On kilt mechanics

There's a bit of a furore in my Twitter timeline this morning about graphic images of a dead Colonel Gaddafi being used on the front pages of national newspapers, and understandably so. To say that it's a fairly crass thing to do is an understatement, and that's before you even touch on the fact that even though Colonel Gaddafi was a Colonel Gaddafi he was also a fellow human being.

And besides, it's not even the biggest news story of the day. The real scandal and intrigue is something that I witnessed yesterday evening in the park by Buckingham Palace (that's where the Queen lives!). Now I'm not sure if it was one of those new trendy urban N-Dubz and iPhone 4S sort of things that young people do for leisure now when they've run out of crack and meow-meow and internet porn, or a rebirth of a newer, sexier, London Monster for the 21st Century. However, the Buck House Kilt Mechanic is a new London Scourge.

No pair of eyes (or pair of anything for that matter) are safe. Basically, what I saw was as follows. A young woman lying on her back in the grass with a man in a kilt stood over her, as she reached up to fettle whatever it could have been that she had encountered up there. Who knows what it could have been?

Many people would misinterpret this scene, that it was a scenario created and led by a rather perverse young man full of the bravado that only wearing your mum's skirt in public can provide. But that would be to miss the real truth. London is under attack by a young woman (aged about 18-25 - it was hard to tell, she had her head up a kilt). No-one wearing a kilt is safe. She'll slide under there on her back and see what's what.

And then after that she'll probably look at your knackers.