For three years they've ploddingly resisted every prurient hoot, every wolf-whistle to reveal so much as an ankle or wristbone. What contours will the belated striptease reveal? Raquel Welch? Hattie Jacques? Or a replicant Margaret Hilda? Why are so many Tory-mugged victims uneasily gripped by the anticipation that the shedding will have a stronger -- and displeasing - impact on liver and bowels than on loins? How maddening if that glimpse of Tony's stocking is simply shocking - and off-putting.
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