Lambrini Girls vs Barcardi Bruiser

I was sitting out on my balcony last night which overlooks Botanic Avenue, the sunset strip of Belfast, when out of the corner of my one good eye I spied a convoy of lambrini girls honking up the road, skirts hitched up to the tops of their robust thighs in order to increase their offroad mobility (my street is full of hazards like breeze blocks, car husks and laid out methheads y'see).

Suddenly a bunch of lads clad in one giant short sleeved Ben Sherman shirt appeared at their rear and insisted that they should, completely understandably, be treated to the sight of all the lambrini girls' arses.

Only one of them obliged though, shoving her bottom into the very flattering light of the orange streetlamp and emittied a high pitched yelp whilst the Shermans got their camera phones out. Then she pointed to her knickers, the saddle of which was emblazoned with the Barcardi logo.

"I'm a Barcardi girl y'know!" she yelled at no one in particular, bent double on the pavement, her manicured nail pointed up at the gusset of her pants. The Lambrini girls mowed on down the street without her, not impressed with her sudden betrayal. The following picture is dedicated to her. It's called Botanic Nights.