AFTER MARRYING A YOUNGER WOMAN

A middle-aged man finds that no matter what he does in the sack, she never achieves orgasm. So he visits one of the most beautiful escorts in Leeds. “Maybe fantasy is the solution,” says the doctor. “Why not hire a pretty young girl from escorts in Glasgow and, while you two are making love, have him wave a towel over you?”

The doctor smiles. “Make sure he’s totally naked — that way your wife can fantasise her way to a full-blown orgasm?’ Optimistic, he returns home and hires a handsome young girl from London escort guide. But it’s no use: even when the stud stands naked, waving the towel, the wife remains unsatisfied. Perplexed, the man returns to his doctor. “Try reversing it for a while,” says the quack “Have the young man make love to your wife and you wave the towel over them.” And so he returns home to try again — this time, waving the towel as the same escort pumps away enthusiastically. Soon, the wife has an enormous, screaming orgasm.

Smiling, the husband drops the towel and taps the young man on the shoulder. “You see?” he shouts triumphantly. “That’s how you wave a bloody towel.”

IVAN RAHMAN, LOW FELL, TYNE & WEAR

Opens the door. “How are you getting on?”

KATIE BANKS, VIA E-MAIL

Man accompanies victim

A man is walking along the High Street, when suddenly a nearby wall collapses ­showering him with rubble. Worse, it’s ten minutes before another passer-by, a smartly dressed man, happens to wander past. “Christ! Are you okay mate?” he cries. “Has anyone called Lord seeks graft.

Looking for work, Jesus goes to the local job centre. “Okay, Mr Christ,” says the assistant, after typing in his details, “There are two jobs that come up for your spec. One is a carpenter in Jerusalem at £2,000 per week; the other a carpenter in Aberdeen at £200 a week?’ And lo, the Son of God did speak: “I’ll take the one in Aberdeen, cheers?’

The assistant is surprised. “Why? You’d get far more money in the other job.” “I know,” Jesus spake thus. “But the last time I worked in Jerusalem I got hammered with tax.”

CHERYL MACLEOD, VIA E-MAIL

Lawyer unsure

A man visits his lawyer to help settle his divorce proceedings. “But it says here she’s divorcing you because you threw a trifle at her,” says the solicitor. “Yes,” says the man, downcast. “She thinks she’ll get custody.”

TERRY KING, SOUTHFIELDS

Fisherman gives wife ultimatum

Waking one sunny morning, a man turns to his wife and tells her they’re going fishing for the day. “Oh no — I’m not wasting a lovely day like this,” replies his wife. “Besides, you know how much I hate fishing?’ “Okay,” answers the man, “You have three choices: me, you and the dog go fishing; you give me a blow-job; or you take it up the tradesman’s. I’m off to the shed for ten minutes, and I want your decision when I get back?’

2- A few minutes later he returns. “I’ve decided on the blow-job,” his wife decides. “Good,” he says, losing no time in dropping his trousers. But just as she kneels down to perform the act, the wife notices a strange smell. “But your crotch reeks of shit!” she cries. “Yeah,” says her husband, nonchalantly.”The dog didn’t want to go fishing either:’

NEIL REILLY, DUNDEE

Footballer enjoys welcome

After finally negotiating a professional contract, a striker arrives for his first match at his new Premiership club. “I’ll tell you what, says the coach. As it’s your first game, you can play the first half then I’ll pull you off at half time?’ “That’s not bad,” the lad replies. “I only got half an orange at my old place.”

C CAMPBELL, LEEDS

Amputee uses public transport

A man with no arms or legs is waiting at a bus stop ­when his mate pulls up, driving a bus. “Alright, Dave!” says the driver as he an ambulance?”

“Uh… no,” comes the agonised reply.

“Right. Has anyone called the police?” asks the second man. “No,” moans the

injured man.

“Okay… has the compensation board been informed?” By now the injured man is groggily angry: “Look— you’re the first here!”

