New year's resolution

I’m back in the Congo and pleased to find things much as I left them.

“Anything untoward happen during my absence?” I ask my females.

“Nothing much,” they reply. “We did rout a couple of baboons who tried to get fresh with us.”

“Rout them or rut them?” I inquire facetiously.

They respond to my quip by hooting loudly and thrusting their hips in my direction. It’s their way of showing appreciation of wordplay and repartee.

At the safari camp, the manager tells me of his New Year’s resolution to eat grilled crocodile meat flavoured with marijuana.

“You’re supposed to give things up rather than acquire new vices,” I remark. “And isn’t eating narcotics illegal for humans in this jurisdiction?”

“Not if you force-feed the crocodiles with the dope rather than using it as a seasoning,” he replies. “If the meat tastes good, I’ll serve it to the guests. It could be Africa’s answer to foie gras.”

There seems to be a method in his madness, but I remain unconvinced.

“Force-feeding crocodiles is a technically complex procedure,” I remind him. “And where are you going to put the captured beasts? In the swimming pool?”

“Yes,” he replies. “A crocodile that’s high on grass is incredibly mellow. It genuinely believes that everyone is its buddy. A pothead croc would happily take our guests for piggyback rides around the pool, which would be an added bonus.”

“If it did that the guests would never eat it,” I point out. “They’d also kick up a fuss if you tried to slaughter it for yourself. Humans can be very sentimental about animals they’ve ridden.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” muses the manager stroking his chin. “We’ll need to have separate pools for the livestock and the pets.”

I utter no more cautionary words about his fanciful scheme. People sometimes have to learn life’s lessons the hard way. A schoolboy won’t stop sliding down a banister until he gets a splinter in his arse.

Of course, the manager’s obsession with gimmicks has blurred his strategic vision. Taming predatory beasts will not be good for the safari business in the long run. After the novelty wears off, tourists will wonder why they didn’t stay at home to cuddle their hamsters or lick their frogs. If people travel five thousand miles to watch an animal behave like a bastard, they don’t want to discover it’s turned over a new leaf and is mincing about like Skippy the Bush Kangaroo. Like it or not, we’re in the business of live-action violence.

The part of the safari experience where there’s really room for improvement is back at the guesthouse, where the visitors have to endure each other’s company. I think we should offer free holidays to people who could entertain the other guests with interesting anecdotes. They wouldn’t even have to be in show business. I’ve recently been following the career of an English gynaecologist called Angus Thomson, who was sued by one of his patients for giving her orgasms without her consent. After carefully weighing the evidence, the judge dismissed the case.

Whatever the rights and wrongs of the lawsuit, he sounds like a man who has lived life to the full, put his finger in many pies, and watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser gate. I’m sure he’d be a very popular conversationalist at the saloon bar.

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Christmas lawsuits

I arrive in London for Christmas and decamp at Dr Whipsnade’s residence. During an afternoon stroll in Regents Park, I see a man in dark glasses and a grey fur coat, feeding the waterfowl what appear to be pickled onions. On nearing I recognise him as my old circus chum, Bernie Anus, and greet him affectionately:

“Bernie, you enormous bumhole!” I exclaim. “What the devil are you feeding those ducks?”

“Nothing you would you enjoy, you hairy-arsed hulk!” he replies amiably.

After this exchange of pleasantries, we repair to a nearby pub to renew our old camaraderie.

“Bartender!” I cry. “A tankard of your finest ale for my friend, Mr Anus! I will have a glass of pineapple juice, if you please.”

I ask Bernie how the clowning business is going.

“It’s mostly children’s birthday parties these days,” he says. “It pays OK when I’m not being sued.”

“Who on God’s Green Earth would want to sue you, Bernie?”

“Last summer I had a birthday gig in The Dorchester,” he explains. “When I walked into the lobby in my costume, a little dog jumped on my shoe and tried to nip my ankle. So I removed a can of spray-paint from my jacket and dyed its head green. It ran off whimpering.”

“That taught the little varmint!” I snigger. “What happened then?”

“Nothing at first. I went to the kiddies’ party and did my act to huge acclaim. But when I was leaving I got collared by a couple of policemen. It turned out that the dog belonged to some snooty old cow with a title. Lady Magnolia Handjob, wife of the Earl of Wank, or words to that effect. They took me in for questioning but released me without charge.”

“I should hope so! I couldn’t imagine a clearer case of self-defence.”

“Indeed. But soon afterwards I got a summons to appear in court to answer a civil suit. Lady Magnolia was seeking damages for the physical and emotional pain inflicted on her precious mutt, as well as the cost of cleaning its head.”

“Did you abscond? I would have given you sanctuary in the Congo if you’d asked.”

“Oh I turned up all right, and in my business suit too. His Worship took one look at me and said ‘You’re not giving evidence in my court wearing that ridiculous costume!’. So I looked him up and down and replied: ‘You’re a fine one to talk!’. He fined me for contempt and I had to pay Her Ladyship five thousand as well.”

“What can I say, Bernie? The law is a rectal probe for the rich and powerful to use on the hapless peons they oppress. May this Lady Magnolia and her vile pooch fall into a barrel of monkey piss.”

“Thank you, GB. I would have called you as a character witness if you’d been here.”

That evening, I reflect on another case in which a wealthy woman has bent the law to her will. Jennifer Lopez has persuaded a judge to issue an injunction preventing her former husband from releasing a tape of their marital frolics. It seems that he and Ms Lopez enacted a spanking scene when relations between them were still cordial.

Yet the ruling did not stop her ex-husband from publishing a transcript of the dialogue, mere gossip not yet being illegal. As luck would have it, a reliable source has provided me with a copy of this document. In normal circumstances, I would respect the intellectual property rights of Ms Lopez and keep it to myself. But Christmas is a time to share, as well as to redress the inherent biases of the legal system. A short excerpt is given below.

J-Lo: Oh, I’m such a naughty girl!

Ex: Thwack!

J-Lo: Don’t stop until I’ve learned my lesson!

Ex: Thwack!

J-Lo: Make my big ass red!

Ex: Thwack!

