Eliza Doolittle, owner and curator of tremendously long legs (and also she sings a bit, we think) is point-blank refusing to wear trousers. Not on her watch. No matter who tries to make her. At least, that’s what we think has happened, given the evidence shown in almost every picture of her ever. Like these ones taken at a pre-Wimbledon event.
We can just imagine them now – the Trouser Nazis, elite military and political force – breaking down Eliza’s door and thrusting a pair of grey wool-blend slacks into her hands. They shout at her, in crisp but almost indecipherably poor German accents:
Brace yourselves, this goes on for a while
'Mizz Doolittle. Ve feel it vould be appropriate if you vere to immediately CEASE UND DESIST mit der sexy hotpantswearen, der shortshortswearen, der miniskirtwearen, und der slinkywhitedresswearen. Refusal vill not be taken lightly, naturlich.'
Of course, Eliza’s heard this before. She’s fought off the Jeans Stasi, the Pantaloon Mossad, and the Knickerbocker KGB. She’ll never wear trousers, no matter how many serious but badly-accented teams of specialists try to make her.
A revolver appears in her hand – four shots – and all of the agents lay dead on the floor, blood pooling around the ragged wounds in their heads. Eliza, ever the pragmatist, knows that her legs are too sexy and too long to be the target of a simple four-man trouser coercion squad. She knows that there has to be backup.
You enjoying yourselves? We're quite proud of 'Pantaloon Mossad'
'Ve varned you that refusal vould not be taken lightly, Mizz Doolittle! You haf forced us to resort to EXTREME MEASURES so you vill not distract der men of der vorld mit your legs!” screams a loudhailer from outside.
The windows shatter. Breeches, launched from the smoking barrel of a tiger tank, smash through her stylish London apartment. She rolls into the lobby – several bystanders are forcibly trousered, many of them now uncomfortably wearing two pairs – and into the lift.
She bursts from the front doors, smoke and chaos and screaming and acid-wash jeans filling the air, and runs down the barrel of the tank’s main cannon. Her toned legs easily wrench open the hatch on top, and she sees three pairs of terrified Trouser Nazi eyes looking up at her.
Nearly done! Hope you liked the pictures
'When you get to hell,' she says, pulling back the hammer on her revolver, 'tell ‘em Eliza sent you.' The shot rings out and connects with the ignition core of one of the specialist trouser shells, she dives backwards, and the bomb explodes in the tank leaving the occupants wearing far too many pairs of Capri pants. And dead.
'Well, time to get off that pre-Wimbledon event!' says Eliza to herself shouldering her bag, and hailing a nearby cab with a cheery whistle.
Make no mistake about it – Eliza Doolittle is a modern-day hero, and no-one will make her cover up her beautiful legs. No-one.