Dracula's castle

Good sense has prevailed in Romania! The government has agreed to return Dracula’s castle to the descendants of the legendary bloodsucker. It was surely wrong to deprive people of their property because their ancestor was a bit eccentric. We all have skeletons in our cupboards, quite possibly the remains of some night prowler who got a stake through the heart. Who really knows? My lineage is as untainted as they come, but even I can’t be certain there wasn’t a neck-nibbling gibbon in the Bananas family tree. Let he among you who is free from fangs suck his own toes.

Now the Romanians claim that Vlad Dracul was unfairly maligned. They insist that he only ever bit women in the normal rough-and-tumble of coital frenzy. All that stuff about chasing English virgins and drinking their blood was revisionist history dreamt up by Bram Stoker. The real Count Dracula was the leader of national liberation movement. He slew Turkish invaders without mercy, impaling their bodies on well-greased skewers like so many kebabs. Crooked merchants and cantankerous women were punished more severely. The historical sources agree that he was sadistic but fair.

Dracula films have been banned at the safari camp since the Great Chimpanzee Riot of ’98. In a moment of queer fancy, the camp manager decided to screen an obscure Brazilian version of the story in which the lunatic Renfield is played by a man in a chimp mask. The chimpanzees watching at the window smacked their lips in annoyance when Renfield started jumping about in his cell. All hell broke loose when he was shown trying to rape his bedside cabinet. If there is one insult that drives chimps crazy, it’s the suggestion they have unnatural relations with trees. Depicting a chimpanzee trying to mate with an item of furniture is tantamount to an accusation of necrophilia. Swarms of infuriated chimps besieged the guesthouse for three whole days, digging up the shrubs and shitting in the swimming pool. I eventually negotiated peace terms in which the offending videocassette was handed over for ritual dismemberment.

The last good Dracula film I saw was the one starring Gary Oldman, who hammed it up in grand style. It was all quite diverting, yet I left the cinema feeling that the real Vlad couldn’t possibly have been that light-hearted. Remember the scene where the old Count shaves Jonathan Harker with a cutthroat razor, licks up a dollop of his blood and lets out one of those rip-roaring evil laughs? Very ironic, but there is no historical record of Vlad Dracul moonlighting as a barber, let alone laughing at his own jokes. The one surviving portrait of him presents the face of an utterly humourless bugger. Not that one can blame him, of course. It must have been hell waking up every morning to the stench of rotting flesh and the din of caterwauling widows which he himself had created. No peace for the wicked, as the saying goes.

Vampire films are past their sell-by date anyway. Watching slender virgins having their necks bitten gets boring after a while. We gorillas are rump apes. I’d like to see more booty in the cinema, both virginal and non-virginal. I’m currently working on a movie plot about a toothy dwarf who preys on women with big wobbly arses. He is eventually undone by a lady with a posterior as firm as it is enormous, thanks to her daily “buns of steel” exercise regime. The dwarf breaks his teeth on her taut flesh and is led away in shame to a new career as a horse-fellatiator. I like films to have a strong moral message.

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Becks snubbed!

The news that Mr Becks will have to wait another six months before getting his knighthood brought a frown to my hairy face. It seems that Beefy Botham was ahead of him in the queue. My disappointment is keenly felt, although not for the footballer. It is his wife, Victoria Spice, for whom I grind my teeth in discontent. Apparently she had already bought a one-shoulder leopard dress for her visit to the palace. It must be especially frustrating for her servants, who were no doubt looking forward to addressing her as Lady Becks. A woman who can nurture three babies in the body of a choir boy and squeeze them out of an aperture resembling a dolphin’s blowhole is worthy of the deepest respect. She may look like a pouting pixie, but in spirit she is the Amazon who laughs in the face of physical torment.

