Nanny goose

I have tremendous sympathy for Gavin Rossdale, the rock musician who was photographed patting a woman’s behind. He was following the young lady as she carried his son through the brush, a task which she performed in her capacity as the nanny. Perhaps he should have carried the child himself, in his capacity as the father, but the nanny seemed quite happy to do the job. If you hire a tall, blond Nordic woman to look after your children, you may as well get your money’s worth.

Nasty internet gossips have been sniggering at him for getting caught in the act, and gleefully speculating about his wife’s reaction to the incident. I sincerely hope she takes it in her stride. Having studied the picture carefully, it’s obvious to me that he was nudging the nanny along rather than caressing her shapely posterior. No husband should be sent to the doghouse for doing something equivalent to saying “giddy up, horsey!” – not even if the horse is an attractive filly with a first-class rump.

I’m not ashamed to admit having a soft spot for nannies. (This soft spot, I should stress, is not located in an erogenous zone. We silverbacks do not hanker for human females.) What I like about nannies is the job they do. I have nothing but admiration for a woman who nurtures someone else’s children – it projects an image that is warm, maternal and potentially bosomy. I don’t know whether this is true of the Nordic nanny, but her relaxed attitude to butt-patting suggests she’s a tactile woman who’s comfortable with physical contact. I am optimistic about her career prospects.

On the subject of tactile women, I was fascinated to hear about a 29-year-old single mother who cuddles men for a living. It makes her $260 a day, which she is using to put herself through college. Her clients are permitted to snuggle up in bed with her, provided that they put aside any thoughts of hanky panky. A lot of men are capable of doing this, particularly when they reach the age of 100.

What this shows is that the human male still yearns for a nanny when he is supposedly an adult. One might conjecture, with great plausibility, that a lot of wives are effectively their husbands’ nannies. My old circus buddy, Smacker Ramrod, is married to a woman who cooks for him, cleans for him, and gives him a bath when he’s good. It’s a wonderful arrangement, providing all the comforts of childhood with the conjugal perks thrown in. 

Happy is the man whose wife is his nanny.

I hope you like this proverb, which belongs in a book of wise sayings. Does it imply that men who don’t have nanny-wives must be miserable? Not at all. I would never make such a categorical assertion. A man can surely attain the heights of bliss by marrying his housekeeper, chiropodist or masseuse. There are many worthy occupations a woman can follow to bring succour to her husband.

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Daddy Elton

I’ve just mailed a card to Elton John, congratulating him on becoming a father at the age of 62. I won’t be sending one to the surrogate mother who bore the child – the fee she received for her trouble should be sufficient reward. One assumes, of course, that Elton is the natural father of baby Zachary. As we say in the jungle, he who rents the beehive supplies the honey. This entirely plausible supposition didn’t stop the manager of the safari camp from propounding his own silly theory about the baby’s conception. 

“Elton and his boyfriend must have mixed equal amounts of their man juice in a test tube before giving it to the mother,” he declared. “That way they can both claim to be the father.” 

“Balderdash!” I exclaimed on hearing this barmy conjecture. “If you put rival sperm together they fight to the death. Elton’s tired old tadpoles wouldn’t have stood a chance against the younger man’s killer plankton.” 

“Gay planktons don’t fight each other,” said the manager, clutching at straws. 

I dismissed this outlandish assertion with a contemptuous snort. He who speculates about the behaviour of seafood is not worthy of serious debate. 

How the baby was conceived is moot in any case. Now is the time to consider more practical questions, such as who Zachary’s wet nurse should be. I hope Elton doesn’t think that the most nutritious milk comes from the biggest breasts. That would be a fundamental error. I’ve seen African mothers with gigantic hooters whose milk was thinner than rice water. Yet female gorillas, whose udders look like deflated tyres, can squirt out stuff that resembles a McDonald’s shake. Finding a good suckler isn’t a beauty contest. There’s no point hiring a woman with perfect round dumplings whose milk is 90% water and 10% silicone juice. 

What baby Zachary really needs is a “wet nanny” who could combine the roles of milk-cow and governess. Could Elton persuade a talented woman from the world of show business to raise the boy in a manner worthy of his illustrious paternity? I’ve thought of several candidates for the job, whom I shortlist below along with reservations about their suitability. 

* Heather Mills – good milk supply, but possibly a little sour?

* Tilda Swinton – excellent governess, but milk too cold for a baby?

* Madonna – plenty of nannying experience, but udders too dry?

* Lady Gaga – very good at baby talk, but nipples too hard? 

If none of the above is willing and able, Elton should consider the radical option of hiring one of my females. Any of them would do a grand job of nursing baby Zachary into a fine little Tarzan. The only problem I foresee is that never having lived amongst humans they are entirely lacking in social graces. Could the genteel residents of Windsor get used to a female gorilla prowling through their public spaces, groping any taut behinds that took her fancy? For the sake of Elton’s family, I hope they can learn to put up with it. 

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