The Body Politic

Everyone's leading the life of the mind these days. Our little shelf of the bloggery is laden with fancy types listing their favourite operas, concert works, fillums and gay singing festivals.

This is something, up with which I shall not put. As The Daily Mash has so rightly pointed out, the Inter Net was not designed for august musings but rather for downloading wrap music, one-handed perusals of Salma Hayek's modelling portfolio, and speculating about the plans of International Jewry to take over the Liberal Democrats.

I have therefore decided to devote today's blog post to lady politicians whom I would like to shtup.

1. Sarah Palin (see above)

Oh yes. A cracker in every sense of the word. She may be a Creationist, but I could persuade her of the merits of the Big Bang. One day Alaska!

2. Yuliya Tymoshenko

Ukraine's occasional prime minister is a Carpathian confection of breasts and buttocks held together by rapunzel hair and a total lack of political sense. Mucky as a Belorussian swamp, Pani Yuliya is the one blonde I'd happily get in the (Cos)sack.

3. HM Queen Beatrix of The Netherlands

Orange, Hot and Dutch, Queen B still does it for me. Her ready access to helicopters full of cash, primo drugs and canals of XXX porn more than compensates for her advanced years. And her ability to speak Dutch suggests that her tongue is still as nimble as a Filipina go-go dancer.

4. Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo

On the subject of the Philippines, was any president ever more appropriately named? Tagalog is also the best language in the world for talking dirty. It's a mixture of whorehouse Spanish, suggestive grunts and lewd gestures. She's a Catholic, and so might have a nun's habit to dress up in or even her own Spanish-Inquisition-themed dungeon. Excellent.

5. The Right Hon Theresa May MP

I have had the pleasure of being trodden on by Ms May. I was taking a nap on the floor of a recording studio one night shift when La Theresa turned up for an unscheduled interview and stepped on my head. She was very sorry. I insisted that, from my perspective, she had nothing to apologise about at all.

6. Angela Merkel

Dump, frumpy and grumpy perhaps, but the Bundeskanzlerin could easily pass for Theresa May if you've been relaxing at the Munich Beer Festival for a few days and feel lonely.

7. Tzipi Livni

Her name means White Bird, if my Hebrew serves me well, and she definitely sets my dovecote astir. With her sullen glare, post-coital hairdo and imminent ability to deploy the Israeli Defence Force wherever she like, this is one Tzipora I would certainly like-a more-a.

8. The late Ulrike Meinhof

I don't want to dig up the Divine Ulrike or anything like that, but merely seek to correct any perceived right-wing bias on my part. It's not Socialism's fault that it attracts badly-dressed shrills, as George Orwell once pointed out.

We Live As We Dream, Alone

Gyppo Byard has pitched his vardo in the lay-by of British womanhood and started hawking the scented heather of Oriental delight.

The lively one-sided debate he provoked raises questions not about the media as the message, but the difficulty of perceiving that message while drinking buckets of soave with your girlfriends in the various chrome-plated bars of English market towns.

"Sex and the City: The Movie" opens in cinemas here this week, and Mrs Boyo is marching her phalanx of the Rosa Luxemburg Sexual Illiteracy Combat Brigade through the piles of empty Thornton's boxes, rosé wine bottles and mascara puddles to pressgang stragglers into the popcorn galleys for what she hopes will be anti-Romaticism aversion therapy.

I fear she may be wrong. I enjoyed the TV series "Sex and the City" as a sort of "Coupling" for simpletons. There is considerable evidence, however, that many lady viewers see it not as a "satire on the self-delusion of gender-based empowerment in late-capitalist society", to quote Mrs Boyo, but rather as a practical guide for the perplexed.

I would therefore suggest that the makers of this and other fine comedy programmes should preface each broadcast with the following message:

"The lives portrayed herein are fictional. Any attempt to spend yours in lunchtime frascati sessions while squealing about orgasms and harrassing waiters will leave you a penniless and lonely lush. You will die in a pool of your own wee in a failed attempt to struggle into a frock designed for a Neapolitan teenager. And - no: gay men do not find you fascinating. They see you as ungainly object lessons in why they made the right choice. Enjoy the show."

It seems the kindest thing they could do.