French nickers

A pat on the back for Yann M’Vila, the French football player who paid two prostitutes to spend the night with him. He doesn’t deserve a pat on the back for that, of course. Although spending money on call girls does stimulate the economy in times of austerity, it’s not the most effective method of pump priming. A Frenchman with a sound grasp of Keynesian economics would have hired a team of chorus girls to collect snails and frogs from his garden and prepare them for his supper with garlic and onions.

The praiseworthy aspect of Yann’s conduct was the resolute action he took on discovering that the whores had stolen goods worth 13,000 euros from his apartment. A lesser man would not have reported the crime to avoid revealing that he had consorted with harlots; but Monsieur M’Vila put the rule of law above his own feelings of shame. He promptly called the police, who arrested the thieving hussies and returned their loot to its rightful owner. Such public-spirited behaviour certainly merits an official commendation of some sort. If not the Légion d'honneur, then certainly the Coq des justes

There are important lessons for Yann to learn from this experience, nonetheless. If you are paying strange women to have sex with you, it is prudent to call a taxi after they have rendered their service, rather than falling asleep and trusting them to make an honourable exit. Hopefully, he’ll take such precautions habitually when he’s an experienced whoremonger. It is possible, of course, that he wanted the girls to lie beside him for company’s sake. Sleeping alone in a kingsize bed might be a lonely experience for a footballer who’s just been fellated. If so, he should have handcuffed the girls to the bed until daybreak. Enjoying a life of wanton debauchery means taking appropriate safeguards. 

As for the guilty women, I hope l’association des putains issues a strong statement condemning their behaviour. As for any other profession, prostitutes should uphold basic standards of honesty and integrity. Those French tarts would do well to heed the example of Miss Belinda Swallows, the Mayfair courtesan. Far from stealing her clients’ valuables, she occasionally gave them rebates if she considered the circumstances merited it. In her memoirs, she writes of a punter called ‘Edgar’ who burst into tears when she removed her bra. 

“I’m so sorry!” sobbed Edgar. “It’s just that you remind me of my mother. She had the most beautiful breasts!” 

“There, there,” said Belinda, giving him a tissue to dry his eyes. “There’s no need to apologise. Many men before you have wept on seeing my naked bosom for the first time. It affects people like a divine revelation if they are not accustomed to seeing human flesh moulded into adornments of perfect globular symmetry.” 

She then refunded 50% of Edgar’s fee and allowed him to suck on her left nipple for 5 minutes, which he did without making slurping noises. Class, I tell you. Pure class.

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