If there is one human who deserves the title of honorary gorilla it has to be Mr Tom Jones, the singing, swinging, warbling Welshman. From the very start, his songs were smash hits with apes and simians of all persuasions. Cheeky monkeys in the tree tops would scream “What’s new pussycat?” at any lions that passed below. The lions tended to ignore them, but it was good for morale to have a laugh at their expense. We knew in our hearts that Tom could out-roar any lion with that booming baritone of his – and rotate his rear-end in a fashion that few female apes could fail to admire.
Talent is a funny thing. Everyone can see it in a performer who is already famous, but few have the judgement to spot it in an unknown. It took a degree of persistence and self-belief for young Tom, the bricklayer from Pontypridd, to become Tom the hit-making sex-bomb, the only singer in the world capable of inducing female fans to hurl their moist panties at him when he was on stage. Perhaps Tom’s early confidence came from the fact that girls found him irresistible long before he hit the big time. And although he married very young, after impregnating a local lass, he always felt honour bound to indulge his female admirers to the fullest extent of their lustful fantasies.
After being discovered in one of his early infidelities, Tom was reputed to have answered his wife’s recriminations by saying:
“It’s not my fault, you know, they keep on asking for it.”
“So why don’t you say ‘No’ then?” thundered his wife.
“I can’t do that!” replied a visibly shocked Tom, “they’d think I was a poof!”
One has to acknowledge a certain genius in this line of argument, which was apparently put forward which such sincerity that his betrothed resigned herself to a marriage not bound by the normal human conventions. Mrs Tom Jones, first laid by the bricklayer some fifty years ago, remains devoted to a husband who has bedded more women than most other men stare at frustratedly during their entire lives.
Some might say that the ideal of manhood personified by Mr Tom Jones is a throwback to a bygone era, when men opened doors, paid dinner bills and wore the trousers until they wanted to take them off. My reply would be: “What of it?”. The “new man” may be fashionable in certain circles, but he doesn’t look like the kind of fellow who will hand-glide onto a craggy cliff-top to provide his woman with a box of extra dark chocolates with soft creamy centres. And if he can’t do that, he’s about as useful as a three-legged camel without a hump.
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