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!
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