Dongfall

Kim Dong Il has put his youngest son in charge of his country’s spy agency. An unusually rash decision for the crafty little midget. His older sons are bound to feel resentful and are probably hatching a plot against the Dear Daddy as I write. My guess is they’ll go for the scorpion in the long johns. Humans have always used animals as assassins to cover their traces. One sting on the scrotum and Dongy’s chestnuts will be toast. A small target, admittedly, but scorpions can always sense the most vulnerable organ.

Anyone who’s watched Team America knows that Dongy is not a happy man. Living in North Korea probably has a lot to do with it. The clothes are drab and itchy, the nightlife is non-existent and the television is absolute crap. The boredom must be unbearable for a pint-sized despot with loads of cash and nothing to spend it on. Nor can he enjoy his position at the top, surrounded as he is by toadies, flunkies and assorted aunties. This is what happens when a man is forced to follow in his father’s footsteps rather than pursue his career of choice. A chubby-cheeked homunculus like Dongy would have been a natural clown, and it’s obvious from his antics that he wanted to be one.

Speaking of clowns, I recently received an email from Roly Bain, the Anglican priest who made a name for himself by acting the goat. I met Roly a long time ago after he watched my circus act. On seeing his funny little face, I immediately suggested he go to clown school, and he took my advice to heart. Every year I get a message from Roly asking me to visit him in England:

“Dearest GB,” he wrote, “I am the most successful comedy vicar in the world and I owe it all to you. How about doing a double act with me for the summer season?”

He’s a grateful little tyke as you can see. I should imagine he’d be even more grateful if I gave him a sound thrashing in front of his congregation. But I can’t fly across the globe every time a clown longs to feel my foot on his arse. Roly will have to make use of whatever local talent there is in England. Mick Jagger seems to have the lithe body movements required to perform with a clown. I’m sure he’d agree to take the stage with Roly for a share of the box office and a bottle of anti-wrinkle cream.

None of this clowning about will do anything about the political crisis in North Korea, of course. The recent nuclear explosions there are the sign of an internal power struggle. Intelligence sources indicate that the last one went off in an adventure playground, depriving the Dear Leader of his favourite recreation facility. There are obviously sinister forces at work trying to destabilise the regime by turning Dongy into a frustrated little imp. If I were President Obama, I’d send him some toys to play with pretty damn quick before he starts firing his rockets at San Francisco. The mark of a statesman is the ability to nip problems in the bud before they bite you in the arse.

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Madonna and child

A man on safari tells me that Madonna is going to visit the parents of her 22-year-old companion, Jesus Luz.

“Perhaps she wants to adopt him,” I suggest.

The man seems doubtful, but agrees it would be a fitting way of formalising their relationship. The boy’s natural parents surely love him dearly, but they can’t give him the start in life that Madonna can. In her delicate embrace, young Jesus would be nurtured with the most fragrant oils and lotions, rubbed tenderly on his chest, thighs and buttocks. Living in a well-heated mansion, there would be no need for him to wear clothes as he swung on the indoor climbing frame, his adoptive mother watching his movements with burgeoning pride and excitement. Let us hope that the paperwork can be finalised quickly without legal challenge.

The religious significance of the adoption would be enormous. The sight of Madonna mothering her own baby Jesus would surely strengthen the faith of Roman Catholics everywhere. It might even attract new converts. Anglicans fed up with the namby-pamby nonsense from the Church of England and its bearded archdruid might be tempted to migrate to Rome on seeing this miraculous re-enactment. I hope Pope Benny makes the most of the opportunity by granting an audience to Madge and Jezz and having his picture taken with them. Giving them his blessing might technically be blasphemous, so perhaps he ought to let them bless him.

I shouldn’t really be nagging the Pope because he has a lot on his plate at the moment. A great row has erupted among the faithful in Spain after a group of mothers who call themselves “Daughters of the Generalissimo” sent an open letter to the Vatican. They have inquired whether a devout Catholic wife should ever permit herself to attain a physical climax during marital relations, adducing their own opinion that any child conceived in such debauchery would be the Spawn of Satan. The Pope has deferred judgement pending consultation with Cardinals experienced in such matters. Spanish feminists, meanwhile, have expressed their fury by burning their knickers in the Plaza de España in Madrid.

If I had the Pope’s ear, I would advise him that it was perfectly lawful for a woman to experience elation during the physical act of love. There are many precedents in Holy Scripture – Bathsheba was never punished by the Lord for enjoying a jiggy with Mr Biggy and Delilah was obviously an insatiable minx who liked it mean and dirty. The only stipulation for the pious wife is that she should remain silent while in the throes of ecstasy. The purpose of marital congress is procreation, and no righteous husband should have to listen to his wife making a hullabaloo when he’s trying to impregnate her. It’s the sort of thing that might put a man off his stroke and make him forget what he was doing. A few soft little moans and sighs should be all that is permissible.

