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.
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