I don’t normally speak out in support of worthy causes, but I’m going to make an exception for the brave young ladies of the Pink Chaddi Campaign. India’s finest floozies have joined hands to form a “Consortium of Pub-going, Loose and Forward Women”, in defence of their right to enter bars unaccompanied and chat up the men they fancy. The main target of their ire is Pramod Muthalik, the leader of a fundamentalist cult that believes a woman’s lot in life is to make chapatis and aloo gobi for her fat-bellied male relatives.
The sisterhood is encouraging its members to send a pair of pink knickers to the execrable Mr Muthalik, in the hope that the aura of these heavenly garments will shame the neo-Thuggee demagogue into silence. I hope it works, but I fear that the bounder is beyond shame and will simply sell them on the black market (after trying them on himself). If the chaddies prove ineffective, I suggest they send him pink tampons instead. Deep down these reactionary types are colossal perverts, and I bet Mr Muthalik would insert a few into his rectum just to find out what it felt like. One hopes the experience would relax his inner tension and open him up to other viewpoints.
Indian women, of course, are famed throughout the world for their beguiling good looks and general voluptuousness. Many of them now prefer modern dress to the sari, which tends to fall off during funky disco dancing. I do hope the bigger-bottomed beauties think twice before wearing jeans – a baggy split skirt would surely look better than trying to squeeze mangoes into an egg carton. It’s also worth mentioning that many western men find the exposed tummy of sari-wearing Indian women very sexy. Back in my circus days I remember Ranjit Ram, the Indian knife-thrower, being questioned on this very subject:
“Is kissing a woman's belly-button allowed in India?” asked one of the clowns.
“It is allowed only if you blow rather than suck,” replied Ranjit grinning.
There’s no substitute for local expertise when learning the finer points of etiquette in a foreign land.
My final piece of advice for these gallant ladies is to open up their consortium to all well-wishers, not just forward women with loose underwear. The great moral campaigns of human history have always been inclusive in spirit. I myself would volunteer for a stint of chaperone duty to dissuade men of low character from thinking they have carte blanche to molest members of the sisterhood in pubs. (This shouldn’t involve any violence. I once did similar work for a pub in a downmarket area of London and everyone was as good as gold. All I had to do was sit in a corner reading an issue of the British Medical Journal. Ms Nelly Norkins, proprietor of the ‘Gag and Cosh’, was well pleased with my service.)
In due course, the leading lights of the movement might care to visit the Congo to compare notes with my females and organise symposia on matters of mutual interest. They don’t come any looser and more forward than female gorillas, and the ones in my band could certainly teach women a thing or two about the use of teeth in close encounters of the promiscuous kind. In the meantime, I sincerely hope that the pink-panty tactic wins the sisterhood much succour and acclaim. I wish them well from the bottom of my heart and the top of my bottom.
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