Dick Whittington's pussy

I click my tongue in disapproval on learning that London has a mayor. I’m sure the office never existed back in my circus days. I’ve watched enough westerns to know that the mayor is invariably a cowardly hypocrite who can barely be trusted not to forge his own signature – the sort of scheming scoundrel who sends the lone sheriff to fight outlaws while secretly selling whiskey and rifles to the Comanche. Appointing a mayor is an invitation to corruption, skulduggery and fingers in every pie.

The current mayor of London seems little better than these characters from Dodge City. I had the misfortune to hear him on the wireless, droning away in his nasal voice about how he was tackling the city’s problems. Someone should tell this smug little twerp that London’s problems existed long before he popped out of his mother’s egg pod, and will survive long after his mortal remains have turned to dust. Nothing short of a change in latitude will solve them. The man who believes he has miraculous powers is a short step away from donning a cape and demanding sacrificial virgins.

It wasn’t always like this. The story of Dick Whittington, thrice mayor of London, is fed to English babies with their mother’s milk. The crucial difference, of course, is that Honest Dick was not the mayor, but the Lord Mayor. Being ennobled meant that very little work was required of him, which greatly limited his capacity for doing mischief. His only duties were to wear a funny hat and accept the cheers of the multitude as he travelled to the Guildhall in his golden carriage. There’s nothing like being powerless to win the affection of the English masses. The popularity of the Queen of England rests largely on her irrelevance.

Now Dick Whittington would never have made it to the top without the aid of a highly resourceful and unswervingly loyal cat. In those days, the feline population knew the meaning of an honest day’s pay for an honest day’s work. As well liquidating pesky rodents, the ambitious cat performed odd jobs for its master and softened up his lady friends by curling up on their laps. Before the advent of the sports car, the most effective pussy-magnet was the pussy. When young Dick came to London with his worldly possessions tied up in a bundle, it was his future cat-servant who spotted his potential and showed him the ropes. After a spell together in the merchant navy, they quickly penetrated the inner circle of Lady Veronica Cadwallader, who bought Dick a seat in the Worshipful Company of Fannymakers.

Sadly, the cats of today no longer have the skills required to advance the career prospects of their owners. Dr Whipsnade allows a tomcat called Casper to reside in his mansion, who thanks to the doctor’s liberal disposition has been permitted to retain his gonads. There was a time when Casper allowed me to feed him insects by hand. Nowadays he turns up his nose at such offerings, his palate having grown accustomed to gourmet cat food containing salmon, pheasant or venison. When I invite him to approach me, he yawns lazily and sprawls along the carpet, expecting me to go and stroke his belly. He obviously thinks life is pretty good, toasting himself beside the fireplace and shagging the neighbourhood kitties when he can be bothered to get off his arse. His nemesis can’t be far away though. He has the complacent air of the pride male whose domain is about to be invaded by a pair of young lions who’ll make mincemeat of him. He’ll be yawning out of the other side of his face when that happens.

But enough of London's pampered felines. Tomorrow I return to the Congo, where men are men and apes are apes. And cats are vicious devils who'll rip out your liver if you give them half a chance.

You have read this article Dick Whittington / Lord Mayor / Pussy-magnet with the title 2007. You can bookmark this page URL http://celebrityapprenticey.blogspot.com/2007/12/dick-whittington-pussy.html. Thanks!

A garden refuge

I arrive at Dr Whipnade’s residence for a short vacation, if that is the correct term for chilling one’s rump in the cold clammy air of a London winter. As I look out of my bedroom window, I spy a gentleman with a swarthy, stubbly face, toasting sausages over a small bonfire at the foot of the garden. As befits a philanthropist of note, the doctor has opened the gilded doors of his tool shed to a deserving vagrant for the Christmas season. Before you scoff, please note that the shed is a spacious depository with brick walls, a concrete floor and a roof of durable rubber. The interior contains a wash basin with hot and cold taps, a latex mattress and a gleaming array of the latest Black & Decker implements. Look to your own lives before judging the generosity of others.

I pay the man a courtesy visit next day and he is most civil, putting his kettle on the fire and plucking a couple of teabags from his overcoat pocket. It turns out that he is an unemployed Welsh actor called Trevor bin Laden. This is actually the stage name he has adopted to catch the attention of casting directors. His real name is Trevor Bumphries-Maddocks, which for all I know may be the Welsh form of ‘bin Laden’. His recent acting roles have been middle-eastern characters who yell an Arabic phrase before blowing themselves up or cutting someone’s throat. I ask him about his current accommodation problems.

“I recently had lodgings with an elderly widow who let me do chores instead of paying rent,” he explains. “We got on well until she saw me practising some lines on her cat. Would you believe she called the fuzz!? Thought I was a terrorist trying to involve her pet in a suicide plot against the shuttle service to her local bingo hall. I spent six hours in a police cell while they took my room apart from top to bottom. She wouldn’t have me back even after they’d assured her that her suspicions were groundless. I must be the first bloke in history who got thrown onto the streets for conspiring with a cat.”

“A shocking miscarriage of justice,” I remark. “Have you not thought of broadening your acting portfolio?”

“I think of very little else, Mr Bananas,” he replies. “It’s not that I mind playing jihadist assassins. The Welsh and Arabian tongues have many points of similarity and I once worked in an abattoir, so I’m pretty handy with a knife. But there’s not much emotional depth required to howl with rage before perpetrating an outrage, is there? You could find half-a-dozen capable of that in most of the pubs in Bridgend on a Saturday night. What I need is a good, solid character role of the sort Tony Hopkins used to play before he became a big star.”

“Like The Hunchback of Notre Dame?” I suggest.

“No fear, boyo!” he exclaims. “I’ve had enough problems with back pain to be stooping around with a medicine ball glued to my shoulder blades. I was thinking of Prime Minister Yitzak Rabin in Victory at Entebbe. I’d have the critics cooing from the rafters if they saw me in a part like that.”

“I can’t see you landing that one in spite of your experience in playing Levantines,” I caution. “You don’t even have a ballpark resemblance to Mr Rabin.”