J-Lo: Smack me hard, Dr Badfinger!

Ex: Thwack.

I like the ‘Dr Badfinger’ line best. It shows imagination.


The Japing Ape wishes his readers a Merry Christmas and will return at the start of the New Year.

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Scarlett fever

It’s a shame I didn’t run into Scarlett Johansson during her recent visit to Africa. I might have given her some useful tips about our native gels and lotions. Trekking around the jungle in hotpants is all very well, but it does make a woman with milky-white flesh an obvious target for the mosquitoes. Her legs must have stood out like bananas in a green salad. Had I known she was coming, I would have sent her a natural ointment to rub on her thighs after her morning shower.

Be that as it may, I have no doubt that Scarlett’s visit was a tremendous morale boost for the local women. For far too long, they have occupied a servile position under the prevailing “Big Man” culture. The sight of a gorgeous young actress surrounded by an entourage of fawning male flunkies would have conveyed a powerful message. Scarlett, indeed, was quick to express solidarity with her bullied and harassed black sisters.

“I’ve always found that women have power in numbers,” she remarked. “We draw strength from the support of other women.”

Tell me about it! When I was in the circus, I soon realised that advancing my interests depended on establishing close bonds with the all-girl acrobat team. So I engineered what biologists call “a symbiosis” and political scientists call “an alliance”. I curried their favour by performing chores such as carrying baggage and apprehending peeping toms. They, in return, let me borrow their grooming products, which are frankly far more useful to a gorilla than any number of human females.

We also backed each other up at staff meetings. When the ringmaster ludicrously suggested that I dress up in a genie costume for Christmas, all I had to do was grunt disdainfully for the girls to vigorously pooh-pooh his proposal. No motion was ever carried without the support of what became known as the “Bananas and Cream Consortium”.

This political education served me well when I returned to the jungle and acquired a harem. Female gorillas are not technically women, but they are sisters under the fur and the similarities outweigh the differences. The way to handle them is as follows: first, guess what they want to do; then, order them to do it. This puts them in a quandary, as they cannot defy my commands without abandoning their own plans. Hence they usually do as I direct, while gesturing obscenely as a way of demonstrating their independence. I laugh it off as a show of high-spirits from within the ranks.

Sadly, African men are not as adept as managing their females as we silverbacks. They lack a little something called finesse. That’s why my friend Kola Boof, the self-styled womanist, believes that nothing short of a full-blown matriarchy will suffice. As well as being a wily political agitator, she has written many poems eulogising the indomitable spirit of the jungle queen who wields a deadly machete and proudly exposes her breasts. This is surely the kind of philosophy that Scarlett should seek to promote if she is serious in her desire to empower her sex. I must send her one of Kola’s books for Christmas.

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Smack the dragon

Great things are happening in China. The people there are hustling around making money in new and inventive ways. A gym instructor from the northern city of Shenyang is renting himself out as a human punch-bag for enraged women.

“I have to make them promise not to use their shoes,” he explained.

I would have thought their teeth are more dangerous. They’re the first weapon a female gorilla would use, and lady primates are cut from the same cloth in the rendition of sadistic violence. I hope he hires an experienced fight medic like Ferdie Pacheco to oversee proceedings. As well as patching him up between bouts, the great doctor would throw a towel over the woman’s head if she went totally berserk and reached for his testicles. In my experience, the Queensbury rules are never observed in mixed-gender mêlées.

His business idea is ingenious, but he’s not thinking big enough. A woman will only pay so much for the pleasure of thrashing a man soundly. To rake in the big bucks he’s got to stage these events in a stadium full of paying spectators. For all their entrepreneurial flair, the Chinese still have much to learn from Jerry Springer and the other giants of Western capitalism.

When I mentioned this story at the safari camp, the guests were surprised that Chinese women were capable of such pent-up rage. Were they not demure little wallflowers who tip-toed around pagodas bringing tourists green tea? A verbose Welshman argued that the source of their frustration was the inability of their menfolk to satisfy them in bed.

“Your typical Chinaman behaves like a panda when obtaining gratification from a lady,” he declared. “He eats, shoots and leaves – it’s the ancient Confucian tradition.”

I suspect he was projecting. The Golden Lotus and other erotic classics of Chinese literature suggest they are a nation well versed in the sensual arts. My favourite of the canon is The Tender Beansprout, in which the cunning adventurer Ho-Dong brings the virginal Princess Ping-Na to ecstasy by the subtle use of his fingertips. With such a rich cultural heritage, there is no excuse for the men of China to poke about like pandas.

Now the booming dragon economy isn’t to everyone’s liking. Last summer, I saw a martial arts display by a team of Shaolin monks on a world tour. They performed amazing stunts, such as snapping bricks in half with their bald heads. After the show, I had a chat with the chief bonze.

“Master Woo,” I said, “your bodily feats are truly wondrous. But shouldn’t you be living a quiet monastic life, speaking in profound riddles and calling your disciples ‘grasshopper’?”

“Times have changed, my dear Gorilla,” he replied. “Our students will leave if we make them rest on wooden planks and feed them tofu and cabbage. Today, we must provide posturepedic mattresses and stir-fried squid in black bean sauce. All of which costs money.”

“In that case, Master Woo, you should hire a troupe of baboons to demonstrate the infallible techniques of your ancient order. They are easy to train and don’t understand the value of money. You could pay them in nuts and ginseng.”

Master Woo smiled inscrutably and bowed, obviously impressed by my astute suggestion. A free-market economy is truly a marvellous thing if someone else is doing all the work.

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A scholarship application

A university student called Amanda DeZilva has sent me the following email:

Dear Mr Bananas

I have been trying to sell a kiss for £10,000 to fund my masters degree in England. The highest bid I received on e-Bay was only £500. I have been reading your blog and you seem like a generous ape who likes to look after females. Would you be interested in sponsoring me?

Sincere regards

Amanda

I am always intrigued to hear from my secret readers. Last year, I got an email from a fellow who wanted to be squeezed by a female gorilla. Women wrestlers and body-builders just weren’t doing it for him. When I explained that my females would probably break his bones, he said it was exactly what he wanted. Did you ever hear of such madness! I naturally refused to collude in the satisfaction of his grotesque and macabre craving. Gorilla Bananas does not cater for the fetishes of the lone nut. What would we have done with him afterwards?

