Someone’s tongue has been wagging again. When Michael Douglas informed us that his throat cancer was caused by a bug that is passed on during oral sex, we logically assumed he’d been having oral sex. Who shouts about an ice cream which they haven’t tasted? Then we wondered what he had been licking, and we assumed it was his wife. Again, quite logically.
All this can’t have gone down very well with his wife. The thought that he might be dipping into someone else’s cone would not go down any better. But however much we all regret it now, the image of a certain head buried between a certain pair of thighs has buried itself in our consciousness. It has implications – for nurses involved in patient hygiene: “You’d rather do your Jones by yourself, would you?” And for cricket commentary: “The last ball appears to have struck the batsman squarely in the Jones.” And so on.
It’s not just Jones, is it? I mean the name. It’s Zeta-Jones. The lure of exotic forms. Delta-Douglas fancies cunnilingus, a term which he enunciated like an expert in his interview. There’s something about those syllables when they’re curled around the tongue of a knowledgeable man. But we still wish that some things had never escaped his lips. And we wish that some things had.