“Well, I was only using him an as example,” replies Trevor. “To be honest, anything with lines spoken in a conversational tone of voice would interest me, irrespective of my preference for work with sound artistic and orthopaedic credentials.”

I nod in comprehension and wish the frustrated thespian a Merry Christmas before returning to the mansion.

It must be Trevor’s lucky day, for that very evening I learn that Dr Whipsnade has invited an up-and-coming theatre producer to dinner. This budding impresario informs us that he is looking for an actor to play an unusual character part in a Christmas stage production. Without hesitation, I enthusiastically propose Trevor for the role. Alas, we cannot invite him into the house because he is away practising improvisational street dialogue with the ladies outside Kings Cross station. But I cite his acting credits, which greatly impress our guest.

Next morning, I knock on the door of the tool shed. After a minute of muttering and groaning, a bleary-eyed Welshman appears before me, wearing long johns and sucking a lozenge. He invites me to sit down on a sack of weed killer while he washes his face in the basin. His ablutions complete, he sits down on the mattress and apologises for his state of dishevelment. I waste no time in announcing the stage role he has been offered.

“A pantomime horse!” gasps Trevor in astonishment. “Are you taking the mickey, Bananas? I’m an actor who went to drama school, not a silly bugger who prances around in animal suits. I took for you for a better ape than to kick a man when he’s down!”

“It is no ordinary horse, Sir!” I protest. “It has more lines than most of the humans and funny ones to boot! I have seen the script!”

Impressed by my sincerity, Trevor questions me about the production and is gradually persuaded that the equine role would be a useful form of occupational therapy before his next gig as a wild-eyed fanatic.

“Maybe I’ll give it a go this one time,” he says, stroking his chin.

***********************************************************************************

As I type these words, I see Mr Trevor bin Laden leaving Dr Whipsnade’s tool shed for the last time, with suitcase in hand. He will make his way to the train station, from where he will travel to bed-and-breakfast accommodation paid for by the Howling Breeze Stage Company. I must go and bid him farewell. I don’t have the heart to tell him he’s been cast as the horse’s rear end.

The Japing Ape wishes his readers a Merry Christmas and will post again one week from today.

You have read this article long johns / Tool shed / Welshman with the title 2007. You can bookmark this page URL http://celebrityapprenticey.blogspot.com/2007/12/a-garden-refuge.html. Thanks!

Brides of Santa

I’m glad to hear that the authorities are finally cracking down on sharp practice in the Santa Claus industry. Men who wear false whiskers should never be encouraged, in my view. When I was in the circus, we once gave a middle-aged clown Santa privileges during the festive season. Unfortunately, the impudent fellow supposed that putting on the costume and beard gave him the right to pester female staff whenever he had the urge to feel a pert bottom on his lap. The knife-thrower’s assistant got more than her fair share of his attention and asked me to swap trailers with her on Christmas Eve. I readily agreed, keeping the door unlocked to allow the blighter to pursue whatever villainous scheme he had in mind.

I awoke in the dead of night to the sound of rummaging at the foot of the bed. The deluded nitwit had grasped my left foot and was about to subject it to some sort of oral perversion! Unluckily for him, the dextrous toes of a gorilla are capable of faster and more decisive action than the slobbering tongue of a man. Without issuing a warning, I grabbed his nose and gave it a vicious tweak. He stumbled out of the trailer moaning, obviously in no condition to deliver further presents that night. He subsequently tried to hide his injury under the false nose of his clown’s costume. I hushed up the incident to preserve what little dignity he retained.

Next Christmas, I was approached by an all-female delegation begging me to play the part of the nocturnal nomad from the North Pole.

“You’re the only Santa we’d trust to fill our stockings!” they chirped.

I wasn’t going to fall for their flattery. There is a fine line between a performing gorilla and a big hairy arse in a Noddy costume. I excused myself with the following words:

“I am touched by your offer, ladies, but I fear that I am rather too bulky to slide down your slender chimneys.”

The women swallowed their disappointment and hit upon the revolutionary idea of appointing a female Santa. The girl they chose worked in the make-up section and insisted on wearing a red miniskirt rather than the traditional pixie britches. She did a fair job until she was caught in flagrante with her boyfriend under the trampoline, still wearing her costume. People then started calling her ‘Saint Knickerless’ behind her back, and it was all downhill from there.

It goes without saying that there’s a lot more to Christmas than getting presents from a pot-bellied codger dressed like a garden gnome. In my considered opinion, Mr Claus is a usurper who has unjustly upstaged the true luminaries of the occasion, who are the nuns. As brides of Christ, they are, figuratively speaking, wives of the birthday boy. And after spending the whole year living on bread, soup and prayers, they ought to have pride of place in the Christmas celebrations, wearing festive clothes and dancing with the best-looking blokes.

If the Pope had a little more imagination, he would give the nuns special dispensation to have sex with the man of their choice on Christmas Day. No man should be allowed to refuse them on pain of excommunication (other than the Pope himself, who is primus non bonkus). On this special day of the year, making love to a nun should be a holy sacrament rather than fornication most vile.

It would be interesting to see who the holy sisters would choose to be their lovers. A lot of them wouldn’t bother, of course. After years of non-use, the female parts are prone to seize up like an engine that’s short of oil. My feeling is that those who are still interested would surprise us with their selections, eschewing the predictable Brad Pitt or George Clooney types. Call me a fanciful ape, but I reckon that Sister Bridget would be fatally drawn to a brooding saturnine fellow like Christopher Lee in his Dracula days. The temptation to dabble in the dark side is greatest for those who have known only light.

You have read this article Christopher Lee / Nuns / Santa Claus. Saint Knickerless with the title 2007. You can bookmark this page URL http://celebrityapprenticey.blogspot.com/2007/12/brides-of-santa.html. Thanks!

Tarzan and Jane

An English couple at the safari guesthouse recently performed a Tarzan-and-Jane sketch. I reproduce it below with stage directions:

Enter Jane, wearing furry bikini and examining coconut in her hand.

Jane (shouting): Oh Tarzan! Would you help me break open this coconut?

