Russian refuge

Very clever of Mr Putin to grant Russian citizenship to Gerard Depardieu. If nothing else, it will help alleviate the chronic shortage of fat men in the country. The governor of Mordovia, a region famous for its prison camps, has invited the potato-shaped actor to settle there. As the only nightlife in that part of Russia involves climbing up watch towers and pissing on stray cats, it’s not an offer that’s likely to be accepted.

Let’s hope Depardieu does something to revive the moribund Russian film industry. I once saw a Russian movie in an art-house cinema: it was incredibly grim and depressing – nothing but revolting masses and angry men with beards. I can’t understand why the Russians, who were the first humans in space, don’t make more science fiction pictures. How about a Russian version of Star Wars in which Depardieu plays Jabba the Hut? Or a spin-off from Star Trek in which Chekov is the captain of the Enterprise and Depardieu is the Grossovian ambassador from Fattus-5? The great thing about a galaxy class star ship is its replicating machines made it impossible to run out of food.

The real reason for Depardieu’s departure to Mother Russia is his wish to avoid new taxes imposed by the French government. The president of France has described him as “shabby and unpatriotic” for refusing to dig deep into his pockets. My sympathies are with Depardieu here. If governments are short of money, they ought to earn it themselves instead of grabbing the assets of hard-pressed entertainers. I remember getting a visit from a tax inspector when I was a highly paid circus performer.

“Leave me alone, you accursed leech!” I barked. “I give my spare cash to worthy causes, not to upstarts who harass me with impudent demands! We will resolve this matter in a court of law!”

This led to the famous test case of Regina v Bananas. The high court ruled that philanthropic primates should be exempt from human taxes on the grounds that their natural generosity would impel them to devote a fair proportion of their wealth to the public good. It was a Magna Carta moment for the gorilla nation.

I’m glad to say that not all Europeans are as bereft of money-making ideas as the French government. A Czech woman has come up with the ingenious venture of selling advertising space on her breasts. This is her sales pitch:

I am a beautiful young girl and I offer my breasts for greeting cards and adverts. Send me your message and I’ll send you a pic with it written on my breasts.

Her charges are very reasonable and the demand for her services is soaring.

“It’s good value for money,” said one satisfied customer. “But I’d pay double if I could write the advert myself.”

Maybe Depardieu could make up with the French government by offering them free advertising space on his arse. There’s enough room there for the Marseillais and the Declaration of the Rights of Man.

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Political boob in Mexico

A Mexican presidential candidate has blamed his poor performance in a televised debate on a voluptuous pair of breasts. They belonged to Miss Julia Orayen, a former Playboy model, who was hired to help manage the event. She naturally chose to perform her duties in a low cut dress, so her fans would instantly recognise her. You can’t blame a show business performer from using a trademark gimmick – it’s no different from Groucho Marx appearing in public with a cigar in hand.

Gabriel Quadri, the aforementioned candidate, claimed that the proximity of Julia’s jahoobies had made him nervous:

“It’s impossible not to concentrate your attention on a woman so spectacular,” he said.

This looks like an exaggeration to me. Difficult, yes. Impossible, no. Mr Quadri should realise that the mark of a statesman is his ability to focus on the issues when a pert bosom is in his field of view. Let's not forget that President Kennedy formulated many policy initiatives when he was motor-boating his secretary. A politician has got to be able to juggle different problems vying for his attention. You can’t whine about breasts when the voters are protesting about the price of eggs. The price of milk, maybe, but not the price of eggs.

Let’s hope Miss Orayen is hired to officiate the US presidential debates. It might encourage the candidates to loosen up and talk about women’s issues instead of acting like the honcho in a poncho. I suspect it would favour President Obama, who must have got used to white girls flaunting their chests at him in his college days. It would just be part of the scenery for him. Romney, on the other hand, has probably never seen his wife’s breasts in broad daylight. I’m guessing he’d break out in a sweat if Julia walked within groping range.

A politician renowned for ogling the female bosom is Dominique Strauss-Kahn, who is to be played by Gerard Depardieu in a forthcoming biopic:

“I will do it, because I don’t like him,” said the potato-faced actor, adding: “I think he’s a bit like all the French, a bit arrogant. I don’t much like the French in any case.”

I think we should respect Gerard’s opinion, even though he’s a Frenchman himself. I don’t know whether DSK is guilty of half the things he’s been accused of, but he clearly thinks he’s entitled to sex on demand, which is an odious and self-defeating attitude.

My old friend Smacker Ramrod had more than his fair share of nookie in his bachelor days, but he took pains over each seduction, recognising that the thrill of the chase was as important as the coup de grâce. Being a true gentleman, he always made the girl think that she had dumped him when it was over, which wasn’t as difficult as it sounds, as in many cases she had actually dumped him. His experiences taught him that you don't fully appreciate the good things of life unless you’ve had to work for them.

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The dangers of bull seed

 

I hear the authorities in Tennessee closed an interstate highway after several canisters of bull semen fell off a bus. Frustrated motorists accused them of overreacting, but I say it’s better to be safe than sorry. It only takes one mad woman with a bull-impregnation fantasy to create a Minotaur-like monster that would shock the world. Religious fundamentalists would claim a creature like that portended some dire prophecy, and incite their followers to make a hullabaloo. We don’t need a lot of excitable humans tugging their beards in wide-eyed fervour. 