An application for financial support is quite mundane by comparison. A bit of googling has enabled me to confirm the veracity of Ms DeZilva’s story. It seems that she has refrained from kissing anyone for a whole year to make her lips more appealing. All the same, ten thousand pounds sterling seems a hefty price for one smooch. I’m sure courtesans such as the lovely Miss Brooke would kiss a client until her lips were numb for half that amount of money. Indeed, she would probably insist on doing it in the nude with her hand on his groin to uphold professional standards.

While I am pleased that Ms DeZilva has been reading my blog, and has acquired an appreciation of my chivalrous nature in doing so, I’m not convinced of her argument that I should be her benefactor. “What’s in it for me?” would be a curt response to her request. She is surely aware that a gorilla does not play kissy-face with human females. I suppose if I visited her in England she might call me ‘Uncle Bananas’ and let me feed her sweets by hand. An agreeable intimacy to be sure, but not something I am in the habit of paying for.

All the same, I think I should offer her something for her trouble. One does not want to be denounced as a hairy Scrooge with the Christmas season looming. Perhaps I’ll send her a souvenir from my circus days. One of the goosing batons I used on the clowns ought to fetch a handsome sum on e-Bay. Who knows, she might even keep it as a memento of our correspondence.

I will also advise Amanda to put a few more goods on the table in her own fund-raising activities. Enticing though her lips may be, the paying customer expects a lot more for his money these days. I wouldn’t give a woman my cash unless she offered me an evening of song and dance, followed by a bedtime story.

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A wayward drive

I’m glad to hear that Tiger Woods has taken full responsibility for crashing his car into a fire hydrant. Good thing he didn’t use the old “gopher on the windscreen” excuse that made Gary Player look like such a prat. Quite rightly, he has refused to be questioned by the police about it. I bet those nosey parkers were just dying to ask him whether his wife really chased him out of the house. One thing we gorillas never do is taunt an alpha male about the evasive manoeuvres he uses against his enraged females. If you haven’t lived through it, you're in no position to judge.

Now Tiger’s wife, Elin, is a petite blonde from Sweden. It was supposedly an incriminating text message that prompted her to grab a sand wedge and attempt a bunker shot on her husband’s groin. Who knew that Swedish women could be so shrewish? I don’t remember Agnetha and Frida of ABBA making a big hullabaloo when their hobbit-faced husbands ran off to cavort with groupies. If you ask me, she entered this marriage with unrealistic expectations. If ever there was a wife who was destined to get cheated on, it was Mrs Tiger Woods.

“Miss Elin,” I would have cautioned her before her wedding. “You may be the cutest blonde in history, but Tiger Woods is the Emperor of Golf. And the emperor always has concubines."

Fingers crossed, this squall will soon blow over. I just hope Tiger hasn’t been swinging his 3-wood at the wife of one of his rivals. The one thing a golfer can never do is cuckold a fellow player, which might result in unthinkable argy-bargy on the fairway. Tiger is probably tough enough to defend himself, but the sight of him engaged in fisticuffs would sicken and demoralise all lovers of the game. Let’s hope he was smart enough to populate his harem with actresses and lap dancers rather than golfers’ wives.

The major tournaments are always on at the safari guesthouse when Tiger is playing. I was glued to my seat watching the PGA in August, even though the cheeky little Korean chappie overtook him to win in the end. I told the manager that Tiger needed a good logo to convey his spirit to the public.

“Yes, yes!” he agreed excitedly. “He should use the tiger in The Jungle Book cartoon as his logo! He was so funny, like an upper class Englishman!”

“Don’t be absurd!” I snapped. “Shere Khan was a seriously weird cat with an unhealthy obsession about the man-cub. That scrawny little tyke would have barely been a mouthful for him. If he had to eat anyone, it should have been the bear, who could have provided him with a banquet. I would have enjoyed watching him sink his fangs into that big hairy arse.”

The manager sucked his teeth thoughtfully, perhaps surprised by my strong views on the subject. I later decided that Woody Woodpecker would be best cartoon logo for Tiger Woods. There’s something about his rapid-fire beak that seems right for a champion golfer. Let’s suppose Tiger walks on to the green with Woody on his shoulder. He putts his ball and it’s right on line, but veers off at the last second. So Woody flies off and drills another hole for the ball to fall into. Perfect!

Yes, Woody Woodpecker has an annoying laugh, but what of it? There is no shortage of people in the world who deserve to be laughed at annoyingly.

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Belle de Jour

So the lovely Dr Brooke Magnanti has confessed to being the famous anonymous call girl that everyone admired and adored. She did it to finance her academic career, and who can blame her? She wouldn’t be the first intelligent woman to discover that her brain was worth much less on the open market than her vulva. It’s just as well that she could exercise both organs with a comparable degree of satisfaction. I wonder if the book she wrote about her life as a high-class hooker will now be on her students’ reading list. The best teachers always spice up their formal study material with personal anecdotes and recollections. Could she have performed any bedroom services relevant to her chosen field of neurotoxicology? I reckon she might well have if any of her clients were ageing rock stars.

A few sceptics are asking why she stopped doing it if she found it so enjoyable. She evidently still has the looks for the job, and could double her charge-rate now that she’s famous. My suspicion is that the mouth-watering Dr Magnanti, having attained the luscious age of 34, is readying herself to settle down. The biological clock is ticking and the time has come to look for that special man who will make an honest woman of her and fertilise her eggs, not necessarily in that order.

I’m going to let you into a secret: I’ve always fancied myself as a matchmaker for ex-prostitutes. Who better than a hairy cousin from the mellowest branch of the primate family to find a suitable mate for a call girl? Humans have too many ambiguous emotions about the oldest profession to offer its members dispassionate advice. We gorillas are utterly non-judgmental about it. What’s more, I actually have a couple of candidates in mind for the delectable Dr Brooke. Read on.

