...but you got to rub her the right way!
Now, there is a popular entertainment much beloved by those of a historical bent, who are oft found encased within waterproof Midnight Garden anorakage.
Now, this hobby consists of triapsing around museums and churches with tracing paper and a pencil, where they place the paper onto a embossed surface and give it a damn good rubbing.
They call this "Brass Rubbing".
Seems to me that it's no wonder these nerdy types are bereft of birds, for who'd want to join them on an evening scribbling on a piece of paper over some brass.
Surely someone simply made a typo somewhere over the rainbow, and it should really be Bras Rubbing. Now there's an opportunity for pulling! An evening of persuading Pretties to lift up their blouses and give them bras a thoughough going over. With the lead in yer pencil.
And it's not pervy, or anything. It keeps a record of how bras evolve, and the range and sizes, and how they are filled by the contents as the subject ages over time. That makes it of historical importance.
Not only that, but it's paper and charcoal illustration - and therfore Art. After all, there was that documentary on the tellybox with her off scrapheap challenge about ugly hairymarys, and there's a bloke out there taking plastercasts of pissflaps.
And if some baldy gayboy is allowed to sluice pollyfiller all over young harlots minges and have a fannywall, surely I should be allowed to lightly rub my crayon over some well filled Pretties bap hangers!
