Hard-cheeked buttocks stood proud, taut muscles rippled under the strain, sweat beaded down the rugged noble face as his hot breath swirled then dissipated into the cold Manchester air. In Alexandria's adoring eyes, Jack cut the figure of a statuesque rampant stallion ...
"Oooooh, what a creamy dream," she thought.
"Eh?". Jack flashed his luxuriant camel-lashed eyes in her direction.
"Lorks-a-lordy! Did I say that out loud?" Alexandria stuttered, a comely flush radiating from her apple dappled rose-red cheeks.
"Er, I meant... the Cream of Manchester," she said, composure barely regained, "Boddingtons Bitter."
"Oh, reet." said Jack. "Listen lass, ah'm going to have to come all over thee..."
Alexandria's knees buckled, like her Jimmy Choo shoes.
"If thar jus' sits on thy arse like that, ah'm going to have to get me leg over thee... to hump bloody thing reet up t'top." gasped Jack, eyes popping like the candy and straining to hold down his weighty incumbrance.
"An' it's fookin' taters in here. It'll be frozen if ah don't get it oop, like."
The pub cellar was indeed cold. To be expected on a freezing, frosty, February Mancunian eve. Jack, a swarthy youth from the backstreets of Cheetham Hill, was wrestling with a hefty metal barrel of Boddingtons Bitter, struggling to heave it up the chute and into position to connect to the draught taps.
Alexandria Chatterley hailed from the other side of the tracks. Marple Bridge. But lust knows no bounds. Except, perhaps, the leaps and bounds Alexandria was hoping would ensue with Jack Mellors later that night.
"Done," said Jack with one last hump and an assured firm clasp to unite the connecting tubes. "Now lass, gimmee 'and wi' me pump an' thar can taste this beauty - ah bet thar's a reet thirst on thee."
Heart pounding, Lady Alexandria Constance Chatterley, reached out her delicate hand and grasped Jack's pulsating pipe, which had already begun pumping hard to disgorge it's icy creamy contents into his eagerly placed pint glass.
"Eeee, fan-bluddy-tastic head, lass!" the by now tumescent barman groaned, eyes lit up like Blackpool illuminations through a claggy night. "An' look..."
They both gazed in wonder at the tiny crystallised bubbles glistening in the beer's golden effuscence as Jack's quivering finger tenderly wiped away inviting bubbles of evaporation from the glass.
"...it's almost ice. 'Ere lass, get yer lips round this."
Alexandria drank deep of his proffered amber nectar. Swallowed. And burped. Jack eagerly quaffed the remains of the cold gold ale, he too burping in ecstasy.
"Why, it's... yummy! Divine, orgasmic..." moaned the young coquette, coyly wiping his drops of precious liquid from her luscious pouting lips, midnight blue pooled eyes meeting his in mutual approval. "Like an alcoholic Sludge Puppy™."
"Fookin' luvvly. It must be t'temperature..." he panted.
"Jack, one could produce and sell it under a different name - it could make you millions!" she enthused, her long years in marketing welling up to the fore,"You could call it... Bod-Ice!"
An involuntary rasping fart flapped from underneath her dress and cut into the night.
"Bluddy 'ell lass, that were a ripper!" laughed Jack, not in the least daunted, "An' it smells o' toasted 'ops like. Mmmmmmm."
An equally loud and fruitily fragrant guff echoed from Jack's tight moleskin troos...
And so it went on, as the two lovers drank, farted and made the two-humped beast in the pub's cellar through the long cold northern night...
As most bad romances do, their affair lasted no longer than the next morning, cracking headaches, itching crotches and nasty stains to boot.
But, gentle reader, thanks to the dalliance of Mellors and Chatterley that evening, an immensely popular and enduring genre was added to British culture...
The very first of many best-selling, best-smelling, Bod-Ice Rippers...
The name's Babs Cartland, I thenk ya...