Wednesday, April 29, 2015
Nuns on the up
The number of women becoming nuns in England and Wales has trebled over the past five years. Before you get too excited about this news, the numerical increase was from 15 to 45. Of course, these figures don’t include women who secretly become nuns without telling the church. There must be many thousands who wear the wimple at private events in hotels and taverns.
Ignorant people who think that women become nuns because they are too unattractive to have sex should study the case of Theodora Hawksley (pictured above). This 29-year-old postdoctoral researcher mystified her friends by giving up her academic career to join a nunnery in North London.
“In one sense it is a bit like trying to explain to somebody why you are marrying the person you are,” explained Theodora. “You can list their qualities, but in the end it is a relationship of love.”
When I showed her picture to the manager of the safari camp, his breathing quickened.
“What would I have to do to kiss this woman on the lips?” he asked.
“You could start by changing your name to Jesus Christ,” I replied. “Then perform a few miracles, rise from the dead, and her tongue will be wrestling with your tonsils in no time.”
“Bah!” grunted the manager. “I was hoping taking her up The Shard might do the trick.”
Theodora is joining an order of nuns called ‘The Congregation of Jesus’, which encourages its daughters to discard the traditional habit in favour of a t-shirt and jeans. This makes it easier for them to mingle with the ungodly, but harder for the men they meet in discotheques and bars to know they are unavailable. The only solution I can think of is printing “Girlfriend of God” or “Wholly Virgin” on their t-shirts. Being upfront about your situation is better than planting booby-traps on your body, like Catherine de Medici.
Now Theodora, at the age of 29, might not be wholly or even partially a virgin. This possibility we must bravely face. But I don’t agree it would make her less effective in the business of nunning. There is much to be said for tasting the forbidden fruit before giving yourself to Jesus, rather than going through life having masochistic fantasies like Teresa of Avila. The modern nun should be knowledgeable about sex so she can give advice to teenage girls like Maisie Williams, who is currently finding it difficult to understand her own sexual feelings.
Maisie doesn’t tell us what her problem is, but at the age of eighteen I would guess she has apprehensions about the male sexual organ. This would be perfectly normal. As a girl blossoms into womanhood, a man’s todger goes from being an evil snake to a useful (if rather comical) sex aid. There can’t be a woman on Earth who hasn’t, at some moments in her life, had mixed feelings about the beast. There’s no need for Maisie to worry if thinking about it gives her the shudders.
Labels: Maisie Williams, Nuns, The Shard, todger, virginity, virgins
Wednesday, April 22, 2015
Bog standard
Paul McCartney has revealed that he finished off many of his greatest songs while sitting on the toilet. Thus, the final verse of Let It Be was written while Paul was pooping in the gentleman’s lavatory at EMI studios. It reached number two in the British charts.
It’s much harder to compose a catchy tune while taking a leak, of course. The “tinkle-tinkle” noise is too distracting for most songwriters. Evacuating the bowels, by contrast, involves lengthy periods of silence interrupted by occasional bursts of wind and percussion. It is said that Beethoven composed his fifth symphony after a heavy lunch of bratwurst and ale.
Although it’s nice of Paul to tell us his song-writing secrets, I’m not really sure I wanted to know. An artist should preserve the mystique of his artistry, so the public remains in awe of his creative genius. When I was in the circus, I performed a conjuring trick that made the audience believe a clown had given birth to a snake. If anyone asked me how I did it, I told them it was voodoo magic from the darkest jungles of Africa.
Now, some would say that Paul hasn’t written a great song in the last 40 years, so his toilet technique must have faltered fairly quickly after the first flush of exuberance. Maybe the break-up of the Beatles affected the regularity of his bowel movements. There is, however, another explanation for the evaporation of his creative juices. A songwriter who achieves prolific early success is often distracted by other pursuits. In Paul’s case it was sumo wrestling. His interest in this oriental oddity arose when he toured Japan in 1993, and he now attends the major tournaments.
Paul only participates as a spectator, of course. He would not be such a fool to compete in a sport designed for stupendously fat men who enjoy wearing nappies. His love of the moob-wobbling spectacle inspired him to sponsor a stable of wrestlers to promote his latest album. He wisely refrained from composing a tribute ballad for them – how could it have improved on I am the Walrus, which John Lennon wrote 48 years ago?
