Photocopy Your Tits and Win!

This could be you.

Calling all bored secretaries, listless housewives, mousey librarians, and cider-crazed varsity girls. Leery of speed-dating, wary of online hook-ups? Allow me to steer your attention to a more subtle, nuanced manner of boy-meets-girl.

What to Do

Photocopy your man toys and fax them to 555-447-5965. Taking care not to obscure any pertinent details, write your name and number, preferably in candy apple red lipstick. Or just scan the twins at 300dpi and mail the pics to fushandchips@gmail.com. Extra points will be given to colour pics.

The Grand Prize

The owner of the most jugalicious set of devil’s dumplings gets to prepare a home-cooked meal for yours truly, fushandchips. Sit back and enjoy urbane conversation, ham-fisted attempts at flirtation, and the rather unsettling presence of the mute Moroccan boy in the background.

The Small Print

No chancers or gatecrashers: said breasty dumplings will be verified against a print of the winning entry.

You will be unfortunately automatically disqualified if:

• Photocopying your arse requires an A3 scanner
• You use aubergine as ingredient in anything
• You are my ex girlfriend, P

David Niven Shag Pad

I am moving house. The leaking, lop-sidedly listing scow of a digs I’ve been living in for the last eight years has been sold, so the hounds and I are heading to greener pastures. I’m packing my meager possessions: bed, kettle, and a pile of brutally frank ’70s Hustler magazines that informed my formative years and have been treasured ever since I stole them from Andrew’s dad’s attic in 1988.

White Goods

Household necessities like a fridge, stove, and pliant Moroccan boy cost money. And to add insult to injury, I am reliably informed that Moroccan boys don’t come on hire purchase.

Shag Pad

My new flat has a sunken lounge, spiral staircase and a drinks cabinet the size of Westminster Abbey. I plan to spend my days lounging about suave as David Niven, in a cravat, smoking jacket, and reading Somerset Maugham. Nights shall be spent in the more louche smoking lounges of my new leafy high street, trying to snare buxom young fillies with my jovial, urbane bon mots, lashings of pomade, and tweed three pieces. If experience is any teacher, these nights will end alone, with a wank and a cry.