When I Was A Tart!

It has been some years since I last wore a dress ... 1978 to be exact ... and I still fume whenever I think of it!

GOD DAMN IT!

I should have won the fancy dress competition!

This is the story of that occasion.

It was the only one that I have EVER entered and, I tell ya, I really put the boat out to try and win it!

There was this guy in the base fire brigade that knew a man that had a friend who's sister's best friend worked in the local theatre. He instigated a chain telephone call that resulted in me receiving an invitation to the theatre for a fitting (wait for it).

In the mean time, before my appointment, I was offered some additional assistance with the compilation of my wardrobe from some army wives (not mine, I hasten to add).  They fitted me out with shoes, stockings and suspenders, make-up, jewellery and a slinky black evening dress.

Of course, I couldn't quite fill that cleavage demanding dress, hence the need for a fitting in the local theatre.

They enlarged my chest using a very realistic, state of the art, 44 DD set of fake boobies!

Then came the big day!

My small army of army wives fussed and swooned over me.  They painted my face! They decorated me with jewellery! They helped me into my boobs! They squeezed me into the evening dress then planted a long, black wig onto my head. I carried the size seven stilettos until I needed them (and to prevent me from breaking my neck). 

I have to tell you, I looked fantastic!  I thought I would walk away with first prize. No problem!

Later that evening came the judging.

The camp Padre, my commanding officer and his good lady were the judges.

After all that preparation, I was not surprised to reach to the last three!

It was between me (the Tart), Charlie Chaplin and Elvis Presley.  I ask you, where was the competition there?  They had no chance!

Elvis was voted into third place and I was devastated ... I mean, like totally shocked ... when the announced that Charlie bloody Chaplin had won first place!

Of course, I smiled and congratulated the dozy cow that had won, but after so much effort I was really pissed-off that I hadn't won.

I was comforted by my entourage of army wives, but they all said that losing had been my own fault.

"You were robbed!" they chorused. "But if you'd shaved your moustache off, you would have won!"