Three long-haired men once came to see me after watching my circus act.
“We want you to join our band,” they said.
“What sort of band is it?” I asked.
“Metal,” they said. “We’re called The Electric Chairmen. We let our fans decide whether we’re judges or executioners.”
“Or condemned men indeed,” I remarked. “What role do you envisage for me?”
“Drummer,” they answered. “We need a drummer who can hit extra hard.”
I sighed and shook my head. I am sorry to say that this silly, one-dimensional idea about the musical ability of gorillas was common long before Cadbury-Schweppes plc jumped on the bandwagon.
“I regret that I cannot play the drums,” I said. “I am proficient only in the recorder and the Congolese nose flute.”
“Don’t worry about that, man, we can teach you!”
“No, gentlemen, you will have to ask someone else. I believe Ringo Starr has been looking for a position since The Beatles dissolved their partnership.”
They left disappointedly and I pondered the attractions of being in a pop group. If it’s so good, why do so many of the most successful performers die young? Jim Morrissey, Curt Cockbain and Michael Hutchend all perished miserably from self-inflicted injuries. I suspect that a man who receives too much fellatio loses his grip on reality. He begins to think of his penis as a lollypop and suffers agonies of regret that he will never be able to taste its fruity flavours. The spine of an upright primate is simply not flexible enough. (We gorillas can do it but rarely bother – it’s not worth the back strain it causes). Perhaps I should write a paper on this for the Journal of Psychology. Even if my theory is false, men who aren’t getting any will feel better for hearing it.
Some pop stars, of course, manage to cope with the fame and the groupies without committing suicide. David Cassidy is one who lived long enough to write a memoir from the perspective of middle-age. It may have been helpful that his associates in The Partridge Family included the maternal Shirley Jones and the nymph-like Susan Dey. These two ladies were indeed a foster family for young David, Miss Jones being his actual step-mother and Miss Dey being a surrogate sister (albeit with one much regretted act of incest). Their presence surely helped to keep his self-destructive demon at bay.
A more functional explanation of Mr Cassidy’s survival is found in the reason for his nickname “Donk”. If half of what he says about his blessed physique is true, a woman would have needed the throat of a python to relieve him orally. It seems he was quite happy to use his prodigious organ in the orthodox fashion in any case. According to David, the Italian movie star Gina Lollobrigida was well-briefed about his dimensions:
The first time I met Gina she looked me up and down and said: “I hear you’re a monster. I want to meet the monster.” Well, I decided that if I had it, there wasn’t any point in just keeping it in the holster all the time.
Very obliging of him. My old circus chum Mario claims that it was this encounter that inoculated Mr Cassidy against the woeful fate of others in his profession. Apparently no man who has slept with an Italian actress has ever taken his own life. Mario was a notorious bum-pincher in his day, but I have no reason to question his knowledge of Italian show-business folklore.
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