Back in the USSR

Paul McCartney phoned me the other day to moan about the injustices of the world. Apparently, some Russian bureaucrat has blamed the Beatles for the boom in recreational drug use.

“It was 45 ruddy years ago when we admitted taking stuff!” snorted Paul. “Why can’t they blame Amy Winehouse or someone? I wish I hadn’t given that concert in Red Square now, the ungrateful cunts!”

“Don’t let it bother you, Paul,” I replied. “He probably would have blamed Amy Winehouse if she were still alive. The Russians are superstitious buggers and wary of provoking the spirits of the departed. In any case, you ought to be glad that the Beatles are still considered so influential. You wouldn’t get a Russian official complaining about Cliff Richard’s effect on the younger generation.”

“Not unless the younger generation had taken a vow of celibacy after dating a butch tennis player!” quipped Paul.

“He-he-hoo!” I hooted. “What cheeky Liverpudlian waggery!”

In truth, I can’t assess the validity of this Russian fellow’s argument. He seems to be saying that the Beatles’ brief sojourn in the Maharishi’s ashram convinced many young Russians that psychedelic drugs were the answer. It seems idiotic to me, but who am I to say what Russians would believe? They believed in Communism a few years ago.

Whatever their issues with narcotics, the Beatles did set a good example in other aspects of their conduct. Unlike many other millionaire pop stars, they were never obsessed with busty women, which is something they deserve credit for. I can’t think of a single Beatle girlfriend or wife who possessed an enormous pair of hooters. The better known ones were medium at most.

I think this explains why silicone implants didn’t take off until the Fab Four split up. The modern generation of nymphettes simply has no idea that the Beatles were nuzzling small bosoms in the heyday of their fame and fortune. Nowadays, it takes something akin to a Damascene conversion to persuade a woman desirous of a bigger bust to be satisfied with what she’s got.

Such miracles do occur, though. I was heartened hear of Olivia Landin, a waifish English girl who was persuaded to enter a beauty contest before a planned boob job. She won the first prize a mere 48 hours before her appointment with the cosmetic surgeon.

“I never expected to win; it was unbelievable,” said Olivia, aged 20. “As soon as I got off stage I had second thoughts about changing anything about me.”

I’ve never had much regard for beauty contests, but the cancellation of Olivia’s breast enlargement operation proves they can be a force for good. Before drawing any firm conclusions, I would like to know how the judges came to their decision. If they noticed Olivia’s pert little jahoobies and gave them high marks, she is a worthy champion. But if they disregarded her bosom in a politically correct way, her victory would be a hollow one. A beauty pageant in which the boobs are ignored is not an authentic competition.

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Squeezing sex workers

I was surprised to discover, when browsing through my favourite accounting journals, that the Dutch authorities are planning to tax the income of prostitutes. The public finances of the Netherlands must be in a parlous state for its government to resort to such desperate measures. Everyone knows that prostitutes are paid cash for their services, and rarely provide invoices or receipts. Very few clients will inform on them and their evidence never stands up in court. 

Well do I remember the case of Miss Belinda Swallows, the high-class London escort who rented an apartment in Mayfair and owned a Rolls-Royce. When the taxman paid her a visit and asked about the source of her income, she said: 

“Like a Franciscan monk, I subsist on the generosity of my fellow human beings. They take me out for meals, stock my wardrobe with fine clothes and shower me with valuable gifts. If the office in which you toil were a little more benevolent and a little less rapacious, it might be similarly blessed with donations from admirers and well-wishers.” 

The grey-suited minion of Her Majesty was forced to leave empty-handed, to the sullen stares of the maids, valets and nannies employed in that most affluent neighbourhood of London. His experience typifies the fruitless game of hide-and-seek that the British exchequer has been playing with prostitutes for centuries. I doubt the Dutch will be any more successful. 

Of course, there are other ways of making call girls contribute to society. I’m sure these good-hearted ladies would be willing to do some form of community service in lieu of paying taxes. Think of all the college students who need advice on birth control methods; the bored housewives eager for tips on how to spice up their dreary marriages; the impotent old men longing to feel a fresh pair of titties on their faces before the final trip to the nursing home. A nation that demands a share of its prostitutes’ earnings, instead of utilising their unique skills and experience, makes a pimp of all its citizens. 

If the coffers of the Dutch state are truly empty, they should consider something more practical than a tart tax. The Argentine government has recently imposed a creative (and wholly ethical) tax on breast implants. Rather than persecuting people who perform a necessary public service, this sensible method of revenue generation targets cosmetic surgeons and women with fake boobs, groups that might fairly be described as froth on the dipstick of society. 

We gorillas are lucky not to be lumbered with such problems. We have no need of prostitution because our females give it away free when they're in the season and repulse you with savage violence when they're not. We have no need of taxation because (a) we live within our means and (b) our IOU’s are equivalent to hard currency on the rare occasions we need to borrow supplies from baboons and other jungle primates. If you make life too complex, you shouldn’t be surprised to face complications.

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Gaddafi's Italian blunder

Colonel Gaddafi must be feeling like a complete ass. On a recent visit to Italy, he invited 700 call girls to listen to him pontificate on women’s problems and his important role in solving them. In a fit of zealous pride, he urged them to migrate to Libya, boasting that the status of women in his country was an example to the world. The call girls naturally took this to mean that prostitutes earned fabulous rates of pay there, and a dozen or so eager beavers flew to Tripoli to make their fortunes.

On arriving, they were shocked to discover that hookers in Libya were paid less than the average shoe-shine boy. When they tried plying their trade in hotel bars frequented by foreign nationals they were shooed away like cats. Nor were they allowed to advertise their services in high-quality periodicals like the Camel Breeder’s Gazette. Enraged by this turn of events, they rushed to berate Gaddafi in his tent, telling him that unless he reimbursed their expenses they would tell everyone that Libya was a shit-hole. Gaddafi had no option but to cough up the cash and apologise for having misled them, which he blamed on a mistranslation of his words. The girls then returned to Italy and told everyone that Libya was a shit-hole.

The actual position of women in Libya is not a topic on which I have reliable information. Certainly, the young ladies in Gaddafi’s bodyguard detail must have a pretty cushy life – a woman who walks around with a semi-automatic weapon slung over her shoulder doesn’t have to take crap from anyone. As for the rest of the female population, who really knows? The Colonel likes to present himself as a progressive revolutionary type, but men in that part of the world are used to wearing the trousers and hogging the poufs. If a wife gets too lippy with her husband she might find herself being bartered for a goat at the souk.

To find out where women are truly respected, one must ignore the rhetoric and look at actual behaviour. Take the recent example of Senor Gustavo Rojas, a candidate for Venezuela’s National Assembly. He is raising funds for his campaign by means of a raffle in which the first-prize is breast enlargement surgery. The fact that he chose such a prize shows his interest in women’s issues and his desire to attract their support – or more particularly, the support of women who want bigger boobs. On getting elected, he will no doubt offer the winner of the raffle a secretarial position in his office.

Now recognising a woman’s right to have big jugs (should she wish to) doesn’t mean a society has dealt with all its gender issues. The political classes in Venezuela should view this as a stepping stone for other equally important rights, such as a firm and peachy butt. But it does make one wonder what Colonel Gaddafi would have to say if he toured Venezuela on a fact-finding mission, meeting the flower of its voluptuous womanhood. I wouldn’t be surprised if his famous eloquence deserted him, and he found himself tripping over his tongue.

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