At last, the waiting is over.
I have heard the news today that the winner of 'Backside of the Year' here in the UK is not - as was widely anticipated - Pippa Middleton, but.........
Whether by coincidence or not, this breaking news comes on the same day as Romantic Query's debate with the female members of her family as to the comparative merits between cakes and cowboy's arses - Daniel Craig's arse, to be precise. I've sent in John as adjudicator.
I think that it must be coincidence, as I cannot imagine anyone outside of the UK having ever heard of Carol Vordeman, the lexicographic genius from the hit show, 'Countdown' (did-ib, did-ib, diddly-dib! Pooooh!). She is not just a pretty arse, you know, and if you recognise the words in brackets, then you must have seen the show. I have - many times - even though I don't remember watching T.V. for about 30 years. As a young man I remember lusting after Carol as she impressed me with her mental agility, sitting in front of a flickering black and white screen, and now - all these years later - her arse still has the power to pull the next generation.
This sort of accolade wouldn't have been tolerated by the first generation of feminists back in the 70s, but now - thanks to a stupid cop in Toronto - modern young women march around the cities of the world dressed in basques, suspenders and little else. How nice that they have lightened up just in time for the summer in London, and just in time for the autumn of my life.
When I used to attend meetings of the Bath Feminist Group in Johnston Street (yes, I really did) back in about 1975, I would never have dreamt that the daughters of these dungaree-wearing women would express their social and political beliefs in such a decorative and humorous way, and it is nice to see their mothers' joining in too - even though some of them look like they have Don King in a headlock.
What is so remarkable is that the issue of these marches is so serious, yet the marchers themselves look like they are having such a wonderful time.
Of course, it doesn't help when me and a few other old blokes sit in the pub, pawing over a newspaper photo of one of the marches front-line, trying to decide which one we would prefer to 'give one' to, as we did the other night. The unanimous choice was an obvious candidate with a charming smile and blonde hair, but - in the interest of fictional reality, and with the benefit of experience - I did point out that the one with the rather plain face and mousy hair standing next to her 'looked like a bit of a goer'.
Old dogs and new tricks, eh?