gullybogan

Flickr photo by a_mpa.

Dear Reader,

Horrifyingly, news comes that Kylie has turned Forty.

Forty!

But it’s ok, because forty is reportedly the new Forty. Or black. Or something.

I remember her, as i’m sure you do too, dear Reader, as delightful moppet Charlene Mitchell in Neighbours, which i’m sure was only five minutes ago.

Then she became a pop star, started doing squeaky-squeak with a guy who may or may not have been into autoerotic asphyxiation, whacked on some hot pants before she began dressing in all sorts of wacky showgirl costumes, and – almost finally – got cancer in her boozy.

Along the way, we came to realise that it wasn’t her boozies that were the physical focus of her prowess, but rather her bottom.

Her bottom is, in fact, the only recognisable part of her in the Docklands statue allegedly immortalising her. So it must be good, that bottom.

I guess she never got bum cancer, so that’s another good thing about her bottom.

Also, her bum goes nicely with minis (that’s a visual pun, sorry).

But enough of that.

Well done, Kylie, turning forty.

We’re proud of you, old girl.

Aren’t we, dear Reader?

And the only thing better than one Kylie to be proud of, is four. Or is it five…

Yours,
Gullybogan