On my most recent visit to my father the subject of Sir Elton, his partner and their baby came up. I don’t approve he does, we left it that.
It must have been E.S.P. my favourite columnist wrote a column on the exact same subject this weekend, it’s a quiet day on here so I reproduce it for your entertainment / amusement.
An open letter to Sir Elton John
Dear Elton, I am writing on behalf of the South African government to congratulate you on the birth of your bouncing baby boy, Zachary George Michael Jackson Canaan Banana Chastity Bono Furniture-John.
Does he have your eyes? I hope not. Please don’t be offended. You have lovely eyes. They bring out your teeth. But you do wear glasses and that is something I would not wish on my worst enemy. Call me prejudiced if you like, but it’s just not natural.
There are some people – mainly Christian fundamentalists serving time in jail – who say you should be ashamed of yourself.
Ignore them, my friend. They are merely jealous of your ability to sing, play the piano and procreate. How it would hurt if they knew you could do it all simultaneously!
Like you, I too have a boy. His name is Clive and he has a woman for a mother who is also my wife. There. That’s my dirty little secret. Perhaps I should never have told you.
Apparently you people – I beg your pardon – apparently homosexuals call people like me “breeders”. When I first heard the term, I felt rather proud. Studly, even. But as Clive began turning into the most monstrous of aberrations, I realised that a heterosexual household is the worst possible environment for a child to grow up in.
Your seraphic son was hatched inside a surrogate mother using the eggs taken from an unidentified woman and the sperm of either you or David, or perhaps a mixture of both, and his godmothers are two lesbians.
I wish I could be a guest in your home this Thanksgiving! Actually, I checked my diary and I can make it. I don’t mind buying my own air ticket, Elton, but you are the one who is worth $265-million, not me. Nudge nudge, winky winky.
The papers are saying that you have hired 22 nannies to take care of the infant. Why only 22? You will need a fresh nanny every hour around the clock and I strongly suggest you bring the staff complement up to 24 or run the very real risk of having to spend two full hours a day alone with the whelp.
Children are unpalatable at the best of times, but I fear yours will become intolerable without constant reassuring and a good deal of psychotherapy disguised as love.
I don’t wish to be rude, but I do hope it was your sperm that was used to fertilise the egg that went into the woman who carried your child that worried the cat that killed the rat that ate the malt that lay in the house that Jack built.
Don’t get me wrong; David seems like a lovely chap, but he does have a bit of a reputation as a Holocaust denier. Or am thinking of David Irving? No matter. I am sure you did the right thing.
My wife, Brenda, sends her love. She said she was happy for you because not many fathers would get to celebrate their 112th birthday at their son’s graduation party.
She is nothing but an ageist whore and you will be pleased to hear that I beat her soundly when I realised what she was implying.
With the nannies, the lesbian godmothers, the egg donor, the egg carrier, the implanter, the inseminator, the midwife, David and his mother, the board of Universal Records and 20000 Watford supporters, it could be years before the child even realises you are no longer on this mortal coil. And this is the way it should be.
Yours in A minor, Ben Trovato