Enter Tarzan, wearing trademark loincloth and expression of Class A meathead. Takes coconut from Jane and taps it gingerly against his forehead.

Tarzan: Hum! This hard coconut! Tarzan go and find rock!

Jane (contemptuously): Oh give it to me!

Snatches coconut from Tarzan and smashes it against his skull, causing it to break into roughly equivalent hemispheres. Tarzan staggers about in a daze.

Tarzan (muttering): Humphwurumph.

Jane rubs some coconut oil on her tummy and looks at Tarzan coyly.

Jane (in hoochie mama voice): Does Tarzan want to rub oil on Jane’s boobies?

Tarzan opens eyes wide, turns to face audience and then looks at Jane.

Tarzan: Not tonight Jane. Tarzan got headache!

The couple took their bow amid raucous laughter and cheers. After leaving briefly to change into more formal dress, they returned to bask in the praise of their fellow guests. For some reason they were particularly interested in what I had to say, and awaited my appraisal of their performance as if I were the Ape from Del Monte.

“Quite splendid!” I enthused. “If Johnny Weissmuller were here today his pecs would be throbbing with envy. And his co-star who played Jane would be rushing off to get her boobs enlarged. You have put a teaspoon of chilli powder into a dish growing bland with age!”

They beamed with delight and asked me for my autograph, which I was happy to provide.

We gorillas have no particular animus towards Tarzan, although it was rather presumptuous to call him “Lord of the Apes”. There are no titles in the jungle and a solo man is in no position to lord it over anyone, no matter how much beefcake he is carrying. Other than that, the story is pretty flattering to us. A human infant of noble birth is adopted by a mysterious band of apes and suckled by a surrogate ape mother. They bring him up to be a model jungle citizen who always tells the truth and repels dastardly interlopers with vigorous and well-aimed flying kicks. The only point against him is that he never really lets his hair down and boogies like an ape. Perhaps his tribe were devout Presbyterians or something. But basically he is a good egg.

Jane is obviously thrown into the story to complete the fantasy for the human male. Her presence implies that you can live like a real jungle ape, swinging wildly through the trees, while cohabiting with a hoity-toity mistress. It does seem a little far-fetched though. A woman like Jane might well have consented to a roll in the undergrowth with Tarzan, but I can’t imagine her willingly moving into the tree house with him. Yet before we pour scorn on the fable, let us recall that it inspired a little girl called Jane Goodall to respond to the lure of the jungle. As my well-informed readers will know, she went on to become a celebrated chronicler of chimpanzee society and the best-looking white woman in Africa.

While the Tarzan books have their place in popular fiction, the Tarzan films are something else. When I saw my first Tarzan movie, I hooted with laughter on hearing the ape-man’s famous ululating cry. You see, it actually means something in baboon language. A rough translation is:

“Look! Look at my erection! Look at my erection!”

What makes it doubly funny is that no baboon with an erection would ever dream of voicing such an exhortation. He wouldn’t be so damned silly. Rather than alerting his rivals to his condition, he would sneak off to find an unguarded female in season – or failing that, an unweaned baby wart hog. The wonderful thing is that the European Union has now ruled that the famous chant cannot be registered as a trademark, allowing Tarzan impersonators to yell it to their heart’s content. For long may they continue to do so!

You have read this article Jane Goodall / Johnny Weissmuller / Tarzan with the title 2007. You can bookmark this page URL http://celebrityapprenticey.blogspot.com/2007/12/tarzan-and-jane.html. Thanks!

The nose have it

A French woman at the safari camp reveals that she is sexually attracted to men with big noses.

“You mean like Gérard Depardieu?” I ask

“Pah!” she exclaims. “His nose is like the tulip bulb. I want the long sharp nose of Mr Geoffrey Rush!”

“A decent actor,” I admit, “but not a big hit with the ladies, as far as I know.”

“For sure he is a hit with this lady!” insists the woman. “And he always acts to such naughty roles – the Marquis de Sade, the Pirate of the Caribbean. He can rush me to his cabin if ever he wants!”

She squeals and pinches my arm, delighted with her own wit.

“Excellent pun, to be sure,” I remark. “Yet what is it about big noses that appeals to you? The prospect of a good nuzzle perhaps? Or does their sniffing potential tickle your fancy?”

“Sniffing and nuzzling is good,” she answers, “but more important is what the big nose suggests about the man.”

She chuckles, giving me a knowing look.

“Indeed?” I reply. “And what might that be?”

This straightforward question prompts the woman to laugh hysterically for a good minute-and-a-half. Heaven knows what she finds so hilarious. The French are famous for their odd sense of humour, of course. A lot of them find Jerry Lewis funny.

“My dear Mr Bananas!” she sighs at length, drying her eyes. “You are big, strong and hairy, but you have hardly any nose! So, alas, I could never be yours.”

“I am sorry to be unworthy of you,” I reply loftily. “I shall endeavour to bear my disappointment lightly.”

I leave her to entertain the other guests with her nasal ruminations.

Maybe what she liked about big-nosed men was their implied personality. A woman might easily develop a fascination for such a fellow after watching him ferreting around, probing beneath the veils of multi-layered mystery. Lieutenant Columbo acquired a huge female following simply by asking awkward questions, even though he dressed like a tramp and was a patsy to his wife. The nosey man might also be more adventurous in bed, delving with his torchlight into regions that less inquisitive lovers would shun. And let’s not forget that many women are fond of cats, who are renowned for their curiosity.

Snooping in the wrong circumstances can be a terribly destructive thing, though. The Nosey Parker has ruined the career of many a promising politician. Does anyone remember Gary Hart, the American senator from somewhere-or-the-other? He was billed as the next John Kennedy, even though he didn’t have a particularly large nose. The same could not be said of Barry Manilow, the shrew-faced songwriter and neighbour of Mr Hart. When he learnt that the senator was taking time off the campaign trail to relax on his yacht, he turned up at the harbour with a box full of signed albums. The assorted dolly birds and party girls on the vessel inevitably broke cover and screamed, as they are wont to do in the presence of famous crooners. The press quickly got wind of the commotion and Mr Hart’s presidential bid exploded in a shower of crotchless panties and push-up bras.

