Chelsea flower show

I was reminded of the fable of The Ugly Ducking when I saw footage of Chelsea Clinton the other day. Who would have thought that the geeky teenager who sharpened her pencils on the White House lawn would blossom into such a foxy chick! Well, perhaps more squirrelly than foxy, but you know what I mean. I have Chelsea to thank for an amusing incident that occurred shortly after I returned to the jungle in ’97. I practically chortled my head off when a chimpanzee asked me why the American president had named his daughter after an English football club.

“You ruddy fool!” I guffawed. “She’s not named after a football team, but a trendy London neighbourhood famed for its conceited, nouveau riche residents!”

I later warned the chimpanzee to stay clear of the place, if he ever visited London, to avoid having his picture taken with D-list celebrities. These desperate people will stop at nothing to appear better connected and more intelligent than they actually are.

By all accounts, Miss Clinton is giving bravura performances across the prairies and cornfields of America, in a valiant effort to rescue the faltering presidential bid of her ambitious, steely-eyed mother. I’m sure she’s a natural at the art of working crowds, much as her old pappy used to be. I only hope she isn’t giving the folks too much speechifying at the expense of pressing the flesh. As a girl who started ballet lessons at the age of four, she must be capable of some wonderful stunts in a leotard. Being an intelligent woman doesn’t mean people won't admire your tight little tush. “If you’ve got it, flaunt it!” as a famous orang-utan once said.

Will Chelsea ever run for office herself? I don’t see why not. She’s clearly a chip off the old block who knows how to pull strings and inspire the voters. A lot of Americans are fearful of political dynasties, but a smart girl like Chelsea won’t repeat the mistakes of her wayward daddy. I very much doubt she’ll be tempted to let some keen young college boy give her oral pleasure in the Oval Office. And even if she did, she’d be smart enough not to get caught.

Picture the scene: President Chelsea is lying on her desk, sighing deeply with legs akimbo, having been slurped to satisfaction by a floppy-haired intern. She slides off the smooth, moist surface and pulls up her knickers, watching the young gallant comb his tousled hair. Her sharp eyes notice a wet patch on the young man’s collar and she instantly recognises the danger – that incriminating discharge would be catnip to the polecats of the political jungle.

“Hey Buster!” she calls out sharply. “Leave your shirt in the bathroom! You’re not leaving this place with my oyster sauce on your collar!”

The shirt is laundered and all traces of presidential DNA are removed.

The one thing Chelsea should do before entering politics is make up with Monica to show the world there’s room in her heart for forgiveness. Some thought Miss Lewinsky was an airhead and a hoochie for doing what she did, but I was never one of them. I’ve seen enough of humans in love to know that their hormones have staged a coup d’etat on their brains. Monica has suffered enough for her sins, and having Chelsea over for a slumber party would mean so much to her. As is written in holy scripture: And the wolf shall dwell with the lamb, and the nymph shall lie down with the billy goat’s kid (Isaiah 11:6).

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