Candidate 1: The Guru
A bald, olive-skinned, strikingly handsome yogi, capable of reducing his pulse rate to 19 beats per minute while meditating in the lotus position. He won’t have sex more frequently than once a month, but can make it last for hours using tantric techniques. He claims his ejaculatory power resembles what happens when you open a bottle of 7UP after shaking it for five minutes. A deeply spiritual dude who could teach Brooke that less is more.

Candidate 2: The Gynaecologist
Obviously a very suitable occupation – a retired call girl needs a man who knows where everything is. His many hobbies include collecting and driving sports cars. He told me that high mileage was nothing to worry about when buying a classic model. A high-performance engine actually runs a lot better when driven hard and serviced frequently. I think he’s the kind of man who would appreciate a woman like Brooke…and keep her well-oiled.

Both of these worthy suitors have been to the Congo for safari holidays, and their details are on my computer. If Dr Magnanti says the word, I will make the necessary arrangements and organise first dates. I won’t charge an introduction fee either. All I ask in return is that she has her wedding at the safari guesthouse if she marries either of these extremely eligible gentlemen. The bridal suite will be hers unless she would rather consummate her nuptials outdoors, in the sultry African night. Sentries will be provided gratis.

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The meaning of dreams

You know what the great thing about being a gorilla is? Humans who’ve known me for less than a day will tell me personal stuff they’d normally reserve for their shrink. Last week it was the turn of a posh English girl to unburden her soul to the hairy bartender of the safari guesthouse.

“I’ve been having this dream about an ex-boyfriend,” she said. “It starts when I’m in the kitchen in my underwear making an omelette.”

“No apron?” I interjected, wishing to picture the scene accurately.

“No apron,” she confirmed. “So my ex walks up behind me, pulls down my knickers and start shagging me from behind.”

“The lecherous swine! How did you know it was him incidentally?”

“He’s talking to me the whole time.”

“Monstrous! Being violated is bad enough, but being forced to listen to the brigand’s running commentary, no doubt delivered in coarse and boastful language, would have crushed the spirit of Joan of Arc!”

“Oh the sex is actually great. Much better than it was in real life. The weird part is that he tells me to carry on making the omelette and gives me instructions while looking over my shoulder. But I can’t concentrate on the cooking and the eggs begin to scramble.”

“Who could blame you? I’m sure even Fanny Cradock would have scrambled the eggs if Johnny had snuck up on her from behind.”

“Well exactly! But after we’ve finished he tells me that I’m a dreadful cook who should never be allowed in a kitchen! Then I wake up feeling terribly humiliated. What do you think it means?”

I scratched my chin pensively.

“The dream seems to be saying that your former paramour took sadistic pleasure in disparaging your cooking. Consider yourself fortunate to be freed from the clutches of that backseat chef!”

“So that’s what it means!” she exclaimed. “Well I hope the dream stops bothering me now that I’ve got the point. Many thanks, GB.”

I was glad to have been of service, but in all honesty I have no idea whether my interpretation was correct. For all I know, the dream might have been telling her to brush up on her cooking skills before letting a man get in her pants.

Be that as it may, I was inspired to do a little research on the subject of dreams. It seems that in the classical world they dealt with far weightier topics than maintaining one’s culinary composure while being bonked from behind. In ancient Rome, the purpose of a dream was to alert the sleeper to some imminent disaster involving pestilence, war, famine or an outbreak of toga rash. Occasionally a goddess might make an appearance, but she always had a fairly important matter to discuss before letting you nuzzle her boobies. It wasn’t until Dr Sigmund Freud said that dreams were expressions of sexual desire that everyone started fornicating in their sleep. The power of pompous bearded men over the collective human psyche should never be underestimated.

I sense that you are dying to hear about my own dreams. What hairy hanky-panky is Old Bananas up to when his eyelids start a-twitching in the dead of night? Well I do have a recurring dream about eating a tub of ice-cream. After scooping most of the contents into my mouth with a silver spoon, the remaining dollops of delight are caressed from the carton with leisurely licks from my primate tongue. I’m sorry to disappoint you if you were hoping for something more titillating. Sex is something you do with your eyes wide open in the jungle.

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Wear your astronappy with pride

Wonderful news from America! Lisa Nowak, the former NASA astronaut, has been given a suspended prison sentence for persecuting her love rival. May the judge have his toes sucked for his wisdom and compassion! National heroes should be dealt with leniently unless they are irretrievably lost to the dark side. I personally wouldn’t have sent Lisa to the chokey unless she’d been sharing a hot tub with Satan. The butch lesbian inmates would have made life unbearable for her with their sarcastic remarks and indecent suggestions. The presence of an exalted one always brings out the worst in convicts.

As for Lisa’s crime, everyone knows that astronauts outrank all other professions in the mating hierarchy. She must have burned with righteous indignation when she was jilted by her lover for some scrawny-assed air-force captain. A woman who’s never been higher than the stratosphere should know better than to steal the stud of an authentic space cowgirl. It was only this heinous insult that provoked Lisa to chase her rival all over America, with pepper spray and tweezers at the ready.

Journalists covering the case have made much of the fact that Lisa wore a nappy when driving from place to place in search of her intended victim. Those familiar with the space program know this is standard operating practice for astronauts, who can’t afford to get caught short when performing important manoeuvres. The mission always comes first, whether you’re flying a spacecraft or hunting down your enemies like vermin. When Neil and Buzz were hopping about on the moon, they most certainly wore nappies and were not ashamed to admit it. Taking a leak on the lunar surface would have been an abominable act of desecration.

Speaking of water on the moon, the boys at NASA are very excited about their latest expedition. After crashing a craft into our celestial neighbour, they found underground lakes beneath the cheesy crust. They’re obviously planning to bottle the stuff and sell it on Earth, but I’d advise them to do a chemical analysis on it first. How did the water get there? is the question I want answered. My suspicion is that the moon was once a service station for alien travellers, who pissed in the nearest crater rather than building proper urinals or taking their waste products with them. The same thing happens at tourist venues on Earth, so we’re hardly in a position to castigate them.

