Wednesday, December 02, 2015
Aerial assualt
I draw your attention to a strange and disturbing news story from Kuwait, where an 8-year-old boy is standing trial for molesting his school teacher. The young fellow allegedly manufactured a paper aeroplane which he fired into the teacher’s “lower back region” – a polite Kuwaiti term for the bumcakes. The prosecutor has demanded a 5-year prison term for the boy, who was in shock when he appeared in court, telling the judge that he didn’t know why he was there.
Before denouncing the Kuwaitis as towel-headed apostles of the child catcher in Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang, we should recognise that many women are extremely sensitive about their posteriors. In all probability, the teacher had a sizeable rump which was a major hazard for low-flying projectiles. To have such a sensitive area of her anatomy assaulted in this way would have deflated her self-esteem and inflated her body image. I hope she has received counselling from a psychologist to reassure her that her bum is not as big as she thinks it is. No woman should go through life believing that her rear-end is a legitimate target for paper aeroplanes.
As for the boy, he may be wholly innocent of any malicious intent. The news report indicates that he dreamt of becoming an aviation engineer. We can therefore assume that the paper aeroplane was expertly constructed and found its own banking curve. Lacking navigation tools, evasive manoeuvres would have been impossible when a large fleshy object appeared in its flight path. If I were the judge, I would call witnesses who saw the boy’s reaction when the collision occurred. Only if he clapped his hands and hooted would there be any solid evidence against him.
This doesn’t mean I approve of putting an 8-year-old child on trial, of course. The Kuwaitis have their own peculiar customs which would not be appropriate in a gorilla habitat. When I was in the circus, I often looked after the children of performers who had gone out for a night on the town. For human infants, a gorilla is the most awesome Super Nanny who ever took up the profession of nannying. I didn’t need to say much to them, but when I did they followed my instructions to the letter.
One on occasion, I saw a naughty boy poke a girl in the eye and make her cry. After consoling the girl, I ordered the boy to report to a certain clown and offer to pick the clown’s nose with the finger he had used to assault the girl. Knowing the clown as I did, I was certain that he would accept the offer. The boy was sullen, but assented to the punishment and returned with a soiled finger, which I told him to wash with soap and water.
This incident caused the other children to marvel at the wisdom of my judgments.
“Why can’t our parents be like you, GB?” they asked.
“Because they are not gorillas,” I replied.
The children opened their mouths in wide-eyed wonder and marvelled yet more.
Labels: big bum, buttocks, flight path, nanny, nose-picking
Wednesday, August 05, 2015
Incurable Afflecktion
Ben Affleck has got in a tizzy over allegations that he slept with his children’s nanny:
“The story is complete garbage and full of lies!” he bawled. “It’s shameful and desperate!”
Any man who contests a conjecture so hotly is probably hiding something, but that would be straying into matters of irrelevance. I have no interest in what games Affleck and the nanny played inside the wendy house. What bothers me is the vehemence of the denial, which indicates a lack of etiquette. A man should never imply that having sexual relations with a particular woman is an abomination on a par with massaging the devil’s buttocks. The poor nanny must be feeling like Henrietta of Hagsville.
I remember when my old circus buddy Smacker Ramrod was rumoured to have slept with the daughter of a local farmer, thereby obtaining free supplies of fresh milk, whipping cream and other choice delicacies. The ringmaster publicly confronted him on the issue:
“Ramrod, you sly dog!” he exclaimed. “Have you been procuring fresh produce by rogering the farmer’s daughter?”
Smacker smiled wistfully and sighed, looking into the distance.
“I should be so lucky,” he said.
His answer was the last word spoken on the subject, and when the farmer’s daughter got to hear of it she was immensely gratified. So much so, that the favours she allegedly performed for him were extravagantly enhanced and upgraded.
Another fine example of such gallantry occurred in the film Live and Let Die, in which James Bond seduced a virgin priestess played by the nymph-like Jane Seymour. The downside of this auspicious event was that Miss Solitaire (as she was known) lost her power of prophecy, which is the unavoidable fate of any virgin seer who is despoiled by a sharp-shooting servant of the Crown.
This greatly displeased the crime baron who controlled her. After capturing Bond, he summoned Miss Solitaire to the interrogation chamber and immediately guessed what had happened. In the style of the ringmaster, he put the question to his captive directly, not sparing the blushes of the deflowered maiden who unwillingly witnessed the scene. As one would expect of a British secret agent, Bond was unflappable:
“That’s not the sort of question a gentleman answers,” he replied dismissively.
Everyone knew, of course, that Bond had tutored her in the wiles of the boudoir, but a man of honour is discreet in his utterances about the ladies he consorts with.
One has to pity Mr Affleck for lacking the refinement to respond to an accusation of hanky panky with the decorum befitting a squire of the parish. It is too late for him to learn these niceties? One would like to think that he could acquire such habits if he served an apprentice as a dogsbody of Colin Firth or some other thespian of more notable pedigree. On the other hand, one look at his spoiled, whiny face suggests he is too far gone to be improved by an example of superior manners and deportment.
