No weddings and a family

 

Hugh Grant has finally become a father at the age of 51. God bless him. According to his spokesman, the baby is the product of a “fleeting affair” with Miss Tinglan Hong, a Chinese actress. Hugh is nevertheless delighted to have a daughter and intends to play a role in her upbringing. Not too active a role, one would hope. Chinese infants are taught to respect and obey their parents, which would obviously be a mad thing to do if your father were Hugh Grant. 

Some people are tut-tutting because the couple had unprotected sex when they barely knew each other. They forget that Hugh has STD check-ups as frequently as most porn stars. As for Miss Hong, she may well have been a virgin who was saving herself for Hugh. Ludicrous though it may seem, people in the Far East actually revere him as the epitome of an English gentleman. One hopes he deflowered Miss Hong with the delicacy she would have anticipated.

Whatever the intimate details, the financial settlement appears to be generous. Hugh has already bought Miss Hong a fine house in London, one mile away from his own place. This will allow him to stroll over when the baby needs to be cuddled or listen to goo-goo noises. He seems, for now, to be relishing the prospect of such duties: 

“As much as I adore myself, I’m quite keen to find someone to care about more,” he quipped. 

He has no plans to live with his daughter, of course. Hugh may love his child as much as any father, but that doesn’t give her the right to ruin his beauty sleep. 

The defining event in Hugh’s career occurred in 1995, when he paid a hooker to oblige him orally in the front seat of his BMW. The police caught him in the act and took a famous mug shot, which quickly went round the world. A lesser man would have sulked in the shadows until the story had blown over (so to speak), bitterly brooding on his humiliating fall from grace. What Hugh did was appear in chat shows so he could cheerfully admit to being an ass and grin at the jokes made at his expense. This artful piece of PR ensured he continued to get leading roles in romantic comedies, playing the foppish buffoon we have grown to know and love. 

I was delighted to hear that the prostitute who siphoned Hugh’s manly fluids has thrived and prospered. Stella Marie Thompson (alias Miss Divine Brown) made a small fortune from the media interest in her escapade, allowing her to move into a four-bedroom house and put her daughters through private school.

According to Stella, Hugh told her she was gorgeous and asked if he could kiss her before agreeing to settle for a sixty-dollar blow job. Didn't he know that there's no need to compliment a call girl before she gets down to business? Or is it possible that beneath the rakish veneer of insouciance lies a gallant and amorous soul? No, that can't be possible - it must have been a conditioned reflex induced by the stiffy in his pants.

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London gossip

I’m back in the Congo, where my females pester me for news from London. I attempt to satisfy their hunger for gossip with details of Elizabeth Hurley’s latest affair. 

Having announced her separation from her husband on Twitter, it didn’t take long for Liz to find a suitable paramour. The bloom on the rose may be fading, but there’s still enough nectar on the petals to attract a variety of pollinating insects. The lucky bug, on this occasion, was a tubby Australian sportsman called Shane Warne. More about him later. 

One particular detail of the dalliance makes my females hoot with derision. It is the involvement of Hugh Grant, Ms Hurley’s ex-boyfriend. Apparently he acted as the facilitator, driving the couple to parties and booking their hotel rooms. In the eyes of my females, this makes him the most laughable wimp and cuckold north of the Kalahari. Although I am no fan of Hugh, considering him to be meretricious dandy, I feel honour bound to defend him on this occasion. 

“An alpha male feels no jealousy when a former mate bestows her favours on another,” I declare. “It is no different, in principle, from a pride male permitting a vulture to eat his leftovers. If and when your partnership in the Bananas consortium is dissolved, you can rest assured that I will whistle in amusement if I see another silverback squatting over your hairy haunches.” 

My females respond to this statement by charging at me like enraged bulls. Fortunately, I anticipate their reaction and flee before they can mob me. I’ll probably spend a few days in the safari guesthouse until they cool down. 

I should clarify my position on Hugh Grant. My approval of his conduct is based on the assumption that he did no more than provide logistical support. If he actually encouraged the affair, possibly in the hope of comparing notes with Mr Warne afterwards, I withdraw my blessing. I would never play the pander for a former mate, no matter how lonely or lovelorn she was. Some charitable deeds demand too high a price of one’s dignity. 

The final issue to consider is whether Mr Warne was a worthy gallant for Liz. His claim to fame is as a celebrated exponent of the game of cricket, a peculiar English sport where men in white costumes hurl a hard leather ball at each other. The object of the game is to avoid being hit in the testicles, something that “Warnie” clearly achieved in his illustrious career, given the amount of post-match shagging he did. 

It’s too early to say whether Liz has demeaned herself by consorting with Warnie. He has since returned to Australia, where he was acclaimed as a national hero for nailing the posh Pommy princess. “I saw, I conquered, I came,” he wrote in the autograph book of one of his larrikin fans. Whether this is humiliating for Liz will depend on Warnie’s subsequent behaviour. If he invites her to Melbourne for another spell of leg-breaks and flippers, I think she can claim an honourable draw.

Update: The Warnie balloon has burst!

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