I don’t begrudge Manilow his success and give him his due as a composer of sentimental ballads. I’m sure he has no shortage of female admirers who have fallen head-over-heels in love with his phenomenal snout. But he should curb his inquisitive instincts when they are likely to change the course of American politics.

You have read this article Barry Manilow / Geoffrey Rush / Gerard Depardieu / Noses with the title 2007. You can bookmark this page URL http://celebrityapprenticey.blogspot.com/2007/12/the-nose-have-it.html. Thanks!

Subway romance

A correspondent sends me a heart-warming story from New York City. A young man notices a girl writing in her diary across a crowded subway carriage. Smitten by love, or possibly something stronger, he knows that he must speak to her. But alas! – she alights from the train before he can pluck up the courage to do so. In an agony of heartbroken remorse, he constructs a website displaying freehand drawings of the girl and himself, imploring the good citizens of the metropolis to help him trace her. And mirabile dictu, one of the girl’s friends clicks on the site and recognises her! Mr Patrick Moberg meets Miss Camille Hayton and they appear together on a TV chat show. After basking shyly in their brief moment of fame, they stroll off into the sunset, arm-in-arm.

Love at first sight is a curious concept for a gorilla. It implies that a fellow would fall for Cruella de Vil if her soul were packaged in the right body. Perhaps Ms de Vil would have been more lovable had her physical attributes been suitably appealing. But somehow I doubt it. The pages of history are littered with ladies who were beautiful but bad. The goddess Kali stuck out her tongue at her mortally wounded husband; the lady Messalina trounced Rome’s leading prostitute in a bonking content; Madam Mao Zedong was accurately described as “the baddest bitch in Beijing” by Chinese rap singer Ho Man Fuk. The sad fact is that a woman’s appearance tells you very little about her character, although I am reliably informed that the ones with tattoos make more noise in bed.

One thing that will have surely surprised young Patrick is that comely Camille is in fact Australian. Now, personally, I have yet to meet an Aussie girl I didn’t like. In general, they are easy-going, fun-loving ladies, with bottoms of above-average firmness (for humans). But will Miss Hayton be right for a romantic, sensitive lad such as Master Moberg? How will he respond to being called “a pillock” or “a drongo” in a spirit of playful banter? And how will she react to Patrick reciting poetry while they’re gazing at the New York skyline? Hopefully it will melt her heart, but what if she thinks he’s a poofter? The opportunities for cultural misunderstandings of this sort seem endless.

The picture of Camille drawn by Patrick suggests that her plump and rosy cheeks were a big part of the attraction. I don’t blame him for that. I myself have always had a weakness for women with chubby cheeks. There were several in my circus days who granted me the privilege of pinching their delectable face cushions. (I have similar ambitions for a couple of my female readers, who shall be nameless.) Hopefully Camille will be tickled pink at having a boyfriend who can’t get enough of her tasty chops. Looking at her photograph, another question comes to mind: Is there a polite way of asking a girl to massage your back with her chin? Having been a recipient of chin-to-back stimulation from female gorillas, I can assure you that Camille would be capable of grinding a man’s spinal cord into a state of transcendental bliss.

Perhaps the most amusing aspect of this uplifting tale is that Patrick received e-mails from young ladies who had no knowledge or interest in the whereabouts of Camille, but wished to present themselves in her stead.

“You’re so adorable!” they typically gushed. “Pick me instead!”

This reminds of a circus clown who prominently displayed a large portrait of his sister in his trailer. Visitors always asked him who she was. If he was with a woman he fancied, he would say that she was his late fiancé and break down in tears. Nine times out of ten, he ended up blubbering into their bosoms.

You have read this article drongo / love at first sight / pillock / Romance with the title 2007. You can bookmark this page URL http://celebrityapprenticey.blogspot.com/2007/11/subway-romance.html. Thanks!

Sex doll relationships

The latest human sex dolls are getting very realistic. The company I own shares in printed photos of their new “Supersnatch” model in their annual report. In a recent TV documentary, a client confessed that he’d fallen in love with one of these dolls. Admittedly, he was a 78-year-old man with custom-built model based on his 22-year-old ex-girlfriend. The doll’s physical likeness to the girl was extraordinary. Her personality and conversational skills were pretty close as well, apparently.

The future of the sex doll industry depends on further improvements to the “internal cavity”, as those in the trade call it. Although it currently delivers a decent squelching sensation, clients who have unprotected sex are vulnerable to the “dick-rash and douche” syndrome. No man in a relationship with a sex doll wants to use a condom – he may as well pay a woman for that. The plan on the drawing board is for a new organic cavity harbouring jism-eating bacteria. There are few problems beyond the reach of modern science.

An industry insider once asked me whether there’d be a market for gorilla sex dolls. I told him they’d never catch on because you can’t afford dead weight in the wild. A female gorilla must do more than provide a sexual orifice – she’s got to pull her weight in the foraging, gathering and baboon-chasing departments as well. No one gets to be a passenger just because they’ve got a super-elastic cha-cha that stays permanently moist in the dry season. To be part of a gorilla band you’ve got to be a team player, keeping your eyes and ears open for any dangerous critters that might sneak up on your comrades. An alpha male always prefers to have feisty apettes in his harem, even if it means they’ll occasionally mob him and use him as a pouf. Being sat on by females is a lot better than sitting on a snake.

The march of technology being what it is, the sex doll may one day be replaced by the sex android. This concept was explored in The Stepford Wives, a movie in which the menfolk of a town replace their flesh-and-blood spouses with battery-powered replicas. The androids adore cleaning and cooking; they speak in dulcet tones; they croon with delight when their husbands mount them. Yet such automatons would never fool a gorilla. Lacking a primate soul, the absence of rhythm in their booties would be obvious during our jungle festivities. For all their doting subservience, the matrimonial robots never dared accompany their husbands to the discotheque or ballroom for fear of making complete asses of themselves.

