Quantum of tookus

Wonderful to see my friend Danny Craig doing his Action Man stuff in the latest Bond flick. How far he has come from the whiny insecure actor who came to see me after signing on with Madam Broccoli.

“I’ll be another George Lazenby!” he wailed. “The critics will pan me and the actresses I kiss will eat garlic!”

“Don’t talk rot, Danny!” I cried. “The critics will worship you – and if any actress dares to eat garlic before you smooch her, stick a funnel in her mouth and pour in Listerine until she chokes!”

Thus reassured, Danny went on to do marvellous things in Casino Royale, jumping about like a Mexican bean and allowing his gonads to be whipped for Queen and country. Quantum of Solace is destined to be an ever bigger hit, not least because of the greater variety of totty for Bond to exert his loins upon. There’s a love scene in the film which I had a modest role in choreographing. During the shoot, Danny phoned me to say that he’d soon be planting kisses on the naked back of Miss Gemma Arterton, his delectable auburn-haired co-star:

“All the way down from her neck, GB!” he boasted excitedly. “Not bad, eh? It beats running like a hare in the action sequences!”

“All the way down!” I exclaimed in horror. “No, Danny, no! James Bond does not kiss arse, no matter how peachy and succulent! You must put your foot down!”

“But I don’t actually kiss her arse!” he protested. “Obviously they’ll cut before I get there or we’ll never get a 12A rating!”

“It doesn’t matter, Danny,” I replied. “Even implying that James Bond smooches butt is an absolute no-no. You must protect the integrity of the character for yourself and future generations of fans. Please insist on starting at the small of her back and working your way upwards.”

“You could be right,” he mused. “I’ll probably strain my neck going all the way down. Going up will give me a better posture and I’ll finish in shot.”

Those of you who’ve seen the movie will know that Danny acted on my advice. His mouth travels up Miss Arterton's spine while remaining a safe distance from her ravishing rump. Having said that, I have my doubts about Bond nibbling a woman's body like a gigolo – he’s obviously not a man for fannying about when he's got a lady where he wants her. I’m not convinced that any foreplay is actually necessary: the mere prospect of being pumped by 007 should bring a woman to within a single penetrative thrust of orgasm. Female agents of a more belligerent persuasion might feel the earth move if he forced them against a wall and stroked their crotch vigorously with his Walther PPK. Not very true to life, admittedly, but very much part of the fantasy. A man who cheats death fives times a day shouldn’t have to fiddle about with a lady’s bits and pieces to get her in the mood.

Although I love the Bond films, I have to say that my females are not the least bit impressed by 007 and his macho posturing. As well as being insufficiently hairy for their taste, his arms are too short for the kind of games they enjoy. They also assume he must be infertile, having mated with countless women without fathering a single child. This makes him little better than a eunuch to a female gorilla. They are intrigued by his gadgets, though, and were very fond of the late Desmond Llewellyn, who played ‘Q’. Age is no barrier to being a babe magnet in the jungle if your equipment is up to scratch.

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Bare market

I hear that Hugh Hefner got a surprise on his 82nd birthday. A beaming Pamela Anderson, appropriately dressed in her own birthday suit, presented him with a cake. I can’t imagine a sweeter tribute for the old lecher. Photographs of the event show Pammy’s bust looking a lot less globular than usual. Has she finally done the decent thing and had her implants removed? Any hot dog would now be proud to be sandwiched between those baps. It’s a pity Hef was too shy to put his head between them and say “hooey-hooey-hooh!”. I now feel a twinge of regret that I turned Pammy down when she visited the Congo last year. She had applied to become an honorary gorilla, if you recall.

I’m not convinced by the argument of Playboy aficionados that Hef is living every man’s dream. Spending the daylight hours in pyjamas and a dressing gown sounds terribly lethargic to me. Some might say that a man in a house full of dolly birds doesn’t need to go anywhere, but what’s the point of being a stallion if you never have to chase the mares and corral them into the paddock? I wonder if the playmates are really happy about Hef creeping around the place in his bedroom slippers. A woman needs to have a few hours in the day when she can take off the make-up and break wind freely.