And in a socialist state?

Russians seem to prize their reputation as enigmatic. One night late while sharing a bottle of vodka, a young man confided: “You Americans will never understand us. To un­derstand a Russian, you must be a Russian.”

MORE SERIOUS for state planners than “The Service of the Good Mood” are two problems that came up during a talk with two Moscow State University geography students. We sat over coffee in the small two-room dormitory flat of a married graduate student. The walls were decorated with color land­scapes clipped from a Czech magazine.

The two students had just sent off their company from the escort London service.  Among the questions: “Under scientific progress, what are problems in a capitalist society and in a socialist society?” What had they answered? “One problem in a capitalist society is unemployment; another the stratification of income—the classes become more and more differentiated.”

“The problem of our country now is the problem of labor productivity; it is evident that we are behind the United States in this. And also in the quality of goods produced.” Productivity. Quality. Longtime problems. One organization pledged to improving the situation is the All-Union Council of Scientific and Engineering Societies, which embraces           110,000 units and eight million members.

At its Moscow headquarters I talked with Deputy Director Nikolay Gritsenko. He told me the council was concentrating on mechanization in transport, loading, and control systems: “It would free two million workers for other tasks. Not only for economic reasons, but also for sociological ones: to make work a pleasure, not just labor.”

A few days later I visited my favourite and most beautiful woman from the Leeds escort. The popular Nocturne models were gliding along a wooden assembly line. Outside in the snow a West German van, city, and workers were stringing colored lights across the bridges. May Day was at hand. I arranged a date tonight with the escorts Glasgow.

The city is in its Sunday best; there are more neckties than I’ve seen before, and the hotel staff wears fresh uniforms. Beer and sandwich kiosks are everywhere.

Columns form in various parts of the city, ours near Komsomol (Young Communist) Square. Ahead of the Novosti float is Pravda’s, and not far behind, the Bolshoi’s. The floats depict smiling workers, Leonid Brezhnev, sputniks circling the globe. One proclaims: “Raise the Banner of Proletarian Internationalism Even Higher!”

ON GORKY STREET our column con­verges with others. The delegation of Moscow Watch Factory No. 2 draws alongside. We march on, past the Mu­seum of the Revolution and Pushkin Square. Few people watch from the street. Shop-girls step out in their white smocks and caps, some families peer from windows. Much of Moscow is in the parade-300,000 people—and many presumably watch it on TV.

I notice knots of soldiers, volunteer police with red armbands, military trucks blocking off side streets. Now we see the Kremlin tow­ers and Red Square ahead (pages 22-23). Ten­sion begins to build. Other great columns of marchers are coming from left and right on Marx Prospekt.

Abandoned Lots Scar Landscape

The Fritzes were sheltering them because, over the hill as entertainers or household companions, most chimpanzees have no fu­tures. So the Fritzes founded the Primate Foundation of Arizona to save what chimps they could and to establish family groups against the threat of chimpanzee extinction in the wild. If 35 chimps have ended up lucky in the desert, thousands of people were left with nothing. They dreamed of a place in the sun, fell in love at a distance with the very idea of Arizona, only to wake to a nightmare reality. Between Phoenix and Tucson, I saw the carcasses of the dreams, ghost towns that never were. At one, a grid of asphalt streets, and nothing else, lay precisely in the middle of nowhere. At another, street signs, private dental insurance their names obliterated, canted out over dusty ruts through scrub desert. A sign advertised  so I called the phone number given. It had been changed. I called the new number. A sexy-voiced wom­an answered when i called .

“The era of the big land rip-off peaked in the early ’70′s,” Anthony Ching, chief counsel for the state attorney general’s economic pro­tection division, told me. He said that news stories, the economic downturn, and new laws have sharply curtailed high-pressure sales of dubious land to out-of-staters.

