Something topical I shat out for 7 on 7. Rejected, natch.
-----
F/X:A GLAMOUR MODEL PHOTO SHOOT.
PHOTOGRAPHER:
Okay, darling, that's fantastic. A little to the left. Smile. Poke your bum out a little more. Great stuff. Now give me that thinking bloke's crumpet look. Lovely. Now, let's see a little bit more of you. Can you take that off?
GAIL:
Absolutely not! I was promised this was to be a tasteful photo shoot.
PHOTOGRAPHER:
Come on luv, this isn't Corpus Christi. Do I look like Jeremy bleeding Paxman? I don't care what quiz show you won, you're in the real world now. This is Nutz magazine. Take off the scarf.
GAIL:
Honestly! You must be living in Aristophanes' celestial aviary. Perhaps I was being as naïve as the Moor's lieutenant, but the mere notion that this artistic endeavour would devolve into an almost Euripidean exercise in systematic proletarian misogyny never entered even the cognitive peripheries of my prefrontal cortex.
PHOTOGRAPHER:
Was that a no?
GAIL:
The scarf stays on.
PHOTOGRAPHER:
Bleeding hell, Vorderman never gave me this kind of stick. Listen, Gail, what if I told you that this shoot is nothing more than a post-feminist Gedankenversuch into the ironically mediated influences of inspirational gender empowerment?
GAIL:
Not a chance.
PHOTOGRAPHER:
What if I said this shoot could get you a million-quid perfume deal, and you'd be hanging off the arm of a Premiership player on the red carpet of the next Tom Cruise flick by the end of next week?
GAIL:
Pass me that baby oil.