Having already sired three sons, the Becks naturally wish to give their boys a baby sister to pamper. But in their eagerness to conceive a girl, they have resorted to the unnatural practice of mating in an upright position. Did you ever hear such an old wives’ tale?! How I wish that Victoria had consulted me before impaling herself on the Beckshaft. I would have approached the local witch doctor and sent her a crocodile’s tooth boiled in hen’s urine. If a woman puts one of those inside her cha-cha, her ova will be impenetrable to Y-chromosome sperm until the next full moon. If only humans would listen to a qualified physician before experimenting with all this superstitious nonsense.

Now a lot of people are disgusted at the prospect of Mr Becks being knighted. They recall an infamous incident in which he kicked an Argentine player and cost his team a vital match. In his defence, once should note that the Argentine player thoroughly deserved a good kicking. The mistake made by Mr Becks was to do it himself during the game rather than hiring some goons to gang up on the fellow outside the stadium. However one can’t expect a simple footballer to have mastered the works of Sun Tzu and show expertise in military strategy. It is surely time to let bygones be bygones and accept that Mr Becks has risked his ankles for his country, amassing a fortune worthy of a nobleman in doing so.

The idea of opening up the British honours system to sportsmen and celebrities was dreamt up by the outgoing prime minister – Mr Tony Bear, as we call him in the Congo. Personally, I think it was a stroke of genius. Honouring people with unfamiliar faces is an invitation to fraud. If you give a knighthood to Ted Noggins, what is to stop any cross-eyed potato picker from turning up at Buckingham Palace and claiming the gold medallion for himself? The Queen of England can’t be expected to memorise the face of every tedious non-entity who’s oiled his way onto the honours list.

The next logical step would be to award knighthoods to famous glove puppets as well. Basil Brush would come top of the list now that his kind are a protected species. He’d need a lecture on royal protocol, of course, as no one wants to hear backchat from a smart-mouthed fox when the Queen is handing out prizes. Sir Basil Brush would be an icon for our age – and a symbol of restitution for millions of weary foxes who’ve been chased to virtual exhaustion by innumerable fat-arsed knights of the shire.

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A woman in full

The jungle is abuzz after a screening of Holy Smoke at the safari camp. The movie has a scene in which naked Kate Winslet embraces nonplussed Harvey Keitel in the parched Australian scrub. He initially rebuffs her, but when she pees on the ground he is overwhelmed with lust and mates with her in a nearby hut. My simian brethren are chattering excitedly about whether this was the first recorded case of a man being aroused by the scent of a woman’s urine.

Unfortunately it wasn’t. After contacting Jane Campion, I learnt that the behaviour depicted was a common-or-garden wee-wee fetish from Dr Freud’s casebook, most probably rooted in a formative childhood experience. You know the sort of thing: boy spies on girl taking a leak at school picnic and files it away in kinky part of brain. Nothing to do with smelling sex hormones and not the biological advance for homo sapiens we were hoping for. How disappointing.

One might ask, nevertheless, why the sight of Ms Winslet in the nude wasn’t enough to make Mr Keitel rise to the occasion. She’s certainly got the body that any male gorilla would admire – broad, curvaceous hips; succulent thighs; breasts heavy with milk. It all adds up to one word, which ought to be the sexiest word you could apply to a woman: fertile. A voluptuous screen goddess like Kate shouldn’t have to powder her nose when she wants a man to oblige her. I bet Gwyneth Paltrow wouldn’t have been asked to piss her co-star into bed.

This brings us to one of the great mysteries of human sexual attraction: the puzzling preference of the human male for waif-like women. A lot of feminist types complain that ubiquitous images of pencil-thin models have created a false ideal of feminine beauty. Yet the plain fact is that most men prefer slim chicks. You can’t blame a fellow for what he finds attractive – the point is to get to the source of the pathology. As usual, these feminists are very good at carping about problems and much less good at devising practical solutions.

Man’s desire for thin totty, as Dr Freud would have explained, must originate from the time of his sexual awakening. Let us start by considering the question of the family au pair. She is an important figure for the pre-pubescent boy – the first unrelated female with whom he cohabits. Is it not true that many of these girls are slender young chits from Scandinavia? Why not hire a buxom filly from Bulgaria instead? Get her to bounce little Johnny on her luxurious lap and clasp his head to her bountiful bosom, so he grows up knowing what a real woman feels like. A boy who’s been cuddled by a queen bee won’t be interested in stick insects.

