Wednesday, February 01, 2012
Sarko's monkish pledge
President Sarkozy has vowed to become a monk if he is voted out of office in May. I hope this is a subtle way of confirming that Carla Bruni will remain the first lady of France if he loses the election. A woman of her regal beauty clearly belongs in the Élysée Palace as much as the Louis XVI four-poster bed, whose sheets she could earnestly keep warm for the next incumbent.
Of course, it’s pretty arrogant of Sarko to assume he can just walk into a monastery and become a monk. What makes him think he’s got the required aptitude? If I were the abbot, I’d tell him to check into his local YMCA wearing nothing but a goat-hair robe and a pair of sandals. If he can survive for six weeks without agitating the other residents or scratching beneath the habit, he might be suitable for the monkish way of life.
You notice that I haven’t mentioned sexual abstinence. This is because I’ve never been sure that monks were celibate after seeing The Name of the Rose. The movie has a scene where an apprentice monk played by Christian Slater loses his virginity to an incredibly sensual peasant girl who wears no underwear. It’s not clear what she was doing in the monastery, but she was never made to feel unwelcome until the Inquisition turned up and denounced her as a witch. There’s always a party pooper who wants to spoil the fun.
I’m not saying all monks are as corrupt as those medieval ones. There was absolutely no hanky panky in the Shaolin temple that Kwai Chang Caine learnt his Kung Fu techniques. This didn't mean he was doomed to a life of meditation and spanking the monkey. Before Caine set off on his quest, he had the following memorable exchange with Master Kan:
Caine: And what of women, Master? It is permitted for one of our temple to love a woman and feel the warmth of her body?
Master Kan: We allow no women inside our temple, for flesh that is indulged will not be trained, and minds that are bewitched will not be disciplined. Yet the monk who makes his way in the world cannot shut his ears to the music of birdsong, nor close his mouth to the taste of wild honey.
Caine took this to mean that once he left the temple he was free to fraternise with females who chirped at him and stick his tongue into their honey pots. I think he got laid in the first episode of Kung Fu, after a woman he shacked up with said he must have “other needs” apart from “food and a place to sleep”. It has since been acknowledged that telling a woman you only need food and a place to sleep is a brilliant seduction technique. Women love to fuck men who don’t want to fuck them.
It doesn’t work with female gorillas, though. Any male who tells them he wants nothing but food and a place to sleep is treated as a pathetic loser whose balls have stopped functioning.
Labels: Carla Bruni, Christian Slater, Kwai-Chang Caine, monks, Sarkozy
Friday, November 25, 2011
Sealed with a kiss
An Italian fashion house has launched an advertising campaign promoting the idea that enemies should kiss and make-up. A huge picture of President Obama and Hugo Chavez pressing lips recently appeared on a billboard outside the Brazzaville YMCA. Everyone knows the photo is a fake, so it generated very little excitement, even among the residents of the YMCA.
It’s just as well that Obama is secure enough in his sexuality not to blast the poster to kingdom come with a Cruise missile. He’s recently been proving his heterosexual credentials by canoodling with Julia Gillard, the raunchy redhead who rules the roost in Australia. After greeting Ms Gillard with a moist-looking peck on the cheek, he patted her receptive tush right into the White House. I hope Michelle was mature enough not to give him hell afterwards – there’s no such thing as cheating when you’re making political alliances.
The only person complaining about the poster campaign is Pope Benedict, who was depicted smooching an Egyptian holy man. A Vatican spokesman denounced it as a violation of the Holy Father’s chastity, but I suspect what really upset Benny was the lack of passion in the kiss. No one ever got to be Pope without sticking his tongue down a few throats. The fashion house withdrew the Papal poster under threat of legal action, but there must be a few thousand stashed away in a warehouse. They'll become a collector’s item after Benny has his sex-change operation.
The most puzzling poster is the one of Sarkozy kissing Frau Merkel. The couple were bosom allies the last time I checked, so why show them kissing? Could Sarko have bribed the fashion house to do it because he wanted to make his wife jealous? A new mother is often so infatuated with her baby that she neglects her husband’s needs. Maybe the poster will prompt Carla to accelerate her programme of coochie exercises so she can wrap her luscious thighs around Sarko the next time he ventures into the marital bed. If he keeps on fantasizing about getting into Frau Merkel's pants it might damage the French national interest. She doesn’t look like the sort of woman who’ll give it away for nothing.