But I shouldn’t give you the impression that I despise sumo wrestlers. They wouldn’t go far in the jungle, but why would they need to? You don’t have to worry about your lack of mobility if you can earn a billion yen by waddling about inside a ring small enough for a cat orgy. I did say they were fat, but I meant that as a description rather than an insult.
In truth, I hate it when humans use the word “fat” as a term of abuse. The latest victim of this nauseating habit was Britney Spears, who was called a fat bitch while performing in concert. I’m glad that Britney gave the heckler a choice riposte of her own, and am mystified that some commentators have criticised her for doing do. You can’t expect a buxom diva to take it lying down.
Labels: Britney Spears, Paul McCartney, Poo-poo, song-writing, sumo, sumo wrestler
Wednesday, April 15, 2015
Swiftian satire
The exciting news from America is that Taylor Swift is being pursued by two men. They aren’t literally chasing her, of course. The human male is not a horse, even though some can snort and whinny with the best of them. The rivals for Taylor’s fair hand are a sportsman called Sean St Leger and a record producer called Calvin Harris. The sportsman looks as if his head was carved from a block of wood, which may be part of his appeal. There is much to be said for a mate who can crack walnuts with his chin.
Will Taylor’s gallants fight for her favour in the time-honoured way? I’d like to see them square up like a pair of feuding silverbacks, fisting each other’s concavities, (but not biting each other’s testicles, which is what chimpanzees would do). Sadly, I suspect they will settle their differences in the modern metrosexual way by allowing Taylor to choose between them. It won’t be an easy decision. Those in the know say she hasn’t slept with either man, so she may as well toss a coin.
But maybe there’s another way. If Taylor is truly as chaste as they say, she could ask each contestant to demonstrate his skills by making love to a sex doll. She wouldn’t watch them herself, of course. The blush that would bring to her maidenly cheeks would be worse than sunburn. A panel of judges would evaluate their performance from behind a one-way mirror, giving points for agility, inventiveness and staying power. The doll herself would have no vote, but would receive a thorough douching after her ordeal. The judges I would appoint are Lady Gaga, Ellen Degeneres and Barry Manilow. It’s what we call a balanced hen coup in the jungle.
To those of you who think that Barry Manilow is a worthless old has-been, I have some stunning news to announce. The great man has recently married his long-time manager and partner, a gentleman by the name of Garry Kief. What, you never knew that Barry was gay? You should have asked. Why should he volunteer information if you don’t take an interest in his life? Fittingly enough, his “best man” was the actress Suzanne Somers, a close lady friend. It all goes to show that the old dog has plenty of waggle-power in his tail.
A more radical solution to Taylor’s dilemma would be to marry both her suitors. Before you dismiss the idea as flagitious and impractical, cast your mind back to a classic film called Paint Your Wagon. In that epic musical western, a pioneer lady was unable to choose between a pair of prospectors played by Clint Eastwood and Lee Marvin, so she married both of them. They soon came to an amicable arrangement where the husbands would visit their wife on alternate days or something like that. No different, in principle, from two buddies sharing a mountain bike. This was precisely the kind of pragmatic adaptability that enabled homo sapiens to thrive in the Badlands.
Labels: Barry Manilow, gay marriage, polyandry, sex dolls, Taylor Swift
Wednesday, April 08, 2015
Hurley's half-century
Elizabeth Hurley will be 50 this summer. If you ask me, she doesn’t look a day over 46. Those expecting a glorious jamboree to celebrate this historic event will be disappointed. Miss Hurley has revealed her plans for the occasion to a gossip magazine:
“I go to bed at 8.30 each night so it'll probably be something small and private with my family and maybe I'll do something wild and wonderful later.”
Could all those early nights be the secret of her regal beauty? I doubt it. The history books tell us that the Queen Nefertiti retired at sunset and aged like the Wicked Witch of the West. We jungle apes believe it’s the position you sleep in that affects your appearance. The healthiest posture for a gorilla is swinging in a hammock with the toes tucked below the chin. Upright humans, by contrast, should lie flat on their backs on an extra-hard mattress. The worst position for both humans and apes is reclining face down with one’s bum sticking in the air. That’s just asking for trouble.
