In his new memoir, Harry Windsor, sort of Royal but not quite, relates details of his First Time, which, as it happened, was in a field behind a pub in Wiltshire, England. Participants in this tableau vivant were both teenagers and the young lady in question, a barn hand, was drunk as a lord, as was Mr Windsor. In his workman-like account, the co-mingling was not the stuff of epic erotic legend. Still, our protagonist describes himself - remarkably - as a “young stallion”. For the record, the young woman’s surname is Walpole; “He has a peachy bum”, she stated. The book’s called Spare, but what’s spare is irony, not even a soupçon of the jocose. If clever, Mr W would have dubbed his male member “Wowpole” to honour the occasion, but this was not to be. Even at the apogee of my own rut, 1969 to 1978, I would not have had the temerity to describe me has a “young stallion”. But let’s let the ladies of that profound epoch speak for themselves, shall we?
© 2024 John Oliver
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