The message could be reinforced when the boy attains puberty and starts making love to fantasy females in the privacy of his bedroom. Why not encourage the lad’s appreciation of art by giving him a suitable print for his thirteenth birthday? Perhaps one of those masterpieces of fulsome female flesh by the great Titian, which he could put up on his wall and ogle while he’s wrestling with the bald-headed champ. If he’s leering at a luscious lady when he’s firing off his first one, he’ll probably be inclined that way for the rest of his life.

Of course, it’s not my place to lecture human mothers on how to bring up their sons. They’ve got a hard enough job dealing with the surliness and the scent-marking and the soiled bed-sheets. I humbly advance these apish suggestions on the off chance they might help a woman guide her boys around the potholes and foot snares that bedevil the path to manhood.

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The naked truth

The American Association for Nude Recreation sent me an e-mail last week. It seems they are finding it difficult to recruit young members and need new ideas for promoting their creed. My reputation as a lateral-thinking ape obviously precedes me. They were presumptuous, however, in supposing that we gorillas approve of humans prancing about in the nude. Those with a good natural covering of fur don’t need clothes, but bare skin in the open air attracts buzzing insects and makes the snakes hiss.

I’m not surprised that the nudists are pining for fresh meat. It must be disheartening to see the bodies around you getting wobblier by the year, a mirror to your own sagging flesh. But if they want to attract spring chickens to the farmyard, they’ve got to sort out their charging structure. A flat fee per nipple is clearly nonsense. Young humans may not be financially astute, but even they must realise that they shouldn’t have to pay for having their goodies ogled by a bunch of ageing hippies.

I wrote back with several recommendations. Start by offering free vacations to firm-bodied newcomers. Don’t advertise or you’ll be deluged with applications from crusty-balled exhibitionists. Hire a team of people to scour the modelling agencies for talent. What should they look for? Top-notch booty. Cherchez le derrière is the motto for the nudie recruiter. Unlike the female bosom, the buttocks are of equal interest to both sexes and can be stared at while the owner is looking the other way. And if the hindquarters are first-rate, the other bits and pieces will usually be up to scratch as well. Pay the butt-hunters a fair commission for every quality rump they deliver and offer appearance money to the peachiest bums on show.

Then there’s the problem of young men having erections, an unwelcome distraction in a nudist colony. An exposed stiffy makes the maidens blush. The experienced ladies will wonder who caused it and get into competitive arguments, while the men will make vulgar jokes about playing a game of hoopla. Young male recruits must learn to suppress all thoughts of sex with mental images of Sunday School, hard-boiled eggs and Fanny Cradock. But there’s no harm in allowing the breeze in their groins to induce a moderate tumescence. A middle path between the broom handle and the dead mealworm is what’s required.

Lastly, the recreational activities need to be more appealing. Volleyball and tennis are negative clichés – for all their foolish bravado, humans don’t really want balls hurtling at them when they’re naked. Solo sports are surely more appropriate. I should imagine that women would find horse-riding quite stimulating. It might take them back to their teenage years, when they used to dream of galloping stallions. As for the men, swimming in heated pools containing life-sized mermaid dolls might be the thing to get their juices flowing. Real mermaids would be better, of course, but there are limits to what can be achieved on a fixed budget.

My final point was a gloomy one. Nudism is a declining pastime because its premise is flawed. Humans cannot go back to the pre-serpentine condition of Adam and Eve. Clothes, imagining what’s beneath them, and taking them off, are too important a part of how modern humans get sexually aroused. To cast them aside is to blunt one of the sharpest arrows in the sexual armoury. When a man meets a woman in alluring dress, he sees a soft-centred chocolate in a bright foil wrapper. Removing the wrapper and biting through the coating is an essential part of the whole experience. It also gives him the gumption to carry on chewing if he’s got the one with the nut in the middle.

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