Humans tend to have a black-and-white view of aliens, thinking they’ll either be cool cosmic dudes like the Vulcans, or ugly little fiends who’ll stick a probe up their rectum. I suspect most of them will actually be like tourists at cheap holiday resorts – loud, inconsiderate and addicted to cheap booze. When laser weapons are invented, we’ll have to install one on the roof of the safari guesthouse to keep out the riff-raff. If any space punks hover over the Congo in their flying saucers they’re going to get zapped by me, Northrop and Grumman.

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Art imitates porn

A correspondent draws my attention to a 10-minute film showing a pair of students copulating in Newcastle. Frankly, I would rather watch baboons do it. Only humans are vain enough to believe their sexual antics are visually appealing. I can assure you that no wild gorillas have ever asked for royalties after being filmed having it off in the jungle. That’s because people who enjoy watching such things are boobies, and extorting cash from boobies would be undignified.

My only interest in the film would be to discover whether the couple did it with their socks on, which is allegedly common practice in Newcastle. I wouldn’t blame them to be honest. The town is swept with chill winds from the North Sea, which infiltrate every nook and penetrate every cranny. I wouldn’t want to be distracted by cold feet when making jiggy-pokey in such an environment. Not that I would ever go there, of course. The place has very little vegetation and is populated with unnaturally nocturnal humans. It’s bad enough having your sleep disturbed by parrots.

Now the maker of the film is a 23-year-old student called Joseph Steele, who imagines himself to be an artist. A friend of the co-stars, he obtained their consent by promising to show the work in a trendy gallery. Hence, the discerning audience would engage with its profound social message rather than hooting with glee or playing with their private parts.

“It is absolutely art because I put it there and said it was,” declared the Jean-Luc Godard of Tyneside.

I suppose that settles it then. He claims that everyone who saw the film found it “erotic and inspirational”, but impartial observers report seeing a lot of shocked faces. These art-loving types are very easily shocked if you ask me. Anyone who is perturbed by the sight of human sexual activity needs to get out more, by which I mean out to Africa. When you’ve seen a raging bull elephant in musth, its swollen todger writhing like a snake, there’s not much that humans could do to startle you.

Perhaps I’ll commission Master Steele to direct a film that my females have been nagging me to produce, called Tarzan Was Our Toy-Boy. The script has already been written and it’s very avant-garde, with overlapping dialogue and naturalistic grunts and groans. The hairy ladies have already cast themselves as the declaimers of the title, but we’re still looking for the right Tarzan. Initially, I thought one of the whey-faced dandies in Beverly Hills 90210 would be ideal for the part, but they’re probably too old for it now. Whoever lands the role, we expect to produce a work of high feminist art which is a contender for the Palm d’Orifice at Cannes.

I shouldn’t leave you with the impression that we gorillas only make art in the hope of winning critical acclaim, or selling it for piles of dosh, like Damien “Daffy” Hirst. “Art for art’s sake” is our motto. Appreciate our creations with spontaneous delight rather than appraising them with the cold eye of the collector. Tomorrow, I’m going to rustle up some natural dyes and do some body art on a woman at the safari guesthouse who’s been longing to enjoy my brushwork. The one good thing about bare human skin is that it makes an excellent canvas.

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Cats will be cats

I’ve been watching a video clip of the keyboard cat, who has impressed a lot of people with his musical ability. I don’t deny the boy has talent, but pawing out tunes wearing sky-blue pyjamas does nothing for the dignity of his species.

In my circus days I was friendly with a feline camp follower called Catkins. I never mollycoddled him in human fashion and he respected me for it. “Catkins,” I said to him, “you scratch my back and I’ll stroke yours.” He was quick to agree to my offer, the claws of a cat being the perfect length and sharpness for grooming a gorilla’s fur. I returned the favour by stroking him with my toes while reading a magazine.

The ringmaster, being a visceral cat-hater, had no appreciation of Catkins and his grooming skills. He bought a goldfish and put it in a bowl next to the window of his trailer, supposedly so the fish could enjoy the view. I immediately suspected that his real motive was to taunt and frustrate any cats in the vicinity. He named the goldfish ‘Lockhart’ after a maestro of the circus ring he revered. I gave Catkins a few cautionary words after seeing him staring at it from a nearby gatepost.

“Catkins,” I said, “I know you want to eat the ringmaster’s goldfish. It is in your nature and cannot be helped. But please be aware that if you leave your paw-prints at the crime scene my efforts to protect you will be futile. As sure as night follows day, the ringmaster will hunt you down and kick your arse repeatedly. You have been warned.”

Catkins licked his paws and cleaned his whiskers as I spoke, which I interpreted as a display of insouciance. The opportunity for a snatch-and-grab raid occurred when the ringmaster stupidly left the skylight ajar during a day out with his wife. I happened to be passing nearby when Catkins jumped off the roof with the fish in his mouth. Peering through the window, I saw the goldfish bowl tipped over on its side and water dripping from the table it was situated on.

I decided to help Catkins cover his tracks. He may have been guilty in deed, but any lawyer will tell you that a cat is incapable of mens rea in matters of predation. After discreetly picking the lock of the trailer door, I mopped up the spillage and refilled the bowl. I then placed it in its original position, dropping in a plastic goldfish which I had bought from a pet shop. It sank to the bottom.

The ringmaster returned in the evening to find that his pet had been plasticated. “Some dirty thief has stolen Lockhart and replaced him with a plastic fish!” he bellowed. “This is an act of war! I bet that bastard Catkins is responsible!”

“Come off it, ringmaster!” I exclaimed. “Why would Catkins have put a plastic fish in the bowl? This was obviously a calculated insult delivered by someone who despises you, rather than the work of a feline felon. I suggest you interrogate the clowns forthwith.”

The ringmaster made walrus noises in his throat. “You’re right!” he growled. “My enemies are everywhere and snipe at me when my back is turned. If I kick the cat’s arse they’ll think they’re in the clear. I must behave with stealth and cunning.”

I left him to pursue his schemes, satisfied in the knowledge that I had saved a cat from a senseless act of retribution.