Labels: Ben Affleck, Colin Firth, hanky-panky, James Bond, Miss Solitaire, nanny
Wednesday, December 05, 2012
Nanny goose
I have tremendous sympathy for Gavin Rossdale, the rock musician who was photographed patting a woman’s behind. He was following the young lady as she carried his son through the brush, a task which she performed in her capacity as the nanny. Perhaps he should have carried the child himself, in his capacity as the father, but the nanny seemed quite happy to do the job. If you hire a tall, blond Nordic woman to look after your children, you may as well get your money’s worth.
Nasty internet gossips have been sniggering at him for getting caught in the act, and gleefully speculating about his wife’s reaction to the incident. I sincerely hope she takes it in her stride. Having studied the picture carefully, it’s obvious to me that he was nudging the nanny along rather than caressing her shapely posterior. No husband should be sent to the doghouse for doing something equivalent to saying “giddy up, horsey!” – not even if the horse is an attractive filly with a first-class rump.
I’m not ashamed to admit having a soft spot for nannies. (This soft spot, I should stress, is not located in an erogenous zone. We silverbacks do not hanker for human females.) What I like about nannies is the job they do. I have nothing but admiration for a woman who nurtures someone else’s children – it projects an image that is warm, maternal and potentially bosomy. I don’t know whether this is true of the Nordic nanny, but her relaxed attitude to butt-patting suggests she’s a tactile woman who’s comfortable with physical contact. I am optimistic about her career prospects.
On the subject of tactile women, I was fascinated to hear about a 29-year-old single mother who cuddles men for a living. It makes her $260 a day, which she is using to put herself through college. Her clients are permitted to snuggle up in bed with her, provided that they put aside any thoughts of hanky panky. A lot of men are capable of doing this, particularly when they reach the age of 100.
What this shows is that the human male still yearns for a nanny when he is supposedly an adult. One might conjecture, with great plausibility, that a lot of wives are effectively their husbands’ nannies. My old circus buddy, Smacker Ramrod, is married to a woman who cooks for him, cleans for him, and gives him a bath when he’s good. It’s a wonderful arrangement, providing all the comforts of childhood with the conjugal perks thrown in.
Happy is the man whose wife is his nanny.
I hope you like this proverb, which belongs in a book of wise sayings. Does it imply that men who don’t have nanny-wives must be miserable? Not at all. I would never make such a categorical assertion. A man can surely attain the heights of bliss by marrying his housekeeper, chiropodist or masseuse. There are many worthy occupations a woman can follow to bring succour to her husband.
Labels: butt pat, cuddling, Gavin Rossdale, nanny
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Daddy Elton
I’ve just mailed a card to Elton John, congratulating him on becoming a father at the age of 62. I won’t be sending one to the surrogate mother who bore the child – the fee she received for her trouble should be sufficient reward. One assumes, of course, that Elton is the natural father of baby Zachary. As we say in the jungle, he who rents the beehive supplies the honey. This entirely plausible supposition didn’t stop the manager of the safari camp from propounding his own silly theory about the baby’s conception.
“Elton and his boyfriend must have mixed equal amounts of their man juice in a test tube before giving it to the mother,” he declared. “That way they can both claim to be the father.”
“Balderdash!” I exclaimed on hearing this barmy conjecture. “If you put rival sperm together they fight to the death. Elton’s tired old tadpoles wouldn’t have stood a chance against the younger man’s killer plankton.”
“Gay planktons don’t fight each other,” said the manager, clutching at straws.
I dismissed this outlandish assertion with a contemptuous snort. He who speculates about the behaviour of seafood is not worthy of serious debate.
How the baby was conceived is moot in any case. Now is the time to consider more practical questions, such as who Zachary’s wet nurse should be. I hope Elton doesn’t think that the most nutritious milk comes from the biggest breasts. That would be a fundamental error. I’ve seen African mothers with gigantic hooters whose milk was thinner than rice water. Yet female gorillas, whose udders look like deflated tyres, can squirt out stuff that resembles a McDonald’s shake. Finding a good suckler isn’t a beauty contest. There’s no point hiring a woman with perfect round dumplings whose milk is 90% water and 10% silicone juice.
What baby Zachary really needs is a “wet nanny” who could combine the roles of milk-cow and governess. Could Elton persuade a talented woman from the world of show business to raise the boy in a manner worthy of his illustrious paternity? I’ve thought of several candidates for the job, whom I shortlist below along with reservations about their suitability.
* Heather Mills – good milk supply, but possibly a little sour?
* Tilda Swinton – excellent governess, but milk too cold for a baby?
* Madonna – plenty of nannying experience, but udders too dry?
* Lady Gaga – very good at baby talk, but nipples too hard?
If none of the above is willing and able, Elton should consider the radical option of hiring one of my females. Any of them would do a grand job of nursing baby Zachary into a fine little Tarzan. The only problem I foresee is that never having lived amongst humans they are entirely lacking in social graces. Could the genteel residents of Windsor get used to a female gorilla prowling through their public spaces, groping any taut behinds that took her fancy? For the sake of Elton’s family, I hope they can learn to put up with it.
Labels: breast-feeding, Elton John, nanny, wet nurse
