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Ben Trovato

@ Sunday Times Books LIVE

If my birthday present doesn’t speak English, I may take her as a second wife

It is my birthday today and I am anxiously awaiting the arrival of a sultry, underdressed babe from the Balkans to participate in the festivities.

Every year, for the past 47 years, Brenda has asked me what I want for my birthday. My reply is always the same. “A threesome, please.”

It almost happened in 1969 but Brenda discovered they shared an interest in horse riding and, while I was in the garage mixing up a bucket of amyl nitrate and baby oil, they went off to the stables.

I have resented horses ever since.

This could be my lucky year. In fact, if my birthday present doesn’t speak English, I think I may take her as a second wife. Talking is the cause of a tremendous amount of marital discord and a permanent communication breakdown with a spare wife could be the answer to a happy marriage.

I must say, I rather like what Jacob Zuma is doing with the Vietcong-type underground tunnels connecting his bedroom with those of his wives. Every country should have a president with a revolving door policy, even if it is only visible to the naked women.

I would also like a tiger for my birthday. Stripes make me look thinner. I expect this is the reason wildlife filmmaker John Varty began collecting tigers a few years ago. I will do things differently. For a start, I won’t call my tiger Corbett. Tigers prefer fierce names, like Shere Khan or Imran Khan.

So you could hardly blame Corbett for taking a swing at Varty last month. “Now who’s got a gay name?” snarled Corbett, flicking blood from his claws. The other tigers were suitably impressed. “Farty,” they shouted as one. “Farty has a gay name.” Tigers can’t say their vees.


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