Clegg's mum writes angry letter to Cameron's mum

NICK Clegg’s mother has written to David Cameron’s mother demanding an end to the cruel taunting of her son.

Mrs Clegg said that Nick ‘keeps bursting into tears’ and refused to go the Commons yesterday claiming he had a ‘sore stomach’.

She wrote: “I did not want to force him to go because it would have been very traumatic for him.  Unfortunately, in the past that has led to involuntary urination.

“However, I do feel very strongly that as David is the older of the two boys he has a responsibility to protect Nicholas’s feelings.
He should not just stand by while the other boys call my son ‘spineless’, a ‘lickspittle’ or a ‘lying, two-faced sack of shit’.”

Mrs Clegg continued: “Nicholas is a sensitive boy who just wants to make friends. Heaven knows I do not think he should have been made deputy prime minister. He is such a gentle little soul. Last week he wrote me a poem about a frog.

“And recently he has been learning how to play the bassoon, so hopefully that is something he can eventually pursue as a career.

“In the meantime, while our two children are running the country, I would ask that your son is nice to my son and lets him join in with European summits.”

A source close to Mrs Cameron said she would not take kindly to being lectured to by ‘some Dutch cow’ and would most likely throw the letter straight in the bin.

Or set fire to it.



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Stylish Masturbator, with Dermot Jaye

THE seminal blob on Rachel Weisz’s Balenciaga frock is so small as to be practically invisible.

It’s a miniscule grey wisp, Casper the Friendly Ghost as viewed on Google Earth. But the security brute – at an LA launch event for an exciting new maple-conditioned cognac – is immune to reason and determined to punish me for my wayward DNA.

I consider explaining how manhandling me will affect his life chances and how I am actually a personal acquaintance of La Weisz following a relaxed and intimate nine-minute interview for a major lifestyle quarterly (she bakes and isn’t afraid to get rough in the boudoir). But it’s late and I’m tired and it’s all way too cliché. “You dirty fucking wanker,” bellows the door brute, handily throwing me down some steps towards a waiting taxi.

Back in my accommodation – an exciting new boutique hotel teeming with hip hop aristocracy – I watch a documentary about sharks, sip a free cognac miniature and ruminate on the negative connotations of the word ‘wanker’. Like ‘negroid’ or ‘batty man’, it is a once-innocent term now ripe for reclaiming.

The modern world has forgotten that masturbation can be an aspirational activity. A man with a lot of literal and metaphorical spunk needs to deposit it regularly, whether into a woman, an imported marble sink, or onto the sequinned hem of a Hollywood power-MILF.

Many of history’s greatest males were also its biggest wankers. Churchill was known to close associates as ‘Winst-onan’ because of his voracious masturbatory appetites.

Frank Sinatra was an avowed self-pleasurer who once bespoke a box of 400 monogrammed silk ‘single-use bedside handkerchiefs’ from his Savile Row tailor, and was known to calm pre-concert nerves with bouts of solo love lasting up to seven hours.

And it is a open secret in Downing Street that the ‘dried wax’ on Dave’s office floor is the result of ‘burning his candle at one end’.

Work hard. Play hard. Wank hard. This is my credo. I consider my bouts of self-stimulation not as lonely and pathetic, but a vigorous, defiant act of firing my seed into the universe. Mating with the elements, if you will. The ultimate expression of masculinity – look out world, here I come!

I am a writer, an editor, a paragon of the modern male, a polymath and a polyglot. But perhaps most of all, I am a wanker.

Dermot Jaye is founding editor and masturbator-at-large of Stylish Masturbator magazine.