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@BringMeMyFix
That reminds me of when I was about 8 or 9, and my parents, aspiring working class Thatcherite commuter belt cultureless cunts that they were, took the family out for a day at the Wimbledon lawn tennis championships.
Whilst meandering around the grounds, I got separated from the clan due to a sudden hubbub and low key crowd hysteria. It seemed I slipped through a cordon of security types, and starting to feel a little bewildered, I span round, only to walk head first into some woman's crotch.
Lo and behold, it was Martina Navratilova. At this point, you might start to think that such an event could leave an indelible stain on the embryotic sexual awareness of a pre-pubescent, but it didn't stop there.
Stumbling back and looking up into the face of an androgynous-primary-school-teacher-cum-multiple-grass-court-and-grand-slam-champion, I followed her gaze as it was turned to the man accompanying her, also decked out in phosphorescently white tennis playing regalia. And I knew his name also. And it was Cliff Richard.