Poor Valerie Trierweiller. Upon hearing of her partner’s love affair with Julie Gayet, she felt as if, according to a friend, ‘she’d been hit in the chest by a high speed train’.

She should live in England. The trains are never high speed, if they turn up at all.

But this explains why certain women choose to protect themselves from such metaphorical trauma. And how they do so is with air bags.
If a train hit Pamela Anderson in the chest, or Jordan, or Heidi Montag, it would simply bounce off; back the way it had come from.
So the lesson is: if you suspect your husband of having an affair, increase your chest size to FF immediately. Only massive lumps of silicon can save you.

But the sorry tale of French rumpy-pumpy has descended into a somewhat more cynical place. Where Ms Trierweiller, almost as horrendously unpopular in her own right as her useless Monsieur Le President ‘husband-ish’, has to decide how to react to his confessions of infidelity. Already the first unmarried woman to inhabit the Elysee Palace as the First Bimbo, her position there was always a little tenuous. So if she decides to shut the door and never return to the two-timing little shit, she gives up rather a lot.

State funded assistants, security guards, limousines and drivers, private jets, allowances for clothes, croissants, foix gras and untipped cigarettes. It would all go. All the things that perhaps influenced her decision to hook up with the ugly little bald man in the first place when she had, for some years, been conducting relationships with both Hollande and the leader of a Far Right party as well.
Playing the middle ground. The French way.

Hollande confessed to Valerie, as all real men must do. Out of honour, out of decency, out of doing the right thing, the honest thing.
And because he knew that the next day it was going to be all over the papers.

He only stayed with Julie overnight because there was no room on Le First Scooter for a third person to go anywhere. Security guard up front, Francois on the back, where would Julie sit? On the handlebars?? If the economy there was better they’d have a little Citroen and the problem would be solved.

So now he must decide.

The French, being French, are all very familiar and comfortably accepting of dalliances among their high command, but they need to know their leader’s intentions purely so they know how many old tarts and slappers they will be funding in the coming years. It has become a budgetary consideration.

Hollande needs to grow some balls and make his choices.

Where is the number for that silicon implanter?

Bon Mardi

A xxxx