...so there we were, Charles Frith and me, lounging in Bed Supperclub, watching the floor show (gymnasts, gay pharaohs, a surveyor in teeny hotpants, King Kong), debating whether gorgonzola tart really classifies as a pudding and discussing hallucinogens and religion and search engine optimisation and I pondered the number of people who come to this blog on the promise of underclad images of three specific ladies, Charlotte Rampling in particular and whether they were more significant than adding catnip keyboards like *bosoms!* *bottoms!* *extreme sexy rudeness with bosoms and bottoms!!!* and for some reason we decided that the most tempting come-on would be the three-word phrase at the top of this post. So there.
But then I received an e-mail from my dad asking why I had yet to commemorate the passing of Pete Postlethwaite, custodian of the finest cheekbones in the business, so here’s a little something that probably won’t grab so much traffic but hey, ultimately, who’s counting?
But then I received an e-mail from my dad asking why I had yet to commemorate the passing of Pete Postlethwaite, custodian of the finest cheekbones in the business, so here’s a little something that probably won’t grab so much traffic but hey, ultimately, who’s counting?
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