Leaning on the bar at No.1 The Strand just on closing time last Thursday, we were yarning with Mike the barman and pondering what to rabbit about next, when the answer walked right up.

A goddess of a woman. Long dark hair, great legs, amazing poise and a European accent to melt even the most cynical, hardened editor.
The quaint little bar at the quiet end of The Strand has been attracting many rare beauties in the short time we've been open. Yet there was something different about this woman. And at the risk of appearing sexist… well, frankly, I don't care if I do.
If you don't like it, don't read any further.
(Yeah, I knew you would.)
The words rolled off her moist, ruby red lips like dew drops off an English rose.
'Are you Rogers?”
'Well, yes,” I quavered, my knees shaking in anticipation of her next words.
The dark, exotic beauty took another step closer and I could smell the subtle hint of classy perfume.
Seasick on the swell of that heaving cleavage. Swimming in those big brown eyes as a dainty, yet dangerously confident tongue darted across those full, pouty, glistening lips.
But that's enough about Mike. Back to the woman. She raised one sensuous, meticulously groomed eyebrow, and in a most sultry, gravely voice that, in comparison, made Sharon Stone sound like the voice on my Garmin GPS, whispered in my ear: 'Turn left. Recalculating.”
No sorry, that was the GPS talking. She whispered:
'You're a jolly idiot.”
Yes, I was stunned. However, the initial shock of the verbal attack was quickly overcome, as I remembered the documentary on Discovery Channel about mating habits of the praying mantis, in which, as the copulation reaches its crescendo, the female lovingly bites the head off her partner. There was an equally interesting documentary on the History Channel at the same time about attempts during World War II to build flying tanks, but that's not important right now.
A deathly hush fell over the deserted bar. Mike the barman stood in stunned silence, as the mysterious woman fixed her steely gaze on the hapless editor, who just stood there, like a startled possum in the headlights of a Kenworth. You know, the truck with two pairs of headlamps, a separate pair for the low beam and another for high beam; and a set of little orange lights across the top of the cab which the drivers flash on and off as a truckie signal to other truckies coming the other way, that says: 'Hello, I'm driving a truck, too.” But that's not important right now.
I searched my feeble, stunned brain for an answer but I think only froth came out. Mostly out my mouth, but some might have come out my nose. Like trying to drink a milkshake while riding in a manual gear change car with Grayson Ottaway driving. It was impossible, messy and a little sickening.

Deadly beauty
And why are the most beautiful women the deadliest? Why do mere male mortals such as myself dissolve in the presence of wilting female stunningness?
If a really ugly person had walked in the bar, all sweaty and smelly from their weight loss group meeting where they'd thrashed a poor, unsuspecting treadmill till its bearings melted, and said: 'Rogers, you're an idiot,” I'd have no trouble in saying:
'Bugger off, you big smelly ugly person.”
Not so with this woman. A wit so sharp and features so fine, they could have been crafted with the same chisel. Brainwaves so powerful, they crashed on the shores of my craggy mind like… really big, crashing waves.
Besides, speech was hopeless. She was far too quick, vastly more intelligent and was going for the kill.
The goddess went on to list some more of my other attributes, in no particular order:
You're a rubbish writer. A redneck. Only appeal to the locals. Riddled with spelling mistakes. Bad grammar. (Or was that bad grandma? She doesn't even know my grandma.) Not impressing anyone important. No understanding of the role of journalists in modern society. Need a lesson in the benefits of communism. A lousy haircut. Ugly and your mother dresses you funny. Your dog is fat. His mother is a bitch… and so on.
Oooh, I love it when they talk raunchy.
But then, after lavishing all that praise, as if to build me up and then tear me down like a matchstick house, she told me something so painful that it struck me prone in my barstool, like a dagger through the heart.
She took a step back, jet black hair cascading around her shoulders in a smorgasbord of shining magnificence. I could almost taste the VO-5.
She delivered the killer blow.
'Sometimes you show glimmers of intelligence.”
Well that really hurt. I've been called a lot of things before; but never been accused of having glimmers.
'You take that back right now,” I demanded, as forcefully as my nearly-paralysed vocal chords could manage, trying to control the twitching of my kneecaps.
My shorts were shaking and my throat had a lump. Or was my throat shaking… but that's not important right now.
Mike the barman was taking refuge. His head was in the ice bucket and he curled into the foetal position between the recycling and the spare rolls of cash register tape.

Struck down
Then a stroke of brilliance struck me, like a strike of brilliance. So brilliant that had I been really struck, rather than metaphorically struck, I too, would probably be prone in the foetal position, except it's not a very big bar and Mike was hogging the best of the lying prone space.
Unfortunately, by the time I'd finished congratulating myself then delivering the excellent comeback lines (such as 'Then why do you keep reading?” and 'I guess this means you won't be naming your first born after me anymore”) the exotic socialist beauty had transmogrified into a wisp of cool smoke, drifted hauntingly across the restaurant and disappeared, just as mysteriously as she'd arrived.
Mike, shaken but not stirred, immediately attended to the wounded with Pyrat rum.
Of course, taking some abuse for this column is all in a day's work. I love pushing people's buttons, as another exotic beauty, the sumptuous and eloquent Carol from the health board found out last week. But that's not important right now. That is a story for another day.
What really got to me about the Exotic Goddess was, this was the SECOND time she's wafted into the bar, abused the owner, and left. Normally once is enough. And usually, they take the suggestion and don't read the damn column if they don't like it.
But not this woman. She is a tiger for punishment. Grrrrrrr (a tiger growling sound).
So many questions, so few answers.
Is that the end? Will she return? Will I be the victim of serial insultment? Is there such a word as insultment? If the local people are the only ones interested in the column, is that a bad thing? Since The Sun is delivered to locals (150,000 of them) why would it need to be interesting to anyone else?
How do you get milkshake stains out of shirts? Can you still buy VO-5? Is Mike the only pouty barman in town? Does she even care that my bad grandma might have piloted the prototype flying tank?
I must go now, and practise my best glimmer.