Constrained by its programming, the android spouse is incapable of the innovation and spontaneity required to keep the spark in a marriage alive. One doesn’t want a mate who’s totally unpredictable, of course. As any gorilla with a harem knows, too many surprises from the females lead to stress and irregular bowel movements. But a complete absence of conjugal tension causes you to become a fat, complacent slug. The ideal mate is one who keeps you on your toes without going completely loco and putting insects up your nose when you’re asleep. A proper balance between yin and yang is the secret of a contented life.

You have read this article sex dolls / Stepford Wives / yin and yang with the title 2007. You can bookmark this page URL http://celebrityapprenticey.blogspot.com/2007/11/sex-doll-relationships.html. Thanks!

The French Disconnection

I don’t often defend the good name of a woman I have never met, but felt compelled to do so when a tourist referred to Cécilia Sarkozy as a “snooty bitch”. The fellow was miffed that she was divorcing the French president rather than rejoicing in the role of first lady. I expressed my dissent in forceful terms:

“Sir, I disagree! It is greatly to the lady's credit that her heart is not swayed by such shallow temptations! A virtuous woman cannot be seduced by the trinkets of high office or the baubles of unmerited acclaim!”

The man assumed the demeanour of one whose nipples had just been tweaked by a sumo wrestler and trotted off silently, picking his teeth with a pencil.

I do hope Cécilia won’t betray my faith in her by speaking ill of Sarko. It must be very tempting for a recently divorced woman to dish the dirt on her ex. Even sweet-faced Nicole Kidman said she was looking forward to wearing high heels after splitting with Cruisey. I am sure that many unscrupulous publishers would pay Cécilia a fortune to reveal Sarko’s bedroom secrets – of how his nostrils flared like a racehorse when he saw her in satin underwear; of how he gnashed his teeth like a basset hound when he climaxed. Such a memoir would doubtless sell well, but at what cost to her dignity, to say nothing of the dignity and grandeur of France?

Being French, she won’t have to worry about the gutter press poking its warty nose into her post-Sarko dalliances. For all we know, some enterprising young beau might already be squiring her. Whatever you say about the French, give them credit for their mature attitude to sex. You can learn a lot from the love scenes in their movies. Unlike in Anglophone films, the music never starts playing when the couple are horizontal – instead, you get a full range of naturalistic sound effects along with fascinating snippets of dialogue. One could easily write a book titled “Interesting things said by the French during coitus”.

The sad thing about the break-up is its effect on Sarko, who’s been looking rather glum, even for a Frenchman. Just when he should be triumphantly bestriding the globe like a modern-day Asterix the Gaul, TV interviewers are rubbing salt into his wounds by asking him about his marriage. Perhaps the King of Swaziland might be persuaded to loan him a couple of his own wives to warm-up the king-size bed in the Élysée Palace. Sarko could certainly afford to entertain them in style, and their presence might inspire Hugh Hefner to send him a free collection of adult toys from the Playboy Mansion. Such are the perks of being president of France – a lavish salary, a rent-free palace and an unlimited supply of gratuities from foreign potentates.

My ape intuition tells me that we won’t see Sarko on top form until he’s done some serious arse-kicking. Top of the list of gadflies to be swatted are the disgustingly carnivorous farmers of France, notorious for belligerently asserting their right to butcher anything that moves in the countryside. The next time these horse-eating villains obstruct the highways with their tractors, Sarko should be waiting for them with bulldozers, helicopters and vats of putrid offal to drop on their stubborn heads. A great cheer will resound through Europe when these ill-mannered bumpkins are laid waste by the force de frappe, allowing Sarko to claim his rightful position at the continent’s Action Man.

You have read this article force de frappe / Hugh Heffner / Sarkozy with the title 2007. You can bookmark this page URL http://celebrityapprenticey.blogspot.com/2007/11/the-french-disconnection.html. Thanks!

Sleepless nights

A religious guru in Malaysia is warning women not to wear tight clothes. Apparently it gives men in that part of the world sleepless nights, making them thrash about in their beds like spawning salmon, cruelly abusing their pillows. This, he contends, is a form of emotional abuse. Looking at the guru's picture, I think he should put his own house in order before telling women what to do. That wispy beard of his would drive female orang-utans insane with lust if he showed his face in the jungle.

When a female ape gets the hots for a man she will lie on top of him and poke her fingers into every crevice in his body. It’s obviously not pleasant for the man, but the psychological damage done to the ape is immense. Instead of concentrating on the noble pursuits that Nature intended for her – rearing infants, foraging for food, reciting prayers, etc – she is corrupted by thoughts of naked primate booty and how she can get some. “Beware of man and the seduction of his charm that leadeth unto sin” is the proverb quoted to female gorillas from the moment they’ve eaten their first banana.

As a former circus ape, I find it difficult to entertain complaints about women who wear skin-tight clothes. That sort of attire is very much de rigeur in the ring, and concealing the contours of those pert little bodies would be cheating the customers. It isn’t necessarily advisable for ladies of a less athletic build, though. The gorilla perspective on the human female is that while her top half is improved by compression, her bottom half must be packaged with care. Frankly, it can give the appearance of trying to squeeze the groceries into a carrier bag that’s not quite big enough.

“Are women who dress seductively asking for it?” is the question posed by every talk-show host seeking to boost his ratings. Scantily-clad ladies tend to respond defensively when this suggestion is put to them by other humans. This is where being a gorilla helps. Human females can speak to me candidly, aware that my motive is anthropological rather than judgemental. Having interviewed a number of saucily-dressed damsels, the answer appears to be ‘No’. Rather than “asking for it”, they are “asking to be asked for it”, by the right man, in the right manner. And if the man or the manner of asking does not meet with their approval, they reserve the right to decline.

In the animal kingdom, these matters are resolved by the male giving the female a good sniff to find out whether she’s in heat. Hampered by their poor sense of smell, humans have to rely on cues and signals instead. Yet I’m not convinced that the women of today have got it quite right. The mini skirt and skimpy top often make her appear closer to spreading her legs for Mr Knobpants than she actually is. My feeling is that corseting the cleavage inside an 18th century bodice is closer to the message that the temptress is seeking to convey. The goodies are there for the taking, but getting them out is likely to be hard work.

