Blind Date Calais: The Fumble in the Jungle

WELCOME to one of those stories I don’t know whether to file under you Couldn’t Make It Up or Here We Go Looby Loo. British women are reported to be travelling to the Jungle camp in Calais to have sex with migrants.

Sorry, you’ll just have to bear with me while I stop laughing. If I’d have written a spoof column in which I imagined boatloads of dopey birds flocking to France for a little light rumpypumpy with alleged refugees waiting to enter Britain illegally, eyebrows would have been well and truly raised.

Even if this flight of fancy had made it past the editor, some readers would have questioned my sanity. ‘Oi, Doris! That Littlejohn’s lost it completely. He must have been hitting the old pinot noir with a vengeance over the weekend. He’s only suggesting that women are going to Calais for sex with asylum seekers.’

But titter ye not, missus, as Frankie Howerd used to say. By all accounts, the camp is a giant open-air knocking shop. Apparently, aid workers are at it like rabbits with those ‘vulnerable people’ they are supposed to be helping — and the women are the worst of the lot.

One female volunteer was asked to leave the settlement after she had sex with multiple partners in a single day. Nice work if you can get it. According to the Independent, which used to be a newspaper, the Jungle is a hotbed of lust and sexual exploitation. Some volunteers believe that sex between aid workers and refugees is only ‘natural’.

I suppose we shouldn’t be too surprised that female volunteers are getting most of the action, since men outnumber women at the camp by about 99 to one. A whistleblower said the site was like ‘a free-for-all festival’ and aid workers and migrants alike had a serious problem ‘keeping it in their pants’.

I have no idea what all these randy female volunteers look like, but I shouldn’t think the so-called refugees are too fussy.

After all, if you’ve spent the past few months crossing a couple of continents, crammed in the back of a lorry with a couple of dozen sweaty blokes from as far afield as Afghanistan and Eritrea, you’d be grateful for any kind of female companionship — even some sexstarved old boiler from War On Want, who makes Millie Tant, the radical feminist from Viz magazine, look like Angelina Jolie.

AND at least these intrepid members of the British Sexpeditionary Force are relieving the pressure on local prostitutes, who have been struggling to keep up with the demand for their services. It would appear that when young male migrants aren’t setting fire to barricades or trying to break into container lorries with chainsaws, they’re forming an orderly queue for Grab A Gremlin Nite at the back of the communal latrines. Welcome to the Fumble In The Jungle.

I have visions of legions of inflamed women from across Britain piling onto Eurostar and the ferries, desperate to get their hands on some fresh meat at the Calais cattle market.

Perhaps those ladies heading for France to offer themselves as sexual partners genuinely believe they are on some kind of humanitarian mission.

Come to think of it, they must be pretty desperate. What kind of madwoman watches a bunch of migrants fighting with riot police on TV and decides to drop everything and head for Calais to provide how’syer-father to complete strangers?

They can’t be getting any at home, which doesn’t say much for the menfolk of Britain, either. Look, ladies, I can appreciate that the average flabby British male trying to squeeze his beer gut into a pair of those ludicrous three-quarter length cargo trousers with the daft patch pockets round the kneecaps isn’t an especially appetising prospect.

But that’s still no excuse for crossing the Channel to take on all comers in the Calais Jungle.

Perhaps there’s already an iPhone app which matches up frustrated British women with thrusting young foreign migrants who haven’t had so much as a brief tasteful glimpse of available female flesh since they left Kabul or Mogadishu.

Swipe right for Sulemain, 22, from Somalia, third cardboard box along from the Red Cross soup kitchen.

If Cilla Black was still with us, she could have hosted a special Blind Date live from Calais.

‘Ayup, chuck. Woss yer name and werra yer come from? Mohammed, from Mosul, eh? That’s fab. I bet yore a lorra lorra laffs. And what would you do if you got Kylie in the back of a truck, chuck? Do I need to buy a new hat?’

MARy BERRy’s at a bit of a loose end right now. Maybe a revival of the old Blind Date format, in a tent at the Jungle, could be the perfect antidote to losing Bake Off — with Mel, Sue and Jo Brand on one side of the partition and a handsome jihadist from Aleppo on the other. It would kick Ed Balls on Strictly into a cocked hat.

Perhaps Ed’s missus, Pixie BallsCooper, could be a contestant, given her enthusiasm for inviting migrants to Britain. Ed must have finished painting the spare bedroom by now.

I wonder if these hook-ups are the equivalent of a holiday fling, or whether some of the birds bouncing into Calais are hoping for a longer-term relationship. Certain British women do have a reputation for putting it about on foreign soil after a few glasses of sangria, but we’re not talking Shirley Valentine here, are we? Or are we? The Sunday Times reports that one aid worker, 41-year-old Sarah Gayton, is to marry a Syrian migrant half her age. Miss Gayton met Hamoude Khalil when she was delivering food parcels to the Jungle. Within months they were engaged and plan to marry soon.

Mr Khalil subsequently entered Britain illegally by stowing away in the back of a lorry. Following the announcement of their engagement, he has now been given leave to remain here for five years. Of course he has. Call me an old cynic, but how long do you think this fine romance will last? I give it five years.