I must admit I’ve never had a subscription to Playboy. Every issue supposedly contains at least one penetrating article, but who can be bothered to hunt for it amid all the pictures? As for the centrefolds, I refuse to inspect them unless someone first tells me where the staples are located. Body-piercing is anathema to gorillas and I’d be very annoyed if any of the good bits were obscured. I actually prefer the bunny girls to the models. As cocktail waitresses, they have an impressive knowledge of beverages and their cotton-tails can be used to mop up spills. Having said that, I have no idea why any male customer whose name isn’t Bugs Bunny would find their costumes sexy.

Hef’s latest brainwave is to invite lady bankers who’ve fallen on hard times to pose nude for the magazine. Exploiting the carnage in Wall Street is a very shrewd move – if I were a vulture, I’d send my chicks to Hef for lessons in advanced bone-picking. I hope the old boy takes a Viagra pill when they visit the mansion so he can do to them what they’ve been doing to the country. Actually that’s unfair, I was just recycling an old Woody Allen joke. The real villains, of course, are their male bosses who hogged all the bonuses in the good times. Sadly, there are very few people outside of a high-security gaol who would pay to see them naked.

One can only hope that pictures of these talented women in the buff will cheer the nation in its hour of crisis, much as Dame Vera Lynn kept the British pecker up during World War 2. The American working man needs all the encouragement he can get in these difficult times, and photos of female bankers displaying their triple-A assets may yet stiffen his resolve. As for Hef, it’s about time he groomed a younger stud to take his place at the mansion. Does Warren Buffet have what it takes?

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Gender politics

The dismissal of Dr “Beetroot” Msimang has been greeted with much rejoicing in South Africa, but I can’t help feeling sorry for the woman. The former health minister was demoted to presidential masseuse after failing to shake off the ignominy of claiming that garlic was a cure for AIDS. She must have confused the disease with vampires, who also infect the blood of their victims. Let us hope that she follows the example of Mr Profumo in gradually restoring her good name by eating humble pie and working for charitable causes. Probably best to stay clear of AIDS charities though.

Looking at things with a gorilla’s impartial eye, I wonder about the wisdom of having female ministers of state. A woman won’t shine in politics if she has to pussyfoot around with parliaments and cabinets, explaining her actions to men who treat her like a walking petticoat. She really needs to be a queen, preferably with life-and-death powers over her subjects. The good thing about female tyrants is that they are relatively moderate and won’t initiate gruesome purges just to remind everyone who the daddy is. The only exception I can think of is Mary Tudor, who burned a lot of people for no good reason after taking a Spaniard into her bed. Some experiences will bring out the pyromaniac in any woman. But by and large, you’ve got to do something pretty horrendous for a queen to cook your goose. The Queen of Hearts was funny only because she was so atypical.

Opinions differ on what the best sort of queen is. The neo-classicists favour a scheming temptress like Cleopatra, who bends powerful men to her will by wantonly feeding their bedroom fetishes. The neo-barbarians prefer the fearless virago, who rides into battle in an armour-plated brassiere and can throttle a man between her muscular thighs. As a dutiful son of the Mother Continent, I endorse the semi-mythical African queens so vividly described by Ms Kola Boof. These Nubian sovereigns were bisexual necromancers who wore no clothes and could summon forest demigods for Earthly congress. It is said that they brought their female votaries to ecstasy by licking the tips of their noses. It is a salutary lesson for modern humans that naked women were once revered for the majesty of their souls.

Politics, nevertheless, is not the ideal career for well-bred women. Dr Whipsnade’s friend, Lady Chuffington, is fretting about the prospects of her eldest daughter, currently enrolled in a Cultural Studies programme at the University of East London. The girl apparently dresses in the “Gothic” style and intends to spend the next summer vacation making a film about “Inkubus Sukkubus”, a musical ensemble venerated by her cult. In her desperation, Her Ladyship has asked me to counsel the wayward chit.

“Perhaps you might speak to her, Mr Bananas,” she said on the phone last week. “Tell her that there is nothing clever (or “cool” as they say) about dressing like a drag performer’s widow on the day of his funeral.”

“Lady Chuffington,” I replied, “rather than criticising her current fashion sense, I would prefer to induce a change in her behaviour by citing positive alternatives.”

“Well do as you wish!” she replied rather testily. “I am concerned with the outcome rather than the stratagem used to bring it about.”

I have since studied some pictures of these Gothic women and frankly I’ve seen a lot worse. Their “Brides of Dracula” look gives them the appearance of devilishly sensual creatures who might even tempt a hard-bitten male gorilla to become a little harder and more bitten. Yet I’ve made a promise to Lady Chuffington and I’m not the sort to ape to go back on his word. I shall talk to her daughter – but I’m damned if I know what I’ll say to her.