Now, this advertising campaign is a clever gimmick, but its premise looks flawed to me. There is no evidence from human history that kissing is a reliable indicator of benign intentions. Delilah kissed Sampson; Judas kissed Jesus; J Edgar Hoover kissed Dillinger and a dozen other gangsters. It’s the oldest trick in the book to butter up your victim with a smooch before giving him the big shaft. As Shirley Bassey said, it’s the kiss of death from Mr Goldfinger.
Instead of kissing, humans who want to make peace should do what we gorillas do: bring about a controlled collision between their rumps. It takes real courage to turn your back on a rival and stick out your behind, trusting that he will do the same rather than kicking your arse or attempting some other unspeakable act. If President Obama started booty-bumping all the hostile characters who show up in the UN building, the Age of Universal Love might finally dawn.
Labels: Angela Merkel, Barack Obama, booty-bumping, Julia Gillard, kissy-face, Pope Benedict, Sarkozy
Friday, October 28, 2011
French twittering
Although I don’t make a habit of interfering in human politics, I do feel obliged to offer words of support to Monsieur Eric Besson, the 51-year-old French industry minister who accidentally publicised a twitter message intended only for the eyes of his shapely young wife. The tweet went thus:
“When I come home I am going to bed. Too exhausted. With you?”
His treacherous followers forwarded this message widely before he could delete it. Consequently, he is being mocked throughout France for propositioning the ravishing Madame Besson with words that Basil Fawlty might have used to persuade Sybil to put on her crotchless knickers. The French expect better of their prominent men, having been raised in the belief that seduction is an exquisite art form perfected, over the centuries, by the nation’s bushy-eyebrowed poets.
This jeering at Monsieur Besson is a grave injustice, for even a one-eyed rooster could see he was paying his wife the greatest of compliments. There he was, making his way home, so dog-tired that he planned to hit the hay without even watching an episode of CSI Miami (with subtitles). Yet he still expressed a desire for physical intimacy with his mouth-wateringly sultry spouse. And let us acknowledge that Twitter is a wholly inadequate medium for romantic solicitation. Even the noble Lord Byron might have tweeted “Fancy a shag?" while riding home on his horse, his buttocks sore after a long day in the saddle. Sometimes a man has to get to the point instead of pussy-footing around with fancy language.
Now the French claim to be a nation of great lovers, but is this really true? There are baboons who claim their rumps are smoother than a billiard ball. I suspect the Gallic reputation for amorous indulgence is a myth created by overblown characters such as Maurice Chevalier and Pepé Le Pew. Even they did nothing particularly special, unless you believe that kissing a woman’s arm from wrist to shoulder while talking like Inspector Clouseau is guaranteed to turn her innards to putty.
The kind of love the French really excel at is self-love. Their cuisine, their fashion and even their affected language are presented to the world as the apogee of human culture and achievement. In the jungle, this kind of boasting would immediately be seen the defensive posturing of a beta male. You don’t make big noises in front of your rivals unless you’re scared they might rub your face into their armpits.
I shouldn’t end this French-themed post without offering my warm congratulations to Carla Bruni, who has given birth to a healthy baby girl at the age of 43. May little Giulia have the looks of her mother and the stature of her father. I was disappointed that some newspapers described the new-born infant as “President Sarkozy’s daughter”, as if there was any need to emphasise the point. Ms Bruni may be whimsical and impulsive, but she wouldn't allow any oily-arsed non-entity to plant his sprouts in her allotment.
Labels: Carla Bruni, France, Sarkozy, seduction, Twitter
Wednesday, February 09, 2011
Carla and the mullahs
I wonder if the Iranian regime regrets calling Carla Bruni a prostitute. I doubt it upset her very much. France is one of those great nations where being a courtesan does not prevent a woman from becoming a national icon. The beautiful Madame de Pompadour serviced King Louis XV with great distinction until her untimely death at the age of 42. She was given a state funeral and her mourners included Voltaire, who bemoaned the fact that her life had been cut short when so many decrepit old farts were still living. I remember saying something similar when Princess Diana died, although grief may have disordered my wits.
Perhaps Carla should have responded to the Iranians as follows:
“I am a prostitute who chooses her own clients and sets her own fees. For some men I charge a palace in the sky; for others just a wink of the eye.”
