Wednesday, January 28, 2015
Franny and Warnie
So it seems that two thousand Filipino traffic cops were forced to wear nappies because of the Pope’s visit. I suppose a few of them might have enjoyed the experience, but the vast majority must have felt like utter cretins. One imagines they were too ashamed to look their wives in the face after returning home from work. The Mayor of Manila issued this diaper decree so the road patrollers could attend to their duties without sneaking off to answer a call of Nature. Ensuring the smooth progression of the papal convoy was clearly too important a task to be jeopardised by anyone taking a leak.
It’s not known whether Pope Franny wore a nappy himself – it probably wasn’t necessary because his vestments are wide enough to conceal a bedpan. Realising that the traffic cops might blame him for their predicament, he shrewdly attempted to deflect their resentment by encouraging mothers to suckle their babies in the Sistine Chapel. The subtext intended for the nappy-wearing officers is as clear as the holy water in the papal douche:
“Yes, I made you feel like babies, but being a baby isn’t all bad – you get to suck on a woman’s titties.”
Now some people are saying that the current High Pontiff has relatively liberal views on birth control and recreational sex. While I’m prepared to believe that he’s less of a curmudgeon than ex-Pope Benny, he needs to do more to nail his colours to the mast. A good way of getting the message across would be to grant an audience to Shane Warne, the legendary Australian ball-spinner, who is probably the most famous fornicator of the Catholic faith. Warnie recently lived up to his reputation by seducing an Adelaide mother-of two, who was suitably dazzled by his tricky fingerwork:
“He’s very strong in the bedroom,” said 43-year-old Kim McGrath. “He asked me to keep my high heels on while he spanked me.”
What I admire about Warnie, apart from his masterly spanking technique, is that he arranged his date with Ms McGrath on Tinder. A celebrity who uses the same dating site as the average Bruce and Sheila is better, in my view, than a sleazy big shot who persuades a friendly pimp to get escorts for him. Ms McGrath was certainly thrilled to have attracted Warnie’s attention, although one cannot condone her spilling the beans to the press. It seems she couldn’t contain her excitement.
The relevant point for the Holy See is that both Warnie and Ms McGrath are single, so no adultery was involved. It gives Pope Franny the perfect opportunity to prove his liberal credentials by inviting Warnie to the Vatican for a wine and wafer party. In return for the honour of being blessed by the Holy Father, Warnie could meet him in the confession box and fill him in on all the juicy details. They’ll be playing cricket in Rome and Buenos Aries when Warnie’s deeds are revealed to the faithful!
Labels: cricket, fornication, nappy, Pope Franny, Shane Warne
Friday, January 07, 2011
London gossip
I’m back in the Congo, where my females pester me for news from London. I attempt to satisfy their hunger for gossip with details of Elizabeth Hurley’s latest affair.
Having announced her separation from her husband on Twitter, it didn’t take long for Liz to find a suitable paramour. The bloom on the rose may be fading, but there’s still enough nectar on the petals to attract a variety of pollinating insects. The lucky bug, on this occasion, was a tubby Australian sportsman called Shane Warne. More about him later.
One particular detail of the dalliance makes my females hoot with derision. It is the involvement of Hugh Grant, Ms Hurley’s ex-boyfriend. Apparently he acted as the facilitator, driving the couple to parties and booking their hotel rooms. In the eyes of my females, this makes him the most laughable wimp and cuckold north of the Kalahari. Although I am no fan of Hugh, considering him to be meretricious dandy, I feel honour bound to defend him on this occasion.
“An alpha male feels no jealousy when a former mate bestows her favours on another,” I declare. “It is no different, in principle, from a pride male permitting a vulture to eat his leftovers. If and when your partnership in the Bananas consortium is dissolved, you can rest assured that I will whistle in amusement if I see another silverback squatting over your hairy haunches.”
My females respond to this statement by charging at me like enraged bulls. Fortunately, I anticipate their reaction and flee before they can mob me. I’ll probably spend a few days in the safari guesthouse until they cool down.
I should clarify my position on Hugh Grant. My approval of his conduct is based on the assumption that he did no more than provide logistical support. If he actually encouraged the affair, possibly in the hope of comparing notes with Mr Warne afterwards, I withdraw my blessing. I would never play the pander for a former mate, no matter how lonely or lovelorn she was. Some charitable deeds demand too high a price of one’s dignity.
The final issue to consider is whether Mr Warne was a worthy gallant for Liz. His claim to fame is as a celebrated exponent of the game of cricket, a peculiar English sport where men in white costumes hurl a hard leather ball at each other. The object of the game is to avoid being hit in the testicles, something that “Warnie” clearly achieved in his illustrious career, given the amount of post-match shagging he did.
It’s too early to say whether Liz has demeaned herself by consorting with Warnie. He has since returned to Australia, where he was acclaimed as a national hero for nailing the posh Pommy princess. “I saw, I conquered, I came,” he wrote in the autograph book of one of his larrikin fans. Whether this is humiliating for Liz will depend on Warnie’s subsequent behaviour. If he invites her to Melbourne for another spell of leg-breaks and flippers, I think she can claim an honourable draw.
Update: The Warnie balloon has burst!
Labels: cricket, Elizabeth Hurley, Hugh Grant, Shane Warne
