Four Women I Should Be Ashamed To Fancy (But I'm Not)

I just can't keep this all to myself anymore. Between an animated character and 61 year old ex-model, I've been harbouring some less than honourable thoughts about some very, very strange women. But I'm not the only one, right?
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I just can't keep this all to myself anymore. Between an animated character and 61 year old ex-model, I've been harbouring some less than honourable thoughts about some very, very strange women. But I'm not the only one, right?

I recently spent part of a train journey peering over the shoulder of a woman who was reading an article called 'Your weird crushes of 2010 revealed!' Despite it being written like a cross between upper-class rap lyrics and a ten-year-old's Facebook status it went on to explain why it's ok to fancy the likes of Alan Rickman, Simon Cowell and everyone's favourite face drawn on a thumb, David Cameron.

“Ha! Women are mental” I thought, as I sloped back into my seat to continue my game of finding rude shapes in the clouds and tweeting them to complete strangers. “I'm glad that I, a rational man, am not subject to such strange desires”.

But deep within my mind, the idea had already seeded itself and hours later I was slowly realising that even I, “A RATIONAL MAN”, was guilty of some questionable attractions.

Take Nigella Lawson for example. She'squite possibly, the most motorboatable woman on television, despite being the same age as, wait for it, Gillian McKeith.

But what's to be ashamed of there I here you cry? Simple, she isn't real. She's a fiction, a caricature, an experiment conducted by women to prove that, despite all our moisturising, wine drinking and guff about being 'modern blokes', all we want is someone who'll cook and clean while we gawp at their whams. Well, ladies, I'm not falling for that one... sort of.

Spare a thought for her poor son though, having to go thorough school, knowing deep down that at least half of his mates have cracked one out over his mam rolling pastry and tasting hollandaise sauce with her pinky.

Then there's The Girl From The BT advert. But it'snot so much that I fancy her, I just want to wade in-between her whiney will-they/won't-they/oh-wait-they-already-have-did-I-miss-that-one? relentless drone of a relationship, and split them up forever.

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With her two stage-school brat children in tow, they're conspiring to not only put me off having a telephone line but a family as well. Despite all this though, she was always reliable to get her kit off in BBC dramas ten years ago, which means I'm probably not the only twenty something with a soft-spot for her.

I'll take great pride in seeing the advert where what's his face from My Family comes home to find a pair of knickers tossed haphazardly over the home-hub, before quietly retreating out to the wi-fi equipped garden shed and tearfully wrapping his mouth around a double barrelled shotgun.

It gets weirder though, It would be dishonest of me not to own up to having a thing for Edna Krabappel.There, I said it. Lois Griffin might have made inappropriate thoughts about an animated character trendy, but the original source of much teenage confusion was definitely Bart Simpson's teacher. No sooner had BBC2 started crowbarring old Simpson's episodes in before my daily Fresh Prince of Bel Air fix, than I found myself a victim of my first ever Tim Henman (unexpected semi).

It might be the pencil skirt, or the sarcasm, or one of the catalogue of repressed childhood memories I'll one day have to confront, but I'm not ashamed to admit that Springfield's erotic educator kept me tuning in day after day. So forget Wilma Flintstone or Jessica Rabbit, Edna K is filthier than a coal miners sandwich and given a few choice words and half a bottle of Tesco's red, would clearly be a goer.

And finally there's Twiggy.I don't care if she's older than Bruce Springsteen and only able to emote when M&S dangle a cheque in front of her cold, dead eyes, I'd still bang her harder than a barn door in a storm.

I'm certainly not the only one to fancy a perch on the old twig, but unlike so many before me, I'm not just harbouring a repressed urge from the 60s. I think I must have spent too much time waitering at golf clubs in my adolescence, her name was continuously brought up by over-weight accountants and half-cut ex-coppers who lamented the fact their wives hadn't quite aged as well as she had.

So yes, given the chance I would march back into the club house, stand atop a table and proudly proclaim to the room that I had accomplished what they themselves had so often fantasised about. Before scattering the polariods across the room and laughing maniacally at the sound of a dozen pants splitting as they scurried to pick them up.

Don't look at me like that.

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