Cheating dogs.

Aha, oh dearie me, oh John Prescott, oh Chris de' Don't pay the Ferryman' Burgh, oh, sniff David golden balls Beckham, Oh Hugh bumbling Grant, oh, Clint-I did not have sexual relations with that woman-on, oh Paddy Clancy from down the road. What have they all got in common. They all fucked around on their other halves and got caught rapid.
What in the name of mickey relief made them cheat on women who were by and large too good for them with women who were, by and large, yuckier.
And why do these women stay with them afterwards? Hum, Mary Archer?
John Prescott is a fat, ugly, charmless behemoth, Beluga whale of a man. His wife appears to be a charming rather glamour pussed lady, younger and lither than he. His bit of nookie fluff looks -to my expert eye-like a hard faced, droop-titted piece of rough. And yet he chanced his arm, and indeed his reputation and job, on bedding said wench, who then, proving my point somewhat about the hard face part, sold her story to the highest bidder.
Politics and scandal, power and sex.
It is such a cliché.
Years ago, in my mispent youth, I worked in a nightclub, maning the door on a Satdee and fridee night. And oh dear, the amount of extra-married nookiefied commings and goings I witnessed in the eight months I worked there-before the owners copped that the two bouncers and I were fleecing them-and rightly so, our wages were apalling, well, they would have been if it wasn't for my quick and light fingers and ability to organise a scam-was shocking.
People would come in and slip me a fiver, 'you haven't seen me, right?' And then the following week, say 'Hullo there!' and I would hesitate, was I seeing them? Wasn't I seeing them? Was she his wife or was it the other one, or the other other one? Should I palm that tenner or write it in the book? Want a dinner ticket guvner? No? Excellent.
Sometimes women would ask me if I'd seen people, and I shake my head very slowly. No, I never saw anyone. Then a woman might say, 'but he told me to meet him here', and then I'd say, 'Oh well, maybe I did see him, he's inside.'
It was all very trying.
So I read the papers yesterday and I laughed about old Prescott and then I warned the Paramour. If you go dipping the wick and I find out about it, I won't be one of those ladies that cries and goes to her friends and bitches and eats chocolate and cries and watches sad movies and cries. I won't blame myself, that would be stupid. But chances are I will have your balls hanging from my mantelpiece as a decoration.
He nodded. 'I already figured that out for myself.'
'Good.'
Once we all know where we stand. People should be upfront about these kinds of things.