Fun and ball games

Prince Harry’s escapade in Las Vegas has left me wondering what the rules of “strip billiards” are. You may think it’s an unimportant detail in this celebrated case of royal revelry, but I’m not the sort of ape who leaves loose ends untied. The prince’s own end was completely loose, of course, but tying it up might have incited the royal bodyguards to intervene. One shouldn’t distract servants of the Crown when they’re busy ogling naked girls.

My guess is that the game was a fairly simple one. Harry grabbed the billiard cue and tried to clear the table; every time he potted a ball, the girls removed one of their garments; every time he missed, he took off one of his own. A minute after the game began, everyone was naked apart from the royal bodyguards, who couldn’t play themselves because they had to keep their weapons concealed.

When I explained my highly plausible conjecture to the manager of the safari camp, he shook his head and grinned like a chipmunk:

“You poor innocent gorilla!” he scoffed. “Do you really think the balls in this game were the kind that roll on a table? 'Billiards' is a well-known term for toying with a man’s testicles.”

“You don’t say,” I replied. “And what rulebook were the prince and his lady-friends observing in pursuing this uplifting pastime?”

“They must have improvised their own rules on the spur of the moment,” said the manager. “Maybe the prince faced the wall while the girls took turns to rummage inside his pants and manually examine his nutsack. If he correctly identified the girl doing the groping, she had to take something off.”

“Fascinating!” I exclaimed. “And how did the prince end up naked when the sport was concluded?”

“How should I know?” snapped the manager. “Maybe the girls made him strip at the end. You don’t expect them to play with his balls for nothing, do you?”

I rolled my eyes before replying to this question.

“Frankly, manager, I have no idea what to expect in the enactment of your whimsical scenarios. He could have stripped out of noblesse oblige for all I know.”

All of you, by now, must have seen the infamous picture of Prince Harry cavorting with one of the party girls. Not very impressive, was it? He reminds me of an English actor called Robin Askwith, who starred in a series of lame sex comedies in the 1970s. Most of them had a scene where Askwith was forced to flee, stark naked, from the bedroom of a sexually voracious woman, hands cupped around his groin like the prince. Such incidents provided a passing distraction from the ponderous plot and limp acting.

Hopefully, as he matures, the prince will become more inventive in his activities with naked girls. I would advise him to consider games based on the naked housekeeping theme, where there is plenty of scope for innovation, particularly while the hoovering is being done. If nothing else, it would teach him how to cope during his manservant’s day off.

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Royal Flush

My females have been cackling excitedly about the royal princes’ tour of Africa.

“Why don’t you invite them here?” they piped. “We’d make them feel at home.”

“No you wouldn’t,” I said firmly. “Feeling at home for them means playing polo, visiting chutney factories and having their toenails clipped by a servant. They aren’t used to your jungle tricks and you haven’t learned the correct etiquette. I don’t want you thrusting your hips at them instead of curtsying.”

That shut them up. In truth, I was worried that a similar faux pas to the one in Botswana might occur, where a nervous rock python pissed itself in fright after being introduced to the princes. Being English, they were too embarrassed to deal with the mishap like the president of Zambia, who sternly rebuked a monkey for passing water on his jacket. Let’s just hope the incident hasn’t left a sour taste in their mouths.

In accordance with royal protocol, the identity of the nurse who accompanied the princes remained a closely guarded secret. A hapless photographer who tried to take her picture was set upon by the royal bodyguards and forced to sit on a pineapple. If you think William and Harry are too old for a nurse you know little of the customs of the British monarchy. It is essential, on such visits, to keep the princes well clear of local floozies who would eagerly squat before them in the hope of receiving a royal rogering. The role of the nurse is to lessen the appeal of such sordid temptations by regularly milking the princes of their manly juices. The job is normally offered to a lady familiar with livestock breeding, who can render the service with clinical detachment. Surgical gloves and Vaseline are essential tools of the trade.

The finale of the princes’ tour was a visit to South Africa, causing some people to suggest they were only here for the World Cup. Such cynics forget that they also met various dignitaries, including that great man whose long struggle for freedom inspired millions of down-trodden humans, and quite a few up-trodden ones as well. I refer, of course, to Bishop Tutu, who received the princes in one of his most fetching purple frocks. I don’t know what he said to the boys, but I’m sure he spiced up his sermon with plenty of whooping and jigging.

I had the honour of meeting the Bishop when he stayed at the safari guesthouse.

“Toots, “ I said, “don’t you resent all the hero-worship that Mandela gets when you did all the hard work in the dark days of P.W. Botha?”

“Not at all, GB!” he chirped. “My heart is full of joy for having done God’s work. And what makes you think I don’t have my own fans?”

He made a good point. The Bishop's many quiet admirers include a team of scientists who obtained a sample of his DNA. They discovered he belongs to one of the least in-bred human populations on Earth, which might explain his sunny disposition. This is something the princes should bear in mind when listening to the morose prattle of their bat-eared father, who recently condemned Galileo for a remark he made in 1597. When royalty breeds with royalty, the results are rarely pretty.

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