It’s the kind of stylish remark the French love to hear from their public figures. I bet it would have dumbfounded her detractors in the Bearded Republic, who also alleged that Carla’s husband would be happy if she died, an insult which deserves high marks for ingenuity and low marks for plausibility. It is possible, of course, that Sarko mumbled something to that effect in his sleep, but how would the Iranians know? They certainly aren’t savvy enough to plant a bugging device in his bedroom.
“I am a prostitute who chooses her own clients and sets her own fees. For some men I charge a palace in the sky; for others just a wink of the eye.”
It’s the kind of stylish remark the French love to hear from their public figures. I bet it would have dumbfounded her detractors in the Bearded Republic, who also alleged that Carla’s husband would be happy if she died, an insult which deserves high marks for ingenuity and low marks for plausibility. It is possible, of course, that Sarko mumbled something to that effect in his sleep, but how would the Iranians know? They certainly aren’t savvy enough to plant a bugging device in his bedroom.
The only vulnerable point in Sarko’s palace security is the midgets he has hired as his bodyguards. The problem with midgets is that: (a) they are very easy to bribe, and (b) they are small enough to hide under a bed. The Iranian regime might well have recruited one of them as an informant by offering him a regular supply of pistachio nuts, a snack which they possess in ample supply. If so, Sarko’s fear of being dwarfed in public may have exposed his darkest secrets to the Big Turbans in Teheran. Vanity is downfall of all great Frenchmen.
As a former circus ape, I have fielded my fair share of insults from humans resentful of my fame and rugged good looks. A fat-bellied oaf once called me “a big hairy cunt” when I was having an evening stroll after a show in Chelmsford. As there were no women or children in the vicinity to overhear his coarse remark, I decided to treat him leniently.
“There is no such thing as a hairy cunt, you fat-bellied oaf,” I said. “The hair which decorates the female pudenda is always located on the perimeter of the sexual organ rather than actually on it. This is true for female gorillas as well as women.”
His only retort to my anatomical treatise was to make a noise like a braying jackass. I decided to let this utterance pass without comment. A dignified silence is usually appropriate when an effective riposte has already been delivered. So, after turning my back on the fat-bellied oaf, I ambled away leisurely while thrusting my rump from side to side.
Labels: Carla Bruni, fat-bellied oaf, Iranian regime, Madame de Pompadour, Sarkozy
Friday, March 26, 2010
The French woman's lieutenant
Rumours that the first lady of France is having an affair prompts one of our guests to call her “The French Open”. That’s an exaggeration in my view, as only the best players get to whack their balls on Ms Bruni’s hallowed turf. Her current amour is one of France’s leading musicians, which makes him a major celebrity for fans of maudlin songs packed with very long vowels. Calling her “The French Masters” might be more accurate, although I doubt even the greatest of the great would have mastered the hazards and heavy rough on her challenging course.
President Sarkozy, meanwhile, has found solace in the arms of his ecology minister, who happens to be a black belt in karate. That’s good news for Sarko, but a major headache for his bodyguard team. Suppose she feels spurned when the affair runs its course? Just one chop on the neck would leave France without a head of state. If I were in charge of the president’s security, I would insist on one of my men being in attendance during the whoopee-faire. If things got too hot on the king size bed, he could save the day by jumping in between them.
The spectre of marital infidelity haunts humans of all genders, races and persuasions. In a quest for a faithful spouse, a Japanese man has married a cushion. She was no ordinary beanbag, it must be said, having been moulded into the shape of a sexy cartoon character. I suppose other men might be tempted to sit on her if they found her alone, but at least she would never do anything to provoke their cruel lust. Her heart would always belong to the doting husband who washed her casing and re-stuffed her when the need arose.
It must be a great comfort to have a spouse you can sit on whenever you want. When I asked the manager of the safari camp whether he sat on his wife, a wistful expression appeared on his face.
“I used to sit on her all the time when we were newlyweds,” he said. “Now she only lets me do it as a special treat, when I’ve bought her something expensive. And after ten minutes she says I’m making her numb and shoves me off.”
“Is she as soft as a cushion?” I asked.
“Oh yes,” he replied. “Women are very soft if you sit on them in the right place.”
Call me an innocent ape, but I never realised that human females made such comfortable bottom rests. I’ve never inflicted my own weight on them, of course – I’m not the sort of ape who enjoys making women suffer and groan. Female gorillas, by contrast, would rather sit than be sat on. There’s not much you can do when a group of them gang up on you, so I usually pretend to enjoy it. Be that as it may, there must be a lightweight midget who could safely test women for comfort in a variety of different positions. In a world where ladies can be harshly judged for not having the perfect figure, it would surely be a great consolation to be rated as a first class pouf.
