The Booby Trap and Other Bits and Boobs Read Online Free PDF

films who
    shove vest tops on with NOTHING underneath,
    who hop and spring around like newly born lambs,
    boobies like ice-cream cones,
    like hiccups,
    like moths,
    with nipples like tiny perfect kidney beans.
    Those girls want ‘bangers’ with big moose-like swells,
    orbiting their own selves like naked gorilla heads, stuffed into swelling stinging frothy elastic,
    that punch your lights out every time you go to switch the light out,
    black eyes but … look at them boobs.
    You go to your friends’ houses and you swoon at their
    little cup-cake paperette bras dangling on the bathroom door, like dinky patterned bonnets for Barbie dolls that almost make you weep,
they are so pretty.
    Meanwhile, should you and your friends ever get stuck on a desolate cliff?
    You could certainly attempt catapulting them across the world to safety with the capacity of your
BRASSIERE
, that’s right, I dropped the
Brassiere
bomb, code word for flubbery, gargantuan, goblinesque, dinosauric, vacuous pit of Bermuda Triangle, no man’s land.
    It’s a
contraption.
    It’s a bit of
equipment
.
That’s
not pretty.
    I also recognise the advantages.
    My bra is like a rucksack and can hold loads of stuff inside it.
    Because my mum wore low-cut tops and let her boobs harass the eyes of strangers
    I have always kept mine relatively
under wraps
    like the magazines that come in bags that you’re not allowed a free flick through before purchase.
    My chest is a gamble.
    I wish you could eat it.
    Your bra.
    A bra.
    Or at least chew from it.
    It must have another purpose other than just like Clinton’s monetising on Valentine’s cards,
    making men and women curdle sour everywhere,
    Well … bra shops do the same, with their variety,
    they are all too small,
    too ugly or just too rubbish,
    however,
    we need them
    because there is NO better feeling in the world than taking a bra off after a hard day’s work of bra wearing. And I’ve tried a lot of feelings.
    Bra shopping for big boobs is horror of the head syndrome when every answer is a no.
    Because how many hammocks are beautiful? The title of this piece is actually an advert. That is what I am looking for.
    When you finally swan out and the right bits go where they should,
    in and out like the violin they always promised …
    You feel like a goddess
    mixed in with a mistress
    mixed in with a fraud
    but mostly a bit like a woman.
    Which I guess is allowed.
    And you are thankful.
    That you ‘got it’ and ‘you know it’
    But then suddenly,
    as if all women are WWE Wrestlers battling it out for the one golden belt that is their perfect physique,
of course
,
    it gets taken (I say taken I mean stolen) away from you the moment you found it
    and then you yourself wait to be woken up at 5.30 a.m.
    and have some other new weird child of your own,
    playing bakers with your tits.

JENNY ECLAIR
    I used to have a line in my stand-up where I described my breasts as having let me down so much that I now referred to them as ‘Brutus and Judus’. The truth is a lot more mundane. They are sturdy and workman-like and mostly fairly reliable. They are not the kind of bosoms that fall out of a bikini top at the sight of a third-division footballer; they are pretty sensible and I kennel them in a Sloggi non-wired 34A cup bra.
    If anything my breasts are slightly Nordic. I know this for a fact because the only time I’ve seen breasts like mine, en masse, was when I went swimming in Finland – all the women there had identical breasts to mine. I like to think there is something of the Viking about them – or maybe I mean troll?
    Anyway, as I say, they’ve never given me much grief, until last year when at the age of fifty-one I was called for my first mammogram. To be honest it wasn’t a big deal, we trotted down the road, me and the tits, got them squashed against a screen for scanning and came home.
    It was mid-January, I’d