“Kiss?” said Junior. “Like kissing? Like this?”
She went to kiss her own school portrait before me, but no surprise there – her bloodline breeds narcissists. Anyway, then there was some preposterous dancing. That’s hereditary too.
I think we’ve talked about ‘Kiss’ here before, about how the Purple Priapus could be impish and cheeky while being filthy as hell; how the arrangement could echo with space while being full to bursting with funky flourishes, impossible groove and eternal sunshine; how Tom Jones is an orange car alarm. ‘Kiss’ just sounds so easy.
Act your age, not your shoe size: