IT’S the classic boy meets girl has ‘happy accident’ story – the type of touching romcom Hugh Grant can’t resist.
He’s a handsome English landowner, she’s TingTing – the China girl with the kind of boyish waist and hairless areas women would literally kill for.
Nevertheless, looking at her you’d say she’s no classic beauty. Louis Walsh might giddily describe her as ‘a little Lucy Liu’, one eye blasting a fiery trail directly into the back of our brains, while the other eye runs for its life through the dense Cambodian jungle and dives headfirst into a disused sewer pipe to escape the burning pain of a napalm strike.
And it’s burning pain that got Hugh into this predicament. Men, I’ll let you in on a secret: following the act, lots of women claim to want a ‘flush and rinse’ to minimise their chances of succumbing to so-called ‘honeymoon sickness’. This bogus urinary tract condition is nothing but a myth concocted by the hysterical web-based coven, Mumsnet. If you ever sleep with TingTing, or any other woman, and she visits the bathroom at any point, wait no longer than three minutes before breaking the door down and demanding to know what the hell she thinks she’s doing. Don’t be shy – you’ve got nothing to lose: if she’s doing a poo then you know she’s all natural and you’ve got a great story to share with the guys down the pub later. But if she’s cackling and emptying the contents of the pedal bin into her G-string, then your well-timed intervention might have saved you some serious coin.
So why didn’t Hugh perform such a check? The truth is he’d been bewitched by TingTing’s mystic Daoist syphilitic madness dance. Had Hugh planned his trip thoroughly, he would have noted the Foreign Office guide to Asia lists this particular threat under ‘code red’. He didn’t stand a chance and was rendered limp and befuddled, drooling nonsensically about PMQs and his make-up.
What’s more, he could never have known about TingTing’s secret ovulation calendar. Like me, she’s a woman of great wiles so she was no doubt stashing it in the place I know Hugh would never find it: my cat’s litter tray. It gets its airing once every 23 to 25 weeks, after which I diligently claw the gravel back over and wait. Once, I thought Hugh was onto me when he spotted faecal matter under my nails, but I told him an Italian man had been sitting on my hand on the underground and thankfully the matter passed.
Poor trusting Hugh has a well documented track record for never rejecting ladies on the basis of skin colour. Sadly, all too often his humanitarian expeditions are sabotaged by the parasitic Murdoch empire who are just jealous. I hope he singlehandedly screws the entire media industry the way TingTing screwed him – because that’ll show them once and for all.
