Forbidden love

I’m feeling a bit sorry for the man from South Carolina who was arrested for making love to a horse. He was convicted of molesting the same animal last year, so it must have been true love rather than a wicked horse-shagging fetish. The woman who owns the mare caught them in the act and predictably put all the blame on the man, holding him up at gunpoint until the police arrived. She insists that her animal was raped, but I’ve not yet seen the man who can overpower a horse without getting his teeth kicked down his throat.

“Sugar was acting strange and getting infections,” said Barbara Kenly, the mare’s gun-toting owner.

Maybe she was, but that’s hardly evidence of sexual abuse. Mary Ann Faithful was behaving strangely and getting infections when she was touring with The Vibrators, but that didn’t mean she was being unlawfully interfered with.

I hope the judge gives him a suspended sentence on condition that he makes an honest mare of Miss Sugar. The weather in South Carolina must be pretty good at this time of year, so they ought to have an outdoor wedding. Let him escort the bridled bride through the grassy glades, to be joined in holy wedlock in the paddock. All the filly bridesmaids would be whinnying with tears in their eyes when the 22-carot wedding shoe was hammered into Sugar’s foot. “Memories are made of this,” as the late Dean Martin said.

Now I shouldn’t give you the impression that I approve of interspecies coupling. Of all the primates, we gorillas are the least interested in that sort of thing. The movie King Kong was a gigantic and offensive hoax. Chimpanzees are keener about it than us, but the biggest dabblers of all are our human cousins (as if you needed me to tell you that). Horses are the just the tip of the iceberg for homo sapiens. And don’t think that women aren’t as capable of it as men. There is an infamous scene in a movie by Jean-Luc Godard in which the farmer’s mistress removes her bare bottom from an enclosure full of suckling calves. One assumes it had been there long enough to get a good polish.

Such depravities would not appeal to the female gorillas in London Zoo, who have been pining for some hairy action since their resident silverback died last December. Rather than attempting to molest their keeper, they have persuaded the zoo management to fly in a new male from France called Yeboah. He’s a good-looking boy, although I must say I’m worried he might not be up to the job. Female gorillas are rowdy at the best of times, but the ones that live in England are absolutely wild. They pick up their bad habits from watching the local women.

I’ve sent a message to Yeboah advising him to stay well clear of the females during hen nights and other occasions involving all-girl revelry. I hope he can handle what he’s got coming.

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Songbird of France

An English tourist tells me how he would go about seducing the French president’s wife. “These French beauties are suckers for poets,” he explains. “I’d send her a note saying:

Let’s go for a meal
Let’s have a quick tipple
You’ll sigh when you feel
My tongue on your nipple.”

I scratch my head doubtfully. “I don’t think any amount of nipple talk will impress Ms Bruni,” I say. “Her nipples have seen and done everything.”

I encourage him to discuss his romantic fantasies with the other guests.

Now Gorilla Bananas is no poet, but he’s watched enough French movies to have a feel for the verbiage that goes down well with their floozies. If I were writing a love note to Carla, I’d pen something like this:

Your smile: it is the arrow that pierces my heart
Your skin: it is the food my body craves
Drain my lake of desolation with your lips.

I have a pretty shrewd idea that this sort of guff passes for sophistication in France, especially if it’s recited by one of those brooding Gallic voices that does the narration in films by Jean-Luc Godard. I assume it will translate well.

We were discussing France’s first lady because she’s recently released an album of songs about each of the 30 men who’ve had the pleasure of licking her nipples. “Only 30?” I hear you ask. “It appears so,” I reply. Carla has been quite selective in her choice of paramours if one ignores the anonymous studs she’s picked up in bars, who obviously don’t count. She is one of those beautiful women, you see, who is particularly attracted to intellectuals. Having consorted with a succession of eminent writers and philosophers, she was swept off her feet by Sarko because of his “five or even six brains” (as she admiringly put it). One wonders how they fit inside his head. Maybe he keeps a couple in the refrigerator and one in his pants as a backup system.

Of course, I can see why Carla wouldn’t be interested in very handsome men. A stunningly attractive woman doesn’t want a lover who may – perish the thought – think that she is the lucky one. A clever fellow with a face like an owl will give her the perfect combination of adoration and gratitude, as well as helping her solve crossword puzzles. And if he happens to be president of France, she gets to flirt with the world’s most powerful men while upstaging their own dowdy spouses. The dove looks twice as lovely when preening her feathers beside the broiler hen.

The fascinating thing about Carla’s latest compositions is that they’ve made her enormously popular with the French public – far more so than her gnomish husband, who is widely regarded as a bit of a dick. You’ve got to admire a nation in which the president’s wife is feted for admitting to 30 past affairs and writing a song about each one of them. I don’t think it would have worked for Mrs Clinton, even if she’d possessed the required musical talent. Perhaps the French Constitution should be amended to allow Carla to continue in her position when Sarko is voted out of office. Ideally, he would be forced to bequeath her to the next incumbent, like the presidential seal. La courtisane de l'Elysée Palace might be a tourist attraction to rival the Eiffel Tower.

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