You have read this article bodice / Malaysian guru / wispy beard with the title 2007. You can bookmark this page URL http://celebrityapprenticey.blogspot.com/2007/11/sleepless-nights.html. Thanks!

Mailbag Blues

One of the problems with living in the jungle is the unreliable postal service. The minute you pay one troupe of monkeys to deliver the mail, their rivals get jealous and start mugging the bag carriers and eating the letters. They’ll only stop their sabotage if you pay them as well, which annoys the mail monkeys. “Why should we haul postbags through the trees when they’re getting paid for doing nothing?” is their complaint. I’ve tried telling them the New Testament parable about the workmen in the vineyard, but it doesn’t impress them. Jesus is viewed with suspicion by monkeys – they see him as a colluder with business interests and the propertied classes.

I take no consolation from the fact that my hairless cousins are often similarly inconvenienced. Dr Whipsnade was recently in a huff about the British Royal Mail, which had suspended all services after its employees went on strike. Now you won’t find a millionaire more supportive of workers’ rights than the good doctor. When the fire fighters withdrew their labour, he made a point of visiting the picket lines and handing out packets of Doritos with a sour cream dip. However Larson Whipsnade is an avid reader of periodicals, and cannot tolerate interruptions to his weekly deliveries of The Mayfair Man, The Soho Squire and The Bloomsbury Tit (an ornithological newsletter). When I asked him about the pay and working conditions of British postal workers, he rapped his cane angrily against a sculpture in his drawing room.

“I’d like to tie their lazy hides to a dog sleigh!” he growled.

Yet whatever one says about the Royal Mail, they have many high horses to ride before matching the piously pigheaded postal workers of Canada. These moose-brained zealots are refusing to deliver mail on the spurious grounds that it contains pornographic images. It is indicative of the dismal moral climate in Canada that mailmen now believe they are entitled to inspect their cargo and scour it for titillating pictures.

As it turned out, the supposedly obscene material was merely a pamphlet published by the Sex Party, a miniscule political grouping campaigning for the rights of prostitutes, voyeurs and couples addicted to dogging. Quite understandably, they are suing Canada Post and using the accompanying media interest to publicise their platform.

“We are the first political party dedicated exclusively to sex-positive issues,” declared party secretary Rufus Horn. “Regular, energetic coitus purges the body of toxins and liberates the spirit from hostile and aggressive emotions.”

This is an entirely bogus theory, as it happens. Lions mate continually when the females are in season and it doesn't alter their nature one iota. They snarl, grimace and bite before they do it, while they are doing it, and after they have done it. It is a common human fallacy to suppose that getting laid frequently can change you into a different person.

Yet much as I pooh-pooh their philosophy, I defend their right to disseminate it by way of post. It is not for the mailman to examine the documents he is entrusted to deliver and withhold the saucier items from distribution. That sort of officious meddling should be left to the Vice Squad.

You have read this article Canada Post / Royal Mail / Sex Party with the title 2007. You can bookmark this page URL http://celebrityapprenticey.blogspot.com/2007/11/mailbag-blues.html. Thanks!

The Halloween experience

We don’t do anything special for Halloween at the safari camp – the African night is spooky enough without people impersonating witches and hobgoblins. Not that ladies of the broom-straddling persuasion are necessarily a bad thing in this day and age. When I was in the circus, quite a few women who imagined they were witches sought to involve me in their schemes. Believing that a talking gorilla must be some kind of wizard, they befuddled me with talk of hexes, spells, potions and salubrious tonics. I remember being accosted by a striking young minx who was interested in recipes for male aphrodisiacs in the pre-Viagra era.

“I am surprised your gentlemen friends have need of such stimulants,” I remarked.

“It keeps them going when I’m digging my nails into their back,” she explained helpfully.

I nodded thoughtfully. I should imagine that wildcat sex is something that men fantasize about a great deal without realising what a shock to the system it is to have your flesh clawed. Many a young male lion would doubtless concur. We gorillas have little experience of such matters, of course. Those who require further enlightenment should contact Ms Belinda Swallows, the latest sex-blogging sensation.

Halloween is an occasion I enjoy when staying at Dr Whipsnade’s London residence. What fun it is to answer the doorbell and yell “treat or treat!” at the costumed kiddies before they can utter a word! Many of them drop their bucket of goodies and run off in terror, but I always chase after them and carry them back home for a dessert of fresh mangoes. They usually stop screaming when I reassure them as follows:

“Calm down, by God, we gorillas are vegetarian! You have far more to fear from your own kind! You will be free to leave once you have collected your booty!”

I can say, in all modesty, that I get along with human infants like a house on fire. Bewildered parents often ask me why I have a much better rapport with their offspring than they do. The answer is quite simple: I speak to them as I would speak to an adult; I confide in them on matters of substance; and I take a genuine interest in their social lives. The last item is a particular fascination. I confess to having a weakness for vulgar rhymes and can never resist asking children about the latest playground ditties. The following verse was once recited for my pleasure by nine-year-old twin sisters:

When Suzie was a teenager, a teenager Suzie was,
And she went: "Ooh, ah, I lost my bra, I left it in my boyfriend's car!

Apparently this is quite well-known, but I had never heard it before and hooted with mirth, much to their delight. Feeling a little abashed, I decided to add a few cautionary words:

“Suzie was indeed a feckless and foolish young woman,” I declared. “When you acquire brassieres of your own, I am sure you that will remove them only in the presence of a doctor, or perhaps a gentleman who has professed his love for you after months of assiduous wooing!”

“Euurrgh!” piped one of the little ladies. “I’m never taking my bra off for a gentleman!”

I rubbed my chin as I reflected on her words. “Jenny McCarthy does favour that approach,” I conceded, “but I would advise you to postpone fixing your sartorial habits until the moment of reckoning arrives.”

Chatting to human infants of a certain age is a most refreshing experience. They speak their minds frankly and never fail to draw one’s attention to interesting possibilities.

You have read this article Halloween / Jenny McCarthy / wildcat sex with the title 2007. You can bookmark this page URL http://celebrityapprenticey.blogspot.com/2007/10/the-halloween-experience.html. Thanks!