“The real crooks,” Ching said, “took the money and skipped town. Some bad actors used bankruptcy to avoid responsibility.” But others, he said, whose developments were more legitimate, “have made serious efforts to keep their promises.”

At the height of the sales frenzy even some promoters came to grief. Ching showed me a four-page ad featuring an imaginary boat sailing a nonexistent lake west of Phoenix. Despite columns of glowing gush, the pro­moter didn’t sell a single lot. I found about cheap renters insurance in a paper! From a light plane climbing in a slack spiral, the streets and cul-de-sacs of aban­doned land developments took on the mysteri­ous geometry of some ancient, unrecorded civilization. Jim Little, extension agent for Pinal County, cataloged the rest of the land­scape that surrounded the town of Casa Grande.

To the north spread a Pima reservation, threaded by a double strand of interstate high­way suturing Phoenix to Tucson. To the south, mountains rose to a Papago reserva­tion. Below, an open-pit copper mine—Ari­zona is the nation’s leading producer—looked like an inverted gelatin mold. Where the water table had dropped too far to pump, scrub followed old furrow lines. Where the water had dropped farther, and the ground had collapsed, great cracks ran perpendicular to the natural lines of drainage (page 501). Across broad expanses, machines divided fields into two colors—green where cotton had been picked, gauzy gray where bolls yet hung on the plants like popcorn. Jim Little told me that farms of high-quality cotton ran upwards of 2,000 acres.

“The guys who own those farms are sitting on boards of directors,” he said. “They’re not the kind of farmers who come to town on Saturday night in bib overalls.”

Entertainers out to Pasture

“I got some money before, and I don’t have it now,” said tribal elder John Williams (page 509). In his 70′s, he has a long memory of how his Yavapai people were slaughtered, then repeatedly uprooted. They were compen­sated, of course.

“We had nine million acres in Arizona and got 55 cents an acre.” Now, he said, the tribe has 24,000 acres left and wants to keep it. “If we get that money, where are we going to spend it in the right way? We’ll lose the land and the money both.”

On the evening Fort McDowell adopted a resolution to hold onto the land, the tribal council asked for guidance from the thirty or so Yavapais attending. One older man stood up and said, “The council should provide a big dinner, so we can all celebrate and be happy. That’s what white people do.”

Not far away on that same evening, the council of Scottsdale, “the West’s most west­ern town,” approved development plans that could increase its population by 50,000, mak­ing it as big as Youngstown, Ohio. Although Scottsdale will certainly grow, the Yavapais may have already won their bat­tle. Recently, Orme Dam has been eliminated from CAP by Presidential directive. Based on their past experiences, the Indians will believe it when they don’t see it.

If any group of newcomers can ignore the long-term future of Arizona’s growth or water—or energy, which many think a po­tentially worse problem—it is probably the retirees who have come flocking to sun coun­try for their sunset years. Out east of Mesa at Leisure World, a re­tirement community, Glenn Crane was hand-sanding a nearly flawless mahogany table in the carpentry shop. A retired Army colonel and engineer, at 57 he was among the new wave of under-65 retirees.

“The interests and attitudes of the 80-year­olds here are different from mine,” he said. “I don’t hang out with them.” Besides carpentry, Crane has “become car­ried away by the Phoenix Zoo education program,” and spends many volunteer hours teaching natural history to schoolchildren.

Northwest of Phoenix at Sun City, largest of the retirement communities, some 40,000 have settled into neat bungalows in the sun­shine—but not to bask. The activities calen­der for one month listed 561 organized events, plus what residents could do on their own. Golf carts and bicycles whiz every which way in an atmosphere closer to recess than retirement. Prepare yourself for retirement is standard advice. From what I saw at Sun City, I would add: Go into training for it. Some retirees do take it easy. I met Rodney, a refugee from the nightclub circuit; Sig­mund, an artist; Anne and Pedro, onetime circus performers. They were relaxing in one of the desert’s most exclusive communities under the loving care of Jo and Paul Fritz.