We gorillas are very wary of interspecies mating and the begetting of bizarre crossbreeds. Humans are fascinated by the idea because they’ve been misled by propaganda on popular TV shows. Consider Mr Spock of the Enterprise. He’s supposedly a Vulcan-human hybrid, yet is capable of anything a pure-bred Vulcan can do, while retaining the human ability to raise one eyebrow in ironic disdain. Real-life hybrids are nothing like as stylish or proficient. Mating a horse with a mule produces an ass, and no one in his right mind wants to be an ass. 

Perhaps women who want to breed with a bull-like creature should ask Gerard Depardieu for a test tube of his man goo. He shouldn’t wish to deny them, as jerking off more frequently might alleviate his prostate condition. He claimed to have this infirmity after relieving himself in a plastic bottle on the aisle of a passenger jet. As the bottle wasn’t big enough for the contents of his bladder, the plane had to be evacuated while the carpet was shampooed. 

Depardieu’s fellow passengers were naturally shocked by his exhibition and assumed he’d pissed in front them because he was pissed himself. Although this would be a reasonable presumption to make of a Frenchman, I prefer to put his behaviour down to desperation. The facts indicate that the cabin staff barred him entry to the lavatory because the plane was about to take off, which must have riled the pants off him. One shouldn’t expect a man to observe the normal decencies when his taut bladder is in a state of anticipation. 

An actor whose prostate must be in tip-top condition is George Clooney. I say this because an ex-girlfriend of his has revealed that one of his favourite pastimes was sharing a hot tub with his men friends. Apparently they did it naked, in the style of the ancient Greeks. I don’t believe Clooney’s buddies would have risked such an intimate convocation if there was the slightest chance of underwater leakage from the great man. 

Clooney has brushed off suggestions that there’s anything fishy about enjoying a naked soak with one’s boyfriends. 

“I’ve always had really great friends on both sides of the aisle, so to speak,” he explained. 

I don’t doubt this for a minute, but why does one side of the aisle get special bath-time privileges at the Clooney residence? I’m beginning to suspect he feels awkward in the presence of naked women.

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The nose have it

A French woman at the safari camp reveals that she is sexually attracted to men with big noses.

“You mean like Gérard Depardieu?” I ask

“Pah!” she exclaims. “His nose is like the tulip bulb. I want the long sharp nose of Mr Geoffrey Rush!”

“A decent actor,” I admit, “but not a big hit with the ladies, as far as I know.”

“For sure he is a hit with this lady!” insists the woman. “And he always acts to such naughty roles – the Marquis de Sade, the Pirate of the Caribbean. He can rush me to his cabin if ever he wants!”

She squeals and pinches my arm, delighted with her own wit.

“Excellent pun, to be sure,” I remark. “Yet what is it about big noses that appeals to you? The prospect of a good nuzzle perhaps? Or does their sniffing potential tickle your fancy?”

“Sniffing and nuzzling is good,” she answers, “but more important is what the big nose suggests about the man.”

She chuckles, giving me a knowing look.

“Indeed?” I reply. “And what might that be?”

This straightforward question prompts the woman to laugh hysterically for a good minute-and-a-half. Heaven knows what she finds so hilarious. The French are famous for their odd sense of humour, of course. A lot of them find Jerry Lewis funny.

“My dear Mr Bananas!” she sighs at length, drying her eyes. “You are big, strong and hairy, but you have hardly any nose! So, alas, I could never be yours.”

“I am sorry to be unworthy of you,” I reply loftily. “I shall endeavour to bear my disappointment lightly.”

I leave her to entertain the other guests with her nasal ruminations.

Maybe what she liked about big-nosed men was their implied personality. A woman might easily develop a fascination for such a fellow after watching him ferreting around, probing beneath the veils of multi-layered mystery. Lieutenant Columbo acquired a huge female following simply by asking awkward questions, even though he dressed like a tramp and was a patsy to his wife. The nosey man might also be more adventurous in bed, delving with his torchlight into regions that less inquisitive lovers would shun. And let’s not forget that many women are fond of cats, who are renowned for their curiosity.

Snooping in the wrong circumstances can be a terribly destructive thing, though. The Nosey Parker has ruined the career of many a promising politician. Does anyone remember Gary Hart, the American senator from somewhere-or-the-other? He was billed as the next John Kennedy, even though he didn’t have a particularly large nose. The same could not be said of Barry Manilow, the shrew-faced songwriter and neighbour of Mr Hart. When he learnt that the senator was taking time off the campaign trail to relax on his yacht, he turned up at the harbour with a box full of signed albums. The assorted dolly birds and party girls on the vessel inevitably broke cover and screamed, as they are wont to do in the presence of famous crooners. The press quickly got wind of the commotion and Mr Hart’s presidential bid exploded in a shower of crotchless panties and push-up bras.

I don’t begrudge Manilow his success and give him his due as a composer of sentimental ballads. I’m sure he has no shortage of female admirers who have fallen head-over-heels in love with his phenomenal snout. But he should curb his inquisitive instincts when they are likely to change the course of American politics.

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