Keeping abreast of developments

A Californian dentist argues that massaging a woman’s breasts can cure her of toothache. I suppose it might take her mind off it, but it didn’t stop the 27 women he artlessly groped from reporting him to the authorities. He hopes that the court will not revoke his licence if he promises to stop feeling up his female patients and examine them only in the presence of two chaperones. I am not one to prejudge these complex legal cases, but I get the feeling that his proposed plea bargain may be too little, too late.

My advice to the fellow would be to quit while he’s ahead. Having fondled 27 bosoms without retribution, it’s time to cash in his pension and move to Florida. His days of bamboozling women about the therapeutic benefits of the boob rub are behind him. After relocating in the Sunshine State, perhaps he could find work milking cows or squeezing oranges. A humble occupation like that is just what he needs to calm his restless spirit and maintain a low profile in the local newspapers. It might also be a good idea to send a $500 cheque to each of the women he groped. Penance is good for the soul, particularly if it encourages your victims to maintain a discreet silence.

There’s really no way back for the distinguished man who’s been exposed as a tit fiend. Have any of you been following Paul McCartney’s divorce? I sensed things would turn nasty when Ms Mills alleged that her husband forbade her from suckling her baby on the grounds that he had exclusive rights to her udders. Of course, one shouldn’t automatically accept the word of a woman willing to air dirty linen in the hope of getting 50 million rather than 30 million. But the image of Sir Paul mooching possessively over Heather’s boobs is difficult to banish from the mind. “What kind of man would refuse to share his wife’s nipples with his baby daughter?” is the question one cannot avoid asking. “One about to have his own assets well and truly milked” would be a possible answer.

Now there are a few professions where it is possible to touch a woman’s breasts in the line of duty. Dr Whipsnade has a friend who is a Harley Street consultant specialising in sexual maladies. A newly-wed woman once came to him complaining that she found sex with her husband to be painful and joyless. After summoning his dildo-equipped nurse, the doctor began caressing the patient’s breasts. The nurse attended to the woman’s lower half and presently slipped in the device without difficulty.

“Does that feel good?” asked the doctor in a matter-of-fact voice.

The blushing bride admitted that it did, whereupon the doctor told her that she was perfectly normal and should ask her husband to do as they had done, rather than ramming her like a frustrated satyr.

I had the same kind of disinterested concern for my female fans back in my circus days. I never knowingly touched their breasts, but I kissed quite a few hands and signed countless autograph books. He who inspires that kind of adulation needs a strong moral fibre to keep things in check. With the festive season approaching, I should imagine that many male bosses are contemplating frisky forays with female staff at the office party. My advice to them would be to think of the embarrassment that one drunken lunge can produce well into the New Year and beyond. In the evergreen words of Sheriff Buford T Justice, “You can think about it, but just don’t do it.”

You have read this article breast massage / frustrated satyr / Paul McCartney / tit fiend with the title 2007. You can bookmark this page URL http://celebrityapprenticey.blogspot.com/2007/10/keeping-abreast-of-developments.html. Thanks!

A life on the ocean wave

I am forced to adjudicate a dispute at the safari camp. An American evangelist maintains that the Arc de Triomphe was named after Noah’s Ark, while a Frenchman noisily dissents.

“Gentlemen!” I shout, silencing their agitated chatter. “The issue is entirely moot because Noah’s Ark never existed. No gorilla couple would have willingly camped inside that floating menagerie if the alternative had been drowning in baboon piss. The whole story was a fable concocted by God to test the gullibility of Sunday school students!”

“Sir, that’s blasphemy!” declares the American man frowning. The Frenchman splutters words like “Incroyable!” and “Absurde!” while walking in tight circles and slapping his forehead in frustration. I leave them to their deliberations.

We gorillas are very choosy about the vessels we sail in – nothing less than a cruise liner will do for me. I require a cabin with a hammock and ocean balcony, plenty of space to stretch my limbs and a goodly number of fat women to chase around the decks. As for the Captain, only an Englishman will do – Continentals are too sly, Orientals too inscrutable and Americans too politically correct. I look for a skipper in the mould of Leslie Phillips: a good fellow in all respects, but not too bright. Ideally there’d be an on-ship mystery to solve during the voyage. Nothing too sinister though – something along the lines of a phantom bottom-pincher who needed collaring.

There are times, of course, when the call of service matters more than a comfortable trip. Had Lord Nelson wanted gorillas to join him on the Victory, he wouldn’t have needed to give them a lecture about England expecting every ape to do his duty. One little cough in our direction would have produced an avalanche of hairy volunteers to climb his riggings and heave his cannonballs. Although gorillas don’t normally interfere in human warfare, we would have keenly participated in the arse-kicking of Napoleon Bonaparte, an enemy of our nation. During his African campaign, the Corsican upstart had the effrontery to try and conscript apes into his Grande Armée by sending press gangs into the jungle! The local gorillas made short work of them.

The Pirates of the Caribbean movie franchise has a low standing in gorilla society because of its disrespect to the Royal Navy. Never forget that the stiff-necked dullards portrayed in those films actually succeeded in ridding the high seas of the likes of Captain Jack Sparrow (or “Subaltern Johnny Parrot” as we call him in the jungle). The plain fact is that the pirates of the time were villainous cutthroats with poor personal hygiene and appalling table manners. Making heroes of them is an insult to the memory of every able seaman who ended up as fish food because of those desperadoes.

Incidentally, poor Keira Knightly is terribly miscast in those films. Any fool knows that the seafarers of that era preferred their women plump. The phrase “buxom wench” was practically invented to describe the kind of strumpet that appealed to their tastes. Had Miss Knightly been captured by a pirate vessel, she would have been sold to the harem of a near-eastern potentate without delay. And I’d wager there wouldn’t have been a single grubby pawprint on her soft white skin.

I should conclude by reminding my dear readers that the 21^st of October is the anniversary of the Battle of Trafalgar. We gorillas toast the memory of Lord Nelson with fruit juice, but you may put something a little stronger in your tankards if you prefer.