I don’t know what position Elizabeth sleeps in, but I’d venture a guess that her pores get plenty of breathing space. Her skin is truly a marvel, but we shouldn’t let it distract us from her other qualities. I’m thinking particularly of her butt cheeks, which are due to appear on British TV. A preview of this pert rump can be found in an on-line newspaper, which also showcases her acting skills. Comment would be superfluous.
It probably hasn’t escaped your notice that Miss Hurley said she might do something “wild and wonderful” after her birthday. And if it has escaped your notice, I am now reminding you of the fact. I’m not going to waste your time and mine by trying to guess what she has in mind. There are too many wild and wonderful recreations in the solar system to guess what tickles Elizabeth’s fancy. I could probably whittle it down to 17 or 19 plausible alternatives, but what would be the point? We would still be groping in the dark.
Instead of indulging in such idle speculation, let me suggest an activity she could add to her shortlist. What I have in mind is a soirée with Tove Lo, the Swedish singer who recently described herself as a hobby lesbian. Miss Lo apparently has a boyfriend who does not object to her character-building pastime:
“We’re so good together and he’s very understanding,” she explained. “He gets it, so that makes it a lot easier.”
One wonders how he can live with the anguish. Be that as it may, a woman who likes to dabble in Sapphic diversions is most unlikely to refuse a date with Elizabeth Hurley. And if she’s not all talk, she should come up with something wild and wonderful to cap off the evening. There’s nothing wrong with playing at being a lesbian if you don’t have the gumption to take it up professionally.
Labels: early nights, Elizabeth Hurley, hobby lesbian, lesbian, sleeping positions
Wednesday, April 01, 2015
Dry wititudes
The English actress Gemma Arterton says she will never live in the USA because Americans can’t tell when she’s joking:
“I always struggle when I'm over there because people don't get my sense of humour and they think I'm being serious all the time,” she explained.
I know how she feels. The African jungle is full of animals that don’t know when gorillas are joking. I’ll never forget the time I called a hippopotamus a fat cunt for blocking my path to the mangrove swamp. It opened it jaws so wide you could have put a microwave oven in its mouth. I had to climb up a tree and whistle through my teeth to convince it my remark was meant in jest.
The English sense of humour has been misunderstood by more truculent creatures than hippopotami, of course. Tom Jones has bittersweet memories of his first encounter with John Lennon, which occurred when the Beatles were rehearsing for a TV show. As Lennon walked on stage, he noticed Tom sitting in the studio and felt obliged to pay his respects:
“How are you doing, you Welsh poof!” he cried.
Tom responded to this affable greeting by calling John “a Scouse bastard” and inviting him to continue his enquiries at close quarters. It’s a good thing that Tom’s agent was on hand to explain that the Scouse bastard was trying to be funny rather than casting aspersions or questioning preferences.
The big advantage that Americans have over the English is that no one mistakes their earnest remarks for frivolous ones. A team of American scientists recently proposed that gold worth millions of dollars could be extracted from human dung. Had English scientists advanced the same theory, no one would have taken them seriously – the tabloid press would have mercilessly mocked them and their idea would have been roundly pooh-poohed. This explains why wacky inventions are far more common in the USA than Britain. The nose-hair trimmer and the nipple clamp are both of American origin.
Now, the American scientists are not suggesting that anyone can shit out a goldmine. The amount of gold a single human could produce in an entire lifetime of defecation would not be sufficient to fill a tooth cavity. However, sifting the sewers on an industrial scale could theoretically generate a bar of bullion every week, which would repay the US national debt in 100,000 years. That doesn’t come close to the gold rush of 1849, but it’s nothing to be sniffed at.
Perhaps Gemma Arterton has been hanging out with the wrong kind of American. I recently had a look at the amazingly silly tweets of Shia Lebeouf, and it’s difficult to imagine him taking anything seriously. His Wikipedia biography also reveals that he dated an English actress called Carey Mulligan for over a year, so perhaps he has a taste for haughty and sarcastic women. I don’t make a habit of playing the pander, but in this case it looks like a match made in heaven.
Labels: English humour, Gemma Arterton, hippopotamus, poo-poo gold, Shia Lebeouf
