The cuddly princess

A tourist asks me about my plans for the tenth anniversary of Princess Diana’s sad demise. I reply that we gorillas rarely commemorate deaths – that sort of thing leads to fruitless moping, and the ape who mopes without fruit is lacklustre and lethargic. If you’re going to mark someone’s end, pick an enemy so you’ll have something to celebrate. I always pour myself a glass of pineapple juice on the day that “Sawtooth” Mangola exploded after swallowing a diving cylinder in the Congo. He was the biggest, nastiest, ugliest crocodile I ever saw, and his reptilian remains turned part of the river into a handbag-flavoured soup.

Diana’s tragic accident occurred in my final season with the circus. I confess I cried like a baby, although probably not for the princess. Still, tears are tears, and I distinctly remember calling Diana “our chicken”. If you knew how valuable chickens were in Africa you’d realise what a compliment that was. But I have no desire to dwell on the sorrowful events of that fateful day. Leave the post-mortems to the ghouls: we who love life should savour sweet memories of the princess in her prime.

I always admired Diana as one of the foremost cuddlers in public life – and whatever you think of her, she wasn’t the worst person to get a hug from. As she matured as a woman she got quite fleshy about the upper body, and no man or beast could complain about her bosom. Perhaps some were repelled by the mawkish expression on her face, but it wouldn’t have been difficult to change her mood. Picture a young man lamenting some misfortune being comforted by the princess. As she puts her arms around him, he turns his face to her ear and whispers these tender words:

“I’d really love to fuck you.”

Imagine the change in Diana’s demeanour! I am quite confident that unless the fellow resembled a beagle she would have smiled coyly and given him a wink. For the princess was surely la femme qui aimait les hommes. I personally have no doubt that she was excellent in bed. Little things about her suggest as much: the fact that she “adored” the gallants she slept with rather than merely “loved” them; the fact that she teased and flirted with the old buffers who befriended her; the fact that she was fawned upon by Dodus Al Fayed, the playboy who perished by her side. Contrast Diana with the professional lady who refers to her husband as her “partner” and treats pleasantries from male co-workers with sour-faced suspicion. There’s not much doubt which type of woman most men would prefer in the sack.

Now the late princess wasn’t everyone’s blue-eyed girl and people are quite entitled to be cool about her. But don’t condemn her purely because you disapprove of royalty. We gorillas would never make character judgements from a person’s occupation. Did we throw coconuts at Naomi Watts because she starred in that appalling movie King Kong? Indeed not! We knew she was just an actress doing her job and let her groom us like any other visiting starlet. By all means criticise Diana for being a silly floozie who courted the newspapers she pretended to despise. But attacking a princess just for being a princess is wrong. In the wise words of Sheriff Buford T Justice, that’s pure and simple old-fashioned Bolshevism.
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