Fancoise Hardy
/To Cut A Long Story Short
No, listen, Vera, don't muck about, people are looking. Listen, and I'll tell you. It was a lovely night and I wasn’t doing anything, I was just wandering around Venice looking for a lady gondolier who wasn't going anywhere—yes, of course I love you, I wouldn’t have let you buy me that bag of oranges otherwise, would I!—and all of a sudden I saw this E-type Jag in racing green.
Well, to cut a long story short—move your elbow, beloved—named a price and the Transylvanian salesman named a price and I gave a hollow laugh and he said you don’t half look queer, monsieur, and I said I feel queer.
Then what should I see but the most blinding piece of Venetian sculpture—well, I thought it was at first, only it moved and who d'you think it was! No, not Milly burgentrot, she went off to Istanbul with that Turkish bath attendant—no, nor Annie Finnegan, either, she's having an allergy in Cork.
It was FRANCOISE HARDY. What d'you mean, who's she! How do I know who her mother is! Mrs. Hardy, I suppose. Now don’t be like that, you know I’m getting wrinkles about you—no, never look at other women—I just happened to spot this sensational vision in a mini-skirt outside this Venice cinema and I just thought she’d go with this E-type Jag I was buying, only to cut a long story short I fell flat on me kisser when I started to move — this salesman nit had his foot hooked over mine to stop me getting away—
All right give us a kiss then.