There was a big match last night. No, not some French team beating some Spanish team in North London, we’re talking about a proper old fashioned dust-up. A big ol’ showdown, in Westwood, Cal-ee-four-nigh-ay.

In the red corner was January ‘chesty’ Jones, weighing in at 33-24-34 and hoping to land a knockout blow with her ravishing cleavage.

In the blue corner was Diane ‘legsalicious’ Kruger, weighing in at 33 (and a half)-23-34 and hoping her luscious legs would dance their way to victory.

The referee for this title bout? The one and only Liam Neeson. (Strange saying, that, 'the one and only', seeing as there are probably thousands of 'Liam Neesons' around. But that's not very interesting, so let's just ignore that particular tangent.)

The thing is, y’see, as every good woman knows, if you’re attending a fancy do, you can only wear a dress that flaunts your legs OR your cleavage. Women that break this golden tenet are banished to the land of ‘I wouldn’t let my boyfriend be friends with HER’, a land populated by tuts and furtively exchanged knowing glances.

It's different if you're just going on a night out, to a club which charges a tenner to get in and both serves and plays Reef - in that situation you're fully entitled to flash more flesh than an obese nudist on a trampoline.


Even on tippy-toes Krugs was the smallest

So, who was crowned victorious in this most spectacular of title fights? Well, neither really. It was pretty much a draw. Can you have a draw in boxing? Let’s say that you can.

Maybe the winner was Liam Neeson, who spent his evening sandwiched between the two of them, like a piece of peppered acty ham between two slices of that scrummy bread that looks like tigers.

Maybe the winner was bread. Or tigers. Tigers and bread are pretty much ALWAYS THE WINNERS.

Oh yeah, by the way, have you ever wondered what January Jones would look like with big angels wings, holding an archery bow, standing next to a man wearing quite a broad red tie?


That's what that looks like