Wiggy business

Right, totally cheesed off that the poxy bollocking wi-fi system in Starbucks opposite Sainsburys in Fallowfield decided in its wisdom to boot me off before I'd even managed to complete my allotted two-hour stint earlier today.  This was purely in order to let the yummy mummies and their googly ga-ga babies troop in, put their feet up and sink down more coffee.

But I'm a hack and I'm skint, so obviously I haven't spent enough dosh on triple frappucino skinny lattes to be of economic viability to the management.  Therefore my time online needs to be stringently limited, or the profit margin will plunge below the event horizon.

Probably just as well I had to make a move when I did, because the wiggy quota was beginning to burgeon alarmingly.

What is a 'wiggy', I may hear you ask?

(Or not, as the case may be.)

In very basic, down to earth terms, a 'wiggy' is a very pretty, feminine, young studenty-type woman.

The sort of woman I should have been myself back in 1986, only I never really had the equipment for it.

A 'wiggy' woman is so called because she has full, fat, rounded, wobbly buttocks, which she wiggles, woggles and switches back and forth like nobody's business every time she walks down the road.  She is knows that her femininity is the most important asset in her life.  She is fully confident in her charms and the power they have over the heterosexual male of the species.

So she keeps them switched on, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year.

She invariably talks in a cute, fluty, girly voice, just like she is still 5 years old and has never grown up.

Her clothes, hairstyle and accessories are all carefully chosen to emphasise both her curves and her cuteness.

No wiggy woman is afraid to let her wobblers roam free and wild.  The last thing she worries about is dirty old men panting down the ski-slopes of her ample cleavage.

Her skirts never fail to be any less than virtual pussy pelmets, while cosy sheepskin lined Ugg bootees caress her sweet little ankles in all weathers.

All wiggy women look and sound exactly the same - yet their boyfriends have no trouble at all distinguishing their particular girlfriends from the rest of the endlessly cloned tribe.

Personally I blame all those parents back in the late Eighties and early Nineties who elected to swamp their little princesses in oceans of pink frills and ferry them about in hunchback cars with 'Baby On Board' notices stuck in the back windows.