Wednesday, 29 October 2014

My Friend Stu's Dream Woman

I occasionally take on commissions but rarely have I ever accepted one so strange. My friend Stu is generally a good sort but with a peculiar side to his character. He's about 90% unreformed punk but the rest of him adores Barbara Windsor and particularly the Barbara Windsor circa 1964.

The other day he said to me: 'David, do you ever wonder what it would be like?'

'You're being a bit vague there,' I replied. 'Would you like to offer me a clue as to what this "it" might actually be?'

'Babs,' he said and gave a whistle.

It was one of those indicative whistles, which are loaded with meaning in the same way some people load shotguns with ball bearings. I knew something odd was on the cards but I was too slow to leap for the first exit leading out of the conversation. Instead I went and foolishly offered encouragement.

'Speak on, you devil in technical drawing department,' I said. 'What devilish imaginings have you conjured up in that curry fuels brain of yours?'

'Well,' he began, 'you'd have to be a strange man not to find Barbara Windsor circa 1964 appealing but as you get older, you do begin to notice that she was lacking a bit of substance. To be honest, she only ever seemed play blonde airheads.'

'But I thought you liked blonde airheads,' I replied. 'Isn't that why you run that website:'

He shrugged. 'Oh, that was a mere whim. Once you get a little older, you begin to appreciate that the Barbara Windsor circa 2014 is something else entirely. She's lived a life, you see... She is a mature woman, full of the wisdom that mature women have after leading very full lives. Imagine what a woman like that could teach you?'

'How to soak her dentures?' I offered before I stepped back a little. I didn't like the look that had suddenly appeared in Stu's eyes. It was part David Starkey admiring Tudor woodwork; part Fern Britton eyeing up a fruit loaf.

'Now picture me this,' continued Stu, his voice a low whisper. 'Picture me the body of the youthful Babs but with the head of the worldly Barbara Windsor.'

'I rather not,' I said.

'No, no,' he replied, grabbing my arm. 'I want you to picture it for me. You know: do your magic on the old Photoshop? I'd like it in colour and preferably printed on glossy paper so I can easily rinse it under the tap.'

I went cold. This was bad voodoo my friend was asking me dabble in. Yet had I any choice?

So, dear reader, I wish I could apologise enough for what I'm about to show you but this was not my idea. This is all his fault (points at my deeply disturbed friend, Stu). 'Enjoy' is too strong a word so, instead, I suggest 'run away'. Once you've seen this, you will never ever unsee it.

And may God have mercy on all our souls...


  1. ohhh my dear lord! I think I've just ruptured something....

  2. I know. Strangely compelling, isn't it? I have such mixed feelings about it...

  3. I shouldn't have scrolled down.

    Now I have to apply the mental floss and the eye bleach.

  4. Now, you can't say that I didn't warn you. It is a captivating image. Don't know if you agree but the pasties seem to follow you around the room...

  5. Actually, if you don't look at her face (most men don't anyway) there's really no problem.

    As a wise mysoginist once said. 'You don't look at the mantelpiece when you poke the fire'.

    I expect that will get me re-educated these days...

  6. I think they call it 'readjustment therapy' and apparently it's for your own good.