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Octopussy

A marine biologist asks me whether gorillas indulge in cross-dressing. I eye him warily. A lot of these underwater boffins are kinky devils, gliding beneath the waves in their rubber suits so they can touch up unsuspecting turtles.

“We gorillas only wear clothes on special occasions,” I reply. “In a few days time we shall celebrate the anniversary of the Battle of Trafalgar in Royal Navy uniforms. The females will technically be in drag, but don’t even think about getting into that scene. They’d dress you up as a French cabin boy and subject your bottom to the grossest indecencies.”

“Erm…that’s very interesting,” he mumbles. “The reason I ask is because male octopi sometimes disguise themselves as females as a mating strategy.”

“Why would that be of any help?” I ask. “Even if the female octopi were sapphists they’d soon smell a rat. You can only fool all of the females with some of your parts.”

“Well that’s not really the point,” he explains. “The weaker males pretend to be females so they can approach the real females without being attacked by the dominant males.”

“Now I get you! They use camouflage to sneak past the escorting vessels so they can fire their torpedoes at close range! An ingenious tactical manoeuvre, but not feasible in primate society. Female apes don’t mate with transvestites. If Danny La Rue had been a gorilla he would never have got laid.”

The deep-sea detective scratches his chin and nods, referring me to a newspaper article before retiring for the night.

It seems that octopi are much cleverer than I thought, but I still don’t like them: they are mean, sulky creatures, who hide in crevices and squirt you with ink if you accidentally tread on their toes. The villainous Ernst Blofeld should have been stroking a pet octopus rather than a white cat. How odd that the only woman over 40 that James Bond ever bedded called herself ‘Octopussy’ and made the critter the symbol of her all-girl kick-boxing club. If memory serves, one of the bad guys got a face full of sucking octopus when he shattered the indoor aquarium. Sex maniacs, the lot of them.

Yet no amount of enmity would ever persuade me to eat an octopus. Along with serpent and swine, its flesh is forbidden to gorillas. The practice of devouring one’s foes is a nauseating habit invented by chimpanzees and copied by primitive humans. There is a pit somewhere in New Mexico containing the bones of butchered humans. When it was discovered, fossilised human turds were found on top of the remains. “Kill your enemies, eat their flesh and shit on their bones” was apparently the motto of those prehistoric savages. It took many millennia before humans learned to give their fallen foes a decent burial, as we gorillas have always done.

Of course, the use of deadly force is very rare in gorilla society, partly because it conflicts with our pacifist beliefs, but also because of the extensive range of non-lethal techniques we’ve developed. Nothing will ever beat climbing a tree and dropping a coconut on an intruder’s bonce – it’s the most insouciant method of incapacitation ever devised. Humans, meanwhile, are still experimenting with dubious innovations involving sausages-coshes and spice-rubs. It’s the mark of a species driven by malice rather than economy of effort.

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Art lesson

Miss Scarlet-Blue, the pouting sex-kitten of South London, has sent me some pictures to look at. Not indecent photographs of herself, I should hasten to add. She knows better than to distract a gorilla with fatuous images of that kind. No, the pictures she has forwarded are works of art – created, she assures me, by the great masters of history. It’s part of her high-minded mission to share the finer aspects of human culture with her hairy cousins. I shall reciprocate, in due course, by showing her a few things we gorillas are good at.

Apes are no strangers to the creative use of textures and dyes. Gibbons were doing remarkable things with elephant dung long before your ancestors were daubing the walls of their caves. Had I been a prehistoric cave-dweller, I would have left the walls alone and painted a picture of a hideous monster above the entrance to scare off predators. Art must have a practical side when survival hangs in the balance. Only a species obsessed with impressing visitors would spend so much time on interior decoration. If I want to dazzle my dinner companions, I scratch my face with my toes. Try it yourself before jeering.

I‘m not sure what to think about Miss Scarlet’s exhibits. We gorillas appreciate art in a holistic way, where the personality of the creator is as important as the work. It seems to me that a lot of human maestros had major character flaws: Da Vinci was a know-it-all; Michelangelo was a drama queen; Picasso was a devious weirdo. The ones we esteem most highly are painters like Titian and Reubens – honorary gorillas who preferred their females to have a bit of meat on them.