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Hummus hostilities

Lebanese chefs have made a giant plate of hummus to shame the Israelis, who have been manufacturing their own version of the paste and exporting it around the world. The folks in Lebanon want everyone to know that hummus is Lebanese and that the Israelis are vulgar copycats. A noble objective, you might think, but what then? There is no evidence that consumers are dissatisfied with the counterfeit product or care who makes it. If the Lebanese really want to get even they should start exporting strudel and see how the Israelis like it. It could lead to a new form of low-intensity warfare where you mimic the culinary habits of your enemy to sow confusion in their ranks. But I hope it doesn’t come to that – food fights are terribly futile and no one wins in the end.

It’s good to see the Lebanese take pride in their native dishes. For many years, their image was sullied by Corporal Max Klinger of the 4077th M*A*S*H. For those not familiar with the show, Klinger was a Lebanese-American buffoon who thought he could get out of the army by wearing ladies’ clothes. Hoping to get a medical discharge by convincing everyone he was nuts, he succeeded only in convincing them he was a gay transvestite. The ironic thing is that Klinger wasn’t homosexual at all, which was just as well, because a gay man with a nose his size would never have got laid. It is a curious aspect of human sexuality that only heterosexual women find big noses attractive. And not all of them, by any means, it’s very much a niche market.
But let’s get back to the hummus. The Israelis are clearly in the wrong and should stop pretending they know how to make Arab food. “Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s condiments,” sayeth the Lord their God. Once again, the Children of Israel have broken the commandments of Johnny Jehovah and are asking for a family-sized can of whoopass. Maybe He’ll force them to eat manna-from-heaven again, a fitting penance for culinary malfeasance given that it tastes like bird crap. Or maybe He’ll send a plague of snails to devour their herbs and season their meats with green slime. The Land of Israel shall resound with weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth, particularly when the dinner gong soundeth.

Let’s not single out the Israelis for blame though. All humans are guilty of stealing recipes, particularly from the animal kingdom. Take eggs, for example. Although no one knows whether the chicken came before the egg, it is beyond dispute that they both came before Delia Smith, the television housewife and cook. Yet the English Rose of Woking cracks them open without a word of gratitude to the humble hens that squatted and strained to produce them. Anyone would think that she’d laid them herself. If I were God, I would punish her for her vanity and presumption by making her incubate a fertile ostrich egg between her warm and wobbly thighs. For every yolk she has cruelly whisked, let her hatch a little ostrich chick and raise it as one of her own. It takes more than custard pies to get you into heaven.

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Rock bottom

I’ve sent a ‘Get Well Soon’ card to Alejandra Guzman, the Mexican singer recovering in hospital from a bottom infection. The circumstances of her case are disturbing. It all started when she went to a clinic for a routine injection to improve the texture of her tush. Quite understandable for a woman in a profession where the shapely behind is de rigueur, although I could have helped her achieve the same end with a natural technique. It’s a pity she didn’t consult me first, but there’s no point crying over spoiled pumpkins.

She certainly wasn’t to blame for what happened at the clinic. It was pure bad luck that its director was a devious impostor with no medical qualifications. He had staffed the establishment with an assortment of ne’er-do-wells willing to accept nugatory wages for the sordid gratification of ogling and pawing the female posterior. With no understanding of proper sterilisation procedures, one of these Pedros pierced Ms Guzman’s hindquarters with a contaminated needle, causing severe inflammation and much tribulation.

Now we gorillas are especially sympathetic to those of our human cousins who have been injured in the backside. Justly proud of our own bottoms, which are taut and muscular to the umpteenth degree, it saddens our tender souls to hear of a rump defiled or cruelly abused. The psychological scars of a disfigured derrière run deep. You only have to look at the boorish and offensive behaviour of baboons to realise how having an ugly arse can effect one’s attitude to life. I hope Ms Guzman’s doctors bear this in mind when they’re treating her. They must avoid making insensitive remarks about the afflicted region and do all they can to preserve its natural symmetry. There are few more pitiable sights than a lopsided pair of buttocks.

She shouldn’t expect miracles though. Being nominated for the Rear of the Year award will be out of the question for the foreseeable future. I’ve often toyed with the idea of getting involved in this competition myself. Not as a contestant, of course. You can’t compare grapefruits with apples – the former are bigger, juicier and contain more vitamin C. No, my intended role would be sponsor and advisor. The reason I’ve not yet stepped forward is my unease about the method of judgement, which like so many things in human society is based purely on appearance. How can you really appreciate the quality of a butt without a manual examination? The discerning housewife always picks up and squeezes the fruit before putting it in her shopping basket.

I could always offer to judge the bottoms as well. You won’t find anyone more skilled at manipulating flesh than a gorilla. Our grasp is surprisingly gentle too – the contestants wouldn’t have to worry about bruises or bottom hickeys. Yet in the long-run I’d be worried about finger-cramp. Why should I provide the manual labour if I’m also sponsoring the prizes? Perhaps I should be responsible for hiring the judges instead. Does a fee of one dollar per posterior sound fair? To avoid tax problems they should pay us in cash.

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The Italian handjob

Silvio Berlusconi has made a big point of denying that he’s ever paid for sex, arguing that it would ruin the thrill of his conquests. I can well believe the call girls he invites to his parties don’t charge him. Pleasuring a sitting prime minister must be a great honour for them, as well as being the safest position at his age. I wonder if he asks them to put on an eye-mask and shout “Heigh-ho Silvio!” as they bounce up and down on his lap. As true professionals, they should do whatever it takes to flush out the toxic goo from his prostate gland.

They are also shrewd businesswomen, of course. Siphoning the prime minister of Italy must look pretty good on your résumé when you’re negotiating a fee with oil sheiks or TV evangelists. It’s a bit like John Travolta getting a free supply of Brylcreem after playing the young dandy in Grease. All the same, I hope that Mr Berlusconi gives them expensive presents as a mark of his appreciation. A gold-plated statuette of Cupid which urinates red wine is the sort of lavish gift one would expect from a man of his pedigree.

Working girls have unfortunately not been immune from the consequences of the economic downturn. Brothels around the world are cutting down on sundry expenses – some have even been reduced to serving their clients in the dark. The Pussy Club in Berlin has cut its fee to 70 euros for a hamburger and straight sex, which is a dubious tactic in my view. Cheap whores are like cheap jewellery – nobody wants to be seen buying them. They should have offered two-for-one deals and loyalty cards instead, with an eat-as-much-as-you-like buffet for the sex maniacs.

