Monday, May 29, 2006

Ingrid's bits

Shortly after leaving school, I went to work for Visual Imagination, and spent a happy two and half years in their graphics department, creating all sorts of silly nonsense in photoshop. (It's a dangerous tool in the wrong hands, let me tell you)

One of the most memorable moments from my time at VI came almost exactly a year in, on the day of my 19th birthday.

You see, on that day, we were graced with the presense of a *MOVIE STAR!* (you should all be imagining me in gold top hat and tails, arms outstretched in jazz hands stylee here)

And who was this star of stage and screen, I hear you ask? Well it was none other than Ingrid Pitt, star of shitloads of Hammer Horror productions (and no relation to Brad).

So Ingrid, who at the time was nudging 60, came into the office, all bouffant hair and low-slung top, and was introduced to us all, me being last.

"This is Tim. And it's his birthday."

I remember the look on Ingrid's face; watch Countess Dracula and you'll pretty much see the same thing. Here, she clearly thought, was some fresh blood.

I knew what was happening. As the youngest in the company, I was being offered up as a sacrifice to this vampiric temptress.

Closer she loomed, her rosy red lips pursed, and giddy squeal in her voice: "Ooooo - a BIRTHDAY boy!!"

Did she peck me on the cheek? Did she hug me like an elderly aunt?

No she did not.

She clasped her hands on either side of my head, and plunged my face into her ample bossum. And held me there.

It was like being underwater ... sensory deprivation of the highest order; I was unaware of anything outside of the confines of Ingrid's cleavage.

And she continued to hold me there...

... and hold me there...

... and hold me there...

... you beginning to get the idea? I think someone in the office actually went off and made a cup of tea while I was wedged between her boobs. I nearly asphxyated. But by god, I would've gone a happy man!

Anyway, she eventually released me, and tottered off on her high heels. I don't think I did any work that afternoon.

Fast forward nine-and-a-bit years to me sorting through boxes of old stuff...

What's this!? Yee-gads! It's my favourite childhood story book, Bertie the Bus!

I have very fond memories of this book. Basically, it's all about a bus that time travels back to the Napoleonic wars and, er, helps some wounded soldiers.

Look. Here's Napoleon giving Bertie his thanks.

Now, I bet you're wondering what crackhead inflicts stories about time-traveling buses and Napoleon on small children, hmmm? And, for that matter, what the hell it has to do with the rest of this post? Well look closely at the cover - that would be my movie star friend Ingrid Pitt you just referred to as a crackhead. Don't you think you should apologise?

And do you know what's best about this whole story? Some of my old pals at VI reckon Ingrid would be more than happy to autograph my copy of her time-traveling epic.

I wonder if she'll boob-print it too?


M said...

Ughhhhh! That's like your Gran taking her teeth out and french kissing you...

...only without getting an erection afterwards...

Tim said...

I'm confused? Was it you or your gran who got the erection afterwards?

Either way, you must've been in therapy for years!

m said...

No, I meant your stiffy distracting you from your afternoons work, after being squeezed between Ingrid's massive hooters.

I imagine being 60, she'd have had to lift up the hem of her shirt for her boobs drop down onto you (about as unpleasent a thought as frenching your Gran (sans her teeth))

Tim said...

Why are you thinking about me with a stiffy?


Anyway, she had lovely boobs for an oldie, I seem to recall.