Strangest of all, to be sure, are the contemporary practitioners who imagine that pickling a dead creature in formaldehyde is a form of artistic expression. Damien Hirst is a name Miss Scarlet has mentioned on a number of occasions, although not necessarily with approval. This piqued my curiosity and inspired me to do a little research. What caught my eye was not the artefacts he has created but a photograph of the man himself. I immediately recognised him as an apprentice clown who had spent a summer with the circus I was in. He went by the name of ‘Daffy Sucks’ and obviously wasn’t cut out for clowning; but he did paint landscapes which he showed to anyone who was interested. I commented on his collection once:

“Master Sucks,” I said, “the market for pretty pictures is saturated. The kind of work you are doing is found on greeting cards which sell for the price of a condom. Consider your fellow humans who pay thousands to go on safari. Do you suppose they part with their cash to see beautiful sunsets and flowers blooming after the first rains? Not on your nelly! What they crave is the sight of lions gorging on dismembered carcasses, their faces reddened with blood, and entrails scattered across the savanna. Treat art collectors like the crowd in a Roman amphitheatre – the more you shock them with offal and gore, the more they will pay for your creations.”

My well-intentioned advice prompted him to walk off in a sulk, and I didn’t expect another viewing. How surprised I was when a few days later he asked me to inspect a new painting. This one depicted a hedgehog. Two halves of a hedgehog, to be precise, for the animal had been bisected with a machete, leaving its internal organs clearly visible. Inside its stomach were the partly-digested head of a mouse, an earthworm and a pickled onion (or something resembling it). Having just eaten breakfast, I felt the bile rising in my throat.

“A overpowering piece of work!” I spluttered. “If you’ll excuse me I have some business to attend to in my trailer.”

He left the circus a short while later and has never looked back. How I wish I’d made an offer for that painting! I believe he called it The Physical Impossibility of Appreciating the True Value of a Hedgehog Autopsy in the Mind of Someone Living.

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South Sea Hustler

An insurance broker tells me that a prostitute has applied for a job with his firm.

“How do you know she was on the game?” I ask.

“She told me to my face as bold as brass!” he exclaims. “She said it was how she paid her way through college!”

I advise him to proceed with caution. Prostitutes are well-qualified to be financial advisers, but you have to check their references very carefully. Did she always explain the contract to her clients in layman’s language? Did she give refunds to men who lost their bottle at the last minute? Did she sell many products that went bust (and nowhere else)? Being an unsentimental cash accumulator is all very well, but without professional ethics things go tits-up pretty quickly.

Let no one forget that a pair of upper-class courtesans were behind the most infamous financial scandal in history. The Countess of Darlington and Duchess of Kendall lured men of means into buying shares of the ethereal South Sea Company, cleverly selling their own holdings shortly before the bubble burst in 1720. Bewigged squires rendered shirtless by their imprudence railed in fury at their predicament:

“We have been undone by whores!” thundered one outraged victim. “And vexatious whores!”

They were undone, of course, by their own folly and greed. The first rule of investment is that crowds are inherently stupid. The second is that whores always sell at the top of the market.

Someone once asked me whether a gentleman should ever pay for sex. I replied that a gentleman should always pay for sex, if only to reassure the lady that she is worth it. If a cash gift is too crude, he should buy her flowers or a meal. It is psychologically helpful for the male to feel he is lucky to have got into the female’s pants, as he will then make the most of an opportunity that may not recur. The minute it becomes obvious that she wants it more than him, he begins to lose interest and his balls start to ache. I always give my females a treat of nuts or berries before mounting them, even if they’re in oestrus and gagging for it. They usually hurl them contemptuously into the air, but it’s the thought that counts.

Of course, a woman can make a fortune in the sex industry without selling her body to any slobbering oaf with a fat wallet. A 49-year-old divorcee did so by inventing the ultimate female sex aid. After years of frustration, she converted her vacuum cleaner into an instrument for pleasuring herself with pulses of vibrating air. It is claimed that the device can make a woman climax in a mere ten seconds, a feat which not even the Lone Ranger or Zorro could have accomplished.

Some people belittle sex toys as cheap substitutes for the emotional and physical fulfilment of a loving relationship. This may be true, but isn’t a cheap substitute better than an expensive one? And what devoted lover could make a woman come in ten seconds? As we say in the jungle: orgasm first, relationship later.

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