es.video.yahoo.com MADAME SARKOZY doesn't involve words. For the overly analytical and verbal among us, it can be a lovely animal respite from what Woody Allen called his second favourite organ, the brain. Try to describe it and look what you get: great efflorescences of purple tumescence, great efflorescences, in fact, of purple prose. Even when good writers try it Norman Mailer and Sebastian Faulks both won the Literary Review's Bad Sex Award they often fail. Heaven help the rest of us But like a nation afflicted with some kind of mass Tourette's, we just can't stop. It's everywhere: on billboards selling cars and bras, in films, on telly, in the magazines we devour with our Kit-Kat and, increasingly, in the newspapers we scour on the tube. Want a little update on South Ossetia or securitised loans? Fine, but you'll also get "the return of the cleavage". We can't, it seems, get through the day without a little glimpse of well, what do you call them? Breasts? Tits? Mammary glands? A little glimpse, in any case, of female flesh and some accompanying prose The message of the pictures is generally straightforward. "Hello boys!" about sums it up. Hello, this will cheer you up. Hello, you might like to buy this product. Hello, we know what you're thinking and we're thinking it too. The problem, as I say, is largely the prose. Never quite sure of what we're aiming to achieve, we vacillate wildly: from the coy to the clinical to that mainstay of British culture, the double
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