A mate of mine used to borrow his sister’s lapdog and nestling it inside his right arm, he’d walk into west London pubs around the same time brunch tables were three bloody marys down and kicking off. Before he’d even got to the bar…
he’d be surrounded by beautiful women.
When it comes to magnetizing members of the fairer sex towards your vicinity, the next most proficient thing you can do in place of nuzzling a rat-sized canine into your chest hair, is to crouch by the roadside with a smile on your face, blowing up pink balloons and tying them to a bicycle made for 2-4 year olds.
In fifteen minutes I’d say I was approached by no less than six women, and it goes without saying much smouldering and batting of eyelids ensued. That the average age of these women was around 63 was more a reflection on the residential aspect of my godson’s parents house, than anything I was specifically doing wrong. I’ve concluded I just have to pick my street corners better.
So yes Joseph, your new bike is our new bike.
Your godfather will be over soon to take it for a spin.