Labels: affairs, Carla Bruni, cushions, poufs, Sarkozy
Monday, June 23, 2008
Songbird of France
An English tourist tells me how he would go about seducing the French president’s wife. “These French beauties are suckers for poets,” he explains. “I’d send her a note saying:
Let’s go for a meal
Let’s have a quick tipple
You’ll sigh when you feel
My tongue on your nipple.”
I scratch my head doubtfully. “I don’t think any amount of nipple talk will impress Ms Bruni,” I say. “Her nipples have seen and done everything.”
I encourage him to discuss his romantic fantasies with the other guests.
Now Gorilla Bananas is no poet, but he’s watched enough French movies to have a feel for the verbiage that goes down well with their floozies. If I were writing a love note to Carla, I’d pen something like this:
Your smile: it is the arrow that pierces my heart
Your skin: it is the food my body craves
Drain my lake of desolation with your lips.
I have a pretty shrewd idea that this sort of guff passes for sophistication in France, especially if it’s recited by one of those brooding Gallic voices that does the narration in films by Jean-Luc Godard. I assume it will translate well.
We were discussing France’s first lady because she’s recently released an album of songs about each of the 30 men who’ve had the pleasure of licking her nipples. “Only 30?” I hear you ask. “It appears so,” I reply. Carla has been quite selective in her choice of paramours if one ignores the anonymous studs she’s picked up in bars, who obviously don’t count. She is one of those beautiful women, you see, who is particularly attracted to intellectuals. Having consorted with a succession of eminent writers and philosophers, she was swept off her feet by Sarko because of his “five or even six brains” (as she admiringly put it). One wonders how they fit inside his head. Maybe he keeps a couple in the refrigerator and one in his pants as a backup system.
Of course, I can see why Carla wouldn’t be interested in very handsome men. A stunningly attractive woman doesn’t want a lover who may – perish the thought – think that she is the lucky one. A clever fellow with a face like an owl will give her the perfect combination of adoration and gratitude, as well as helping her solve crossword puzzles. And if he happens to be president of France, she gets to flirt with the world’s most powerful men while upstaging their own dowdy spouses. The dove looks twice as lovely when preening her feathers beside the broiler hen.
The fascinating thing about Carla’s latest compositions is that they’ve made her enormously popular with the French public – far more so than her gnomish husband, who is widely regarded as a bit of a dick. You’ve got to admire a nation in which the president’s wife is feted for admitting to 30 past affairs and writing a song about each one of them. I don’t think it would have worked for Mrs Clinton, even if she’d possessed the required musical talent. Perhaps the French Constitution should be amended to allow Carla to continue in her position when Sarko is voted out of office. Ideally, he would be forced to bequeath her to the next incumbent, like the presidential seal. La courtisane de l'Elysée Palace might be a tourist attraction to rival the Eiffel Tower.
Labels: Carla Bruni, Jean-Luc Godard, Sarkozy
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
The French Disconnection
I don’t often defend the good name of a woman I have never met, but felt compelled to do so when a tourist referred to Cécilia Sarkozy as a “snooty bitch”. The fellow was miffed that she was divorcing the French president rather than rejoicing in the role of first lady. I expressed my dissent in forceful terms:
“Sir, I disagree! It is greatly to the lady's credit that her heart is not swayed by such shallow temptations! A virtuous woman cannot be seduced by the trinkets of high office or the baubles of unmerited acclaim!”
The man assumed the demeanour of one whose nipples had just been tweaked by a sumo wrestler and trotted off silently, picking his teeth with a pencil.
I do hope Cécilia won’t betray my faith in her by speaking ill of Sarko. It must be very tempting for a recently divorced woman to dish the dirt on her ex. Even sweet-faced Nicole Kidman said she was looking forward to wearing high heels after splitting with Cruisey. I am sure that many unscrupulous publishers would pay Cécilia a fortune to reveal Sarko’s bedroom secrets – of how his nostrils flared like a racehorse when he saw her in satin underwear; of how he gnashed his teeth like a basset hound when he climaxed. Such a memoir would doubtless sell well, but at what cost to her dignity, to say nothing of the dignity and grandeur of France?