How to get the world economy booming again is a frequent topic of debate at the safari guesthouse. Not everyone supports President Obama’s plan of building new roads and bridges. An increase in the number of navvies flaunting their bare chests is a high price to pay for stimulating economic activity. A bald man who claimed to have a PhD in economics said that the correct policy was to distribute “helicopter money”. Essentially, this means emptying boxes of bank notes from a helicopter so that people on the streets below can pick them up and spend them. Monetarist theory says that this will boost business, making everyone rich again.

We all thought it was a brilliant idea at the time, but on deeper reflection the ploy seems to have a fatal flaw. What is to stop the pilot flying off to Venezuela with all the cash, where President Hugo Chavez, the demagogue and failed gorilla-impersonator, would surely offer him asylum? The trouble with economists is that they never think of these practical problems. I wish the bald-headed upstart were still here so I could massage some coconut oil into his scalp.

So what’s my solution to the slump? I’m glad you asked. What the world needs now is another gold rush like the one that prompted thousands of rednecks and desperadoes to migrate to California in 1848. Most of America’s gold is currently gathering dust in places like Fort Knox. Pulverising all this idle bullion and burying it in strategic locations around the country would cause booming mining towns to spring up like pimples on a teenager. The USA would once again be a land flowing with milk and cookies. And if they buried the gold near brothels, the sex workers would be the first to benefit from the increase in commerce. As John Maynard Keynes said, the prosperity of a nation is measured in the affluence of its whores.

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Backyard antics

Dallas police are trying to catch a masked fat man who sneaks into back gardens and dances in the nude. The nature of the dance wasn’t specified, but I’d guess it was closer to samba than waltz.

“We need to catch him before it develops into something more serious,” said Senior Corporal Janice Crowther.

Is it my imagination, or is there a hint of wishful thinking in that statement? I’ve never met Ms Crowther, but I assume she would rather arrest a notorious sex fiend than a pathetic exhibitionist. The former is an achievement that would put her in contention for the ‘Silver Handcuffs of Texas’ award, while the latter might make her the subject of an editorial in FEMDOM magazine. I sense she wants the garden prowler to up his game, so she can win acclaim as the plucky little lady who lassoed the long-horn bull.

Be that as it may, I don’t think this fellow is close to committing an assault. The next stage in the development of his act would be self-abuse. Have a look at the chimpanzees at your local zoo. When they get bored of dancing, the first thing they do is play with their genitals. The idea of breaking out of their enclosure and goosing a fat woman never occurs to them unless they have a burning grievance. I suspect that the Dallas Dangler has a long and crooked road to travel before he starts jumping on people.

Is exposing oneself in somebody’s back garden that big a deal? Opinions are divided at the safari guesthouse. A lady wrestler from California says the masked intruder would be welcome to do his thing in her place as long as he first booked an appointment.

“What would you do when he arrived?” I ask.

“I’d invite the neighbours to watch, video the performance, and tip him five bucks if he shook it up good.”

“What if he wasn’t satisfied with your tip?”

“People are always satisfied with my tips, baby,” she replies tartly.

It’s easy for her to talk, of course. He wouldn’t dare take liberties with a lady wrestler for fear of having his nipples tweaked. But if the average Dallas housewife saw him flaunting his flabby bits on her property, she’d be well within her rights to reach for her rifle and fire a warning shot between his legs.

If he ever turned up in my jungle retreat, I would shoo him away as discretely as possible – naked humans are a needless distraction for us gorillas and tend to attract mosquitoes. It would also be for his own safety. If my females got hold of him, he’d find out what it felt like to be a lump of dough in a bakery.

Given the zeal with which Officer Crowther is pursuing this case, it seems inevitable that the man will be caught sooner rather than later. I hope they don’t send him to prison. He obviously has an irrepressible desire to perform in public and I doubt he’d find the right audience in a Texas penitentiary. A more constructive sentence would be community service as a cowboy’s assistant in a rodeo. I, for one, would love to see a cigarette whipped out from between his butt cheeks.

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Indian in-law ruling

I’m in two minds over the Indian supreme court’s decision to give a man’s mother the right to kick her daughter-in-law. As a former circus ape, I know that kicking humans in a fleshy area of the body can be a playful and even affectionate gesture. The countless clowns whose bottoms were thumped by my foot never bore me any malice. If it were possible for in-laws to kick each other in the right spirit, it would be a good way of cementing family bonds and toning up the buttocks.

The nagging doubt in my mind is whether the typical Indian mother-in-law is suitably disposed to place an affectionate foot on her daughter-in-law’s posterior. I fear that she who delivers the foot wallop may be motivated by the Mother-of-Oedipus complex rather than a spirit of friendly horseplay. This psychological disorder causes post-menopausal women to be insanely jealous of the maiden who has married their son.

“How dare this Jezebel steal the affection of my boy, who used to rest his head against my motherly bosom, and now prefers to put it between her pert sugar-plums!” she subconsciously thinks. “She'll regret her sluttish ways when she feels my foot on her backside!”

Of course, we shouldn’t be too judgemental about the older female, whose short-temper is often a product of biology. When an ageing female gorilla starts getting grumpy, the first thing we do is find her a gigolo. There’s usually a young male who’ll do it out of respect for his elders and a general eagerness for hairy poontang. It’s normally just the thing to soothe her festering grudges and squash the bee in her bonnet.

I’m sure there is no shortage of likely lads in India who would bend their backs in a worthy cause (and for a generous stipend). The fellow who played the leading role in Slumdog Millionaire looks to have the right manner about him. On second thoughts, I’d make the quiz master do it as a penance for his duplicity and arrogance.

When you think about it, Indian brides are the last humans on Earth who deserve a good kicking. It speaks volumes about their sweet and subservient nature that they agree to live with their in-laws and put up with the persecution that seems to be their lot in life. You couldn’t imagine women in the West doing that. Few of them agree to marry without a separate home and strictly-controlled visiting rights for their in-laws. The mother-in-law is dealt with mercilessly if she dares step out of line.

