect grapefruits that someone has stuck on the front of Brandi, but is all my own and am perfectly happy with.