Being French, she won’t have to worry about the gutter press poking its warty nose into her post-Sarko dalliances. For all we know, some enterprising young beau might already be squiring her. Whatever you say about the French, give them credit for their mature attitude to sex. You can learn a lot from the love scenes in their movies. Unlike in Anglophone films, the music never starts playing when the couple are horizontal – instead, you get a full range of naturalistic sound effects along with fascinating snippets of dialogue. One could easily write a book titled “Interesting things said by the French during coitus”.
The sad thing about the break-up is its effect on Sarko, who’s been looking rather glum, even for a Frenchman. Just when he should be triumphantly bestriding the globe like a modern-day Asterix the Gaul, TV interviewers are rubbing salt into his wounds by asking him about his marriage. Perhaps the King of Swaziland might be persuaded to loan him a couple of his own wives to warm-up the king-size bed in the Élysée Palace. Sarko could certainly afford to entertain them in style, and their presence might inspire Hugh Hefner to send him a free collection of adult toys from the Playboy Mansion. Such are the perks of being president of France – a lavish salary, a rent-free palace and an unlimited supply of gratuities from foreign potentates.
My ape intuition tells me that we won’t see Sarko on top form until he’s done some serious arse-kicking. Top of the list of gadflies to be swatted are the disgustingly carnivorous farmers of France, notorious for belligerently asserting their right to butcher anything that moves in the countryside. The next time these horse-eating villains obstruct the highways with their tractors, Sarko should be waiting for them with bulldozers, helicopters and vats of putrid offal to drop on their stubborn heads. A great cheer will resound through Europe when these ill-mannered bumpkins are laid waste by the force de frappe, allowing Sarko to claim his rightful position at the continent’s Action Man.
“Sir, I disagree! It is greatly to the lady's credit that her heart is not swayed by such shallow temptations! A virtuous woman cannot be seduced by the trinkets of high office or the baubles of unmerited acclaim!”
The man assumed the demeanour of one whose nipples had just been tweaked by a sumo wrestler and trotted off silently, picking his teeth with a pencil.
I do hope Cécilia won’t betray my faith in her by speaking ill of Sarko. It must be very tempting for a recently divorced woman to dish the dirt on her ex. Even sweet-faced Nicole Kidman said she was looking forward to wearing high heels after splitting with Cruisey. I am sure that many unscrupulous publishers would pay Cécilia a fortune to reveal Sarko’s bedroom secrets – of how his nostrils flared like a racehorse when he saw her in satin underwear; of how he gnashed his teeth like a basset hound when he climaxed. Such a memoir would doubtless sell well, but at what cost to her dignity, to say nothing of the dignity and grandeur of France?
Being French, she won’t have to worry about the gutter press poking its warty nose into her post-Sarko dalliances. For all we know, some enterprising young beau might already be squiring her. Whatever you say about the French, give them credit for their mature attitude to sex. You can learn a lot from the love scenes in their movies. Unlike in Anglophone films, the music never starts playing when the couple are horizontal – instead, you get a full range of naturalistic sound effects along with fascinating snippets of dialogue. One could easily write a book titled “Interesting things said by the French during coitus”.
The sad thing about the break-up is its effect on Sarko, who’s been looking rather glum, even for a Frenchman. Just when he should be triumphantly bestriding the globe like a modern-day Asterix the Gaul, TV interviewers are rubbing salt into his wounds by asking him about his marriage. Perhaps the King of Swaziland might be persuaded to loan him a couple of his own wives to warm-up the king-size bed in the Élysée Palace. Sarko could certainly afford to entertain them in style, and their presence might inspire Hugh Hefner to send him a free collection of adult toys from the Playboy Mansion. Such are the perks of being president of France – a lavish salary, a rent-free palace and an unlimited supply of gratuities from foreign potentates.
My ape intuition tells me that we won’t see Sarko on top form until he’s done some serious arse-kicking. Top of the list of gadflies to be swatted are the disgustingly carnivorous farmers of France, notorious for belligerently asserting their right to butcher anything that moves in the countryside. The next time these horse-eating villains obstruct the highways with their tractors, Sarko should be waiting for them with bulldozers, helicopters and vats of putrid offal to drop on their stubborn heads. A great cheer will resound through Europe when these ill-mannered bumpkins are laid waste by the force de frappe, allowing Sarko to claim his rightful position at the continent’s Action Man.
Labels: force de frappe, Hugh Heffner, Sarkozy