If Indian matriarchs want to kick someone, I suggest they make the derrière of Guy Laliberté the target of their animosity. I met the circus impresario in my performing days, but sadly never had the opportunity to victimise him in the ring. His latest exploit was to blast into orbit on a Soyuz rocket while wearing a clown’s red nose. I believe he has ambitions to land on the moon.

Is it technically feasible to kick a man’s arse on the lunar surface? The Apollo astronauts never tried it and I’m not sure you’d get the required leverage in a low gravity environment. If it is possible, I shall certainly bribe one of Laliberté’s travelling companions to boot him in the seat of the pants during his moon walk. With any luck it will put him back into orbit.

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High seas heroes

A Royal Navy vessel has confiscated £240 million worth of cocaine from a boat off the coast of Columbia.

“We’re absolutely delighted about the operation,” said the skipper of the Iron Duke.

Apparently they caught the drug smugglers off-guard and pounced on them before they could brush the dust from their moustaches. I hope they showed no mercy to those wretched villains. Walking the plank would have been too good for them.

My advice to Captain Stacey is to handle the captured booty with care. Don’t let the crew snort it all at once, but ration it like grog in the days of Lord Nelson. Double the quota on special occasions like the Queen’s Official Birthday, or the date that Lady Hamilton was requisitioned for Royal Navy service.

We gorillas never take drugs, of course. If I want to get high I climb a tree. But we make no judgements about those who do, and will act as facilitators for humans who dope themselves up in a responsible manner.

My ancestor Bo’sun Bananas volunteered to serve on a Royal Navy ship before the Battle of Trafalgar. HMS Tightbore had been ordered to patrol the West African coast to intercept any French men ‘o war fleeing to the Cape. Many mariners have taken fright at the sight of big British guns shooting off in the heat of battle. After weeks of pleasant sailing in balmy tropical waters, the supply of alcoholic beverages was running low.

“The blasted crew will mutiny if we don’t find a port to re-stock!” exclaimed Captain Ignatius Porthole.

“The problem is easily solved, Iggy,” said Bo’sun Bananas. “All I need is a day’s shore leave to collect some ingredients from the Congo Coast. When these sea dogs have swigged my jungle punch they’ll forget they ever tasted rum or beer!”

Captain Porthole did as my noble forebear suggested, and five barrels of the finest jungle hooch were duly prepared. The crew lapped it up like cream on a harlot’s nipples, and performed their duties with greater diligence and efficiency than ever before. The impending mutiny having thus been averted, everything seemed to be shipshape. However shortly after putting out to sea, the captain accosted the bo’sun while he was reading Moll Flanders in the gun deck.

“Bananas, you hairy varmint, the crew have gone mad!” he thundered. “They’ve replaced the White Ensign with the first lieutenant’s britches and are watching it swing in the breeze, grinning like village idiots. I’ll be hanged if it’s not your damnable concoction that’s scrambled their wits!”

“Watch your language, little lady,” replied my venerable progenitor coolly. “The liquor I rustled up contains an extract from the Wanga plant, which sharpens perception and imagination as well as improving dexterity. If the crew want to fly the first lieutenant’s britches on the mast, it’s probably the best place for them.”

Captain Porthole stomped away grumbling and cursing, knowing better than to tangle with a gorilla. He was eventually persuaded to take some of the brew himself, which immediately calmed his turbulent disposition. He later relinquished command to the first officer so he could wander around barefoot on deck, singing sentimental ballads with his toenails painted red.

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Squeezing the rich

Clare Irby, heiress to the Guinness fortune, has been cleared of allowing a strange man to fondle her breasts. I never realised it was illegal, but then I’m no expert on human law. Maybe she was charged under a new statute designed to prevent the spread of nipple rash. I’m glad she didn’t claim she was groped against her will, which would have got her off the hook at the expense of sending an innocent man to the chokey. Is it now possible for a man to touch a woman’s breasts without someone getting arrested? I think this legal point needs to be resolved before a lot of bemused couples outside nightclubs are hauled away by the police.

An English tourist at the safari guesthouse has an interesting take on the story. He says the authorities prosecuted Ms Irby because they are taking a hard line against the rich in the current economic downturn.

“People don’t like seeing a posh society bird getting her tits rubbed when they are struggling to make ends meet,” he explains.

Should a woman who’s never done a stroke of honest work in her life be permitted to allow a stranger to caress her cupcakes at a time when ordinary folk are losing their jobs? Put like that, the case against her seems very strong. Yet on reflection, I feel that the rich should enjoy themselves whatever the economic climate. If they stop having fun, what hope is there for the rest of society? As long as they temper their hedonism with charity for those less fortunate, they should be allowed to stimulate their bosoms in peace.

We should examine the circumstances of the Irby case in more detail. She was on an aeroplane when the incident occurred, presumably sitting in first class. Hence the man who stroked her boobs must have also been a first class traveller. This would have made the economy passengers feel particularly resentful. It’s bad enough knowing that people in first class get better food and more leg-room – giving them a fresh pair of titties to fondle is really rubbing the budget traveller’s nose in it.

I would advise Ms Irby to spread her favours more widely out of noblesse oblige. She could invite an unemployed man to paw her chest on a regular basis – maybe even let a tramp do it once in a while (after washing his hands). Rich people are not disliked for their wealth, per se, but for their arrogance and snobbery, manifested in the presumption that their tits are too good for the common man. If Clare projects herself in the right way, making her bosom a plaything for deserving men of all classes, the masses will surely idolise her in the manner of the late Princess Diana.

It seems that one of the aggravations of being a young woman of note is that your titties become a topic of public debate. A victim of such ignoble chatter is Jennifer Aniston, who was forced to deny having implants. I certainly believe her, even though her dumplings do look more succulent than in her Friends days. Perhaps the best way for Jennifer to scotch the rumour would be to come clean about the natural methods she has presumably been using. Humans should never be ashamed of applying creams, gels or suction cups to their bodies. As a former circus ape, I can assure you it was common practice among the grandi artisti.

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