You have read this article Arc de Triomphe / Lord Nelson / Noah's Ark with the title 2007. You can bookmark this page URL http://celebrityapprenticey.blogspot.com/2007/10/a-life-on-ocean-wave.html. Thanks!

The matrimonial market

Is $250,000 per annum a meagre income? I ask because a 25-year-old nymph residing in New York deems it an insufficient salary for the man fit to wed her. This delectable damsel (“spectacularly beautiful” in her own modest words) posed the following query on a popular message board:

I’m looking to get married to a guy who makes at least half a million a year… Could you send me some tips? I dated a business man who made an average of around 200 - 250K. But that’s where I seem to hit a roadblock.

On reading this, I felt very relieved not to be acquainted with the young lady. Frankly, I would be ashamed of my inability to give her useful advice. It’s bad enough being asked directions by confused tourists when I’m taking a vacation in London. They have no right to expect a gorilla to know where the Spearmint Rhino club is, but I still feel obliged to say something helpful.

I suppose the first thing to ascertain is whether she is indeed worthy of a husband earning $500,000 per annum. She certainly seems to think so, but her judgement may lack impartiality. To snare a half-million-dollar man, a woman needs more than a pretty face and an attractive figure. She’s got to look good naked as well. Perhaps she ought to have her body examined from head to toe by one of those characters who look for the mark of the Devil on witches. The thing to be especially wary of is an unsightly birthmark on the posterior. It may seem like a trivial point, but a wealthy businessman doesn’t want to see something resembling Papua New Guinea when he’s preparing to mount his wife from behind.

Then there’s the question of how much of the half million she requires for personal expenses. Suppose she negotiates $100,000, which would be generous with free board and lodging. What can her husband expect in return? Sex on demand would be out of the question – a wife is not a whore and deserves the same entitlement to sick leave as other employees. For that amount of money, however, he ought to have the right to see her naked whenever he wants, possibly as an aid to self-stimulation. There must be safeguards, of course. Exhibiting her naked in front of his bodyguards, as the Emperor Caligula did to his own wife, would be unacceptable. He’d have to earn at least a million to do that.

I wish her the best of luck in her quest, but I have to wonder whether she knows what she’s doing. Making deals of this nature requires careful negotiation and a watertight contract. If you want to milk the assets of a prosperous business man, you can’t wait for the divorce to get legal advice. Only by driving a hard bargain from day one will you be adequately compensated for being ogled, pawed and paraded like a trophy. Perhaps she should get an MBA before attempting to pull off such a complex transaction.

Speaking as a gorilla, I have to be honest and say that females who market themselves on the basis of physical beauty do not have a high status in our hairy community. We have a saying:

She who is not fertile learns how to pick coconuts; she who cannot climb trees learns how to forage for berries; and she who is allergic to berries puts on mascara and flutters her eyelids.

You have read this article Mark of the Devil / Papua New Guinea / Trophy wife with the title 2007. You can bookmark this page URL http://celebrityapprenticey.blogspot.com/2007/10/the-matrimonial-market.html. Thanks!

The return of Queen Cate

Wonderful to see Cate Blanchett back in the role of feisty Queen Elizabeth. As well as being a talented actress, she’s a fine example of what is known as an “unconventional” beauty. Essentially, that means you have to stare at her for a while before realising she is ravishing. Such women are invariably more impressive humans than instant lookers of the Catherine Zeta-Douglas variety. I have no doubt that Cate does the most fascinating things in her spare time. She is surely an accomplished tap-dancer and I imagine that she’d give me a decent game of table tennis. I bet she loves poetry too. Can anyone imagine Ms Zeta-Douglas playing ping-pong or reciting poetry? Perhaps one can, but only in an affected, posey sort of way to show off in front of the cameras.

I have always been fascinated by historical movies which show how the humans of a bygone era used to behave. Those Elizabethans certainly enjoyed dressing up! There is much to be said for a society in which men can wear tights in public without being insulted or harassed. The nobility seemed to have a lot more fun in those days: courtiers and ladies-in-waiting playing kiss-chase in the palace gardens; minstrels singing love songs while strumming on their lutes; dandies of all sexual persuasions dancing gaily in their codpieces and ruffs. Wasn’t it inspiring when Good Queen Bess told the Privy Council to stuff their French suitors because she was already wedded to England? Back then, a lady could proudly admit to being a virgin without being mocked behind her back.

Personally, I have nothing against females who play impossible to get. Sexual initiation is not a big rite-of-passage for gorillas, and those who put it off because they’d rather be picking coconuts are not treated with scorn. Dr Whipsnade recently told me about a conversation he had with his friend Lady Chuffington, who has three teenage daughters. Her Ladyship is more or less resigned to the eventuality that her girls will surrender their virtue long before their wedding night. So rather than wasting her breath on extolling the blessings of chastity, she is encouraging them to be selective about the fellow given the honour of deflowering them.

She has advised her daughters that he who is permitted to penetrate their maidenly citadel must first:

(1) regularly kiss them on the hand (a sign of gentlemanly devotion);

(2) allow them to slumber in his arms without trying to cop a feel (asleep or not, a girl always knows when she’s been touched);

(3) join them in watching a movie starring Helena Bonham Carter without attempting to fast-forward to the scene where she exposes her boobies.

It is essential, of course, that the girls do not disclose these hurdles to the first young buck who courts their affection. (I don’t know whether any of you are socially acquainted with the Chuffingtons, but I trust that you will not misuse this information.)

It would be wrong to eulogise females simply because they are virgins though. The Virgin Queen feared that hanging, drawing and quartering the Catholic traitor Babington would be too merciful a punishment. Many innocent children have been painfully cuffed by nuns, who are technically (or sometimes actually) virgins. I myself have had to endure cheeky backchat from any number of virgin gorillas. Heaven knows what their problem is. If you ask me, they need a good seeing to.

You have read this article Cate Blanchett / Helena Bonham Carter / Ping-pong with the title 2007. You can bookmark this page URL http://celebrityapprenticey.blogspot.com/2007/10/the-return-of-queen-cate.html. Thanks!