Speaking of procreation, I was disappointed to hear that Paris Hilton has failed to make good on her promise to produce a brood of little Parisites. Her latest beefcake suitor was callously dumped after she discovered he was “boring”. She should stop being so picky if you ask me. Does she want to be impregnated or entertained? Men who can do both generally prefer not to breed with vacuous floozies.

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In memory of a monk

I refuse to believe that David Carradine wanked himself to death. A man who has studied the way of the Tao and the Shao, shaving his head bald and living on alfalfa beans, must be aware he can't ejaculate himself to happiness. I don't know what happened in that hotel room, but I certainly don't trust the bellboys to give an honest account of what they found. On discovering David’s lifeless body, they no doubt configured the corpse in a pose that would allow them to sell scurrilous tidbits to the gutter press. Their karmas will be cleansed by suffering in a future life.

What a man was Kwai Chang Caine! I think his mixed Chinese-Caucasian heritage gave him his unique insights and abilities. A man of purely western descent could never have absorbed the oriental mysticism of the Shaolin temple. Lacking inscrutability, he would have babbled like a fool in a vain attempt to make converts. But a full-blooded Chinaman would not have opened his heart to the foreign devils, doing his best to enlighten them before resorting to kung fu tactics. The great thing about Caine is that he always gave the rednecks a chance to repent before taming their inner demons with a well-aimed foot in the face. He spoke softly and carried the big kick.

I often think we should introduce a spiritual element to safari tourism. Our current visitors have the mentality of spectators at a Roman amphitheatre.

“Where are the lions, where are the lions?” they cry.

What are the lions? would be a more pertinent question. Great big snarling brutes who would chew your head off if you asked them for directions to nearest waterhole. It’s depressing that so many humans visit Africa to gawp at savagery and gore. The makers of snuff-video wildlife documentaries are no better.

Perhaps I should establish a jungle temple for our human visitors. Students of all creeds and persuasions would be taught the way of the Hairy Pu. We’d give them courses in grooming, grimacing and guttural noises (the three g’s). And let’s not forget ape yoga – quite different from the human varieties where one’s tush is in contact with the ground. That would never do in the jungle, with all the snakes and creepy-crawlies. Ape positions involve suspending the body in mid-air by the fingers or toes and letting gravity do most of the work. “You’ve never been stretched until you’ve been hung,” is our motto.

I don’t see the need to teach humans martial arts – it only makes them overconfident about their physical capabilities. Back in my circus days, I remember being challenged to a bout of unarmed combat by a fellow called Nasty Nash, who was a black belt in something or the other.

“Don’t be an oaf, Nasty!” I said. “If you kicked me in the head you’d break every bone in your foot!”

Nasty was so disappointed that I invented the sport of toe-wrestling specifically to enable him to fight me without risking bodily injury. He enjoyed it so much that he went on to found an association that promotes the sport and holds regular tournaments (for humans). Nasty is the current world champion, I believe.

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To baldly go...

A character called Dr Lewis Dartnell is claiming that space travel makes you bald, fat and ugly. I know a coded insult aimed at William Shatner when I see one. The rumour that Captain Kirk wore a wig is absolutely false – it would have had to be glued to his scalp to stay on during all the fisticuffs and jujitsu he did with recalcitrant aliens. The colour match with his eyebrows was also too exact for the dyes of that era.

There is no evidence whatever that space travel causes hair loss. The Apollo astronauts were at least as hairy during splashdown as they were during lift-off. (They were much less hairy than the space chimps, of course, but that is comparing apples with pears). I’d like to know whether the newspaper that quoted Dr Dartnell checked his credentials first. I wouldn’t be surprised if he were one of those bogus doctors who go into practice to fondle women’s breasts. In any event, the phoney pundit will probably now be deluged with hate mail from outraged trekkers. And it will serve him right.

Now Captain Picard was as bald as an egg, but that doesn’t prove anything because he was slim and handsome rather than fat and ugly. The Next Generation, it must be admitted, was superior to The Original Series in almost every particular. Picard had more gravitas than Kirk, Data out-spocked Spock, and there were two leading ladies in skin-tight lycra costumes rather than the token Miss Uhura with a gizmo stuck in her ear. The surest way of getting a friendly debate going amongst a group of men is to ask them whether they’d rather ravish Beverly Crusher or Deanna Troi. There are always strong preferences for one or the other, although the manager of the safari camp once declared that he “wouldn’t touch either of those prick teasers”.

Some humans foolishly believe that we gorillas empathise with the Klingons. Nothing could be further from the truth. As well as being prodigious meat-eaters (and presumably suffering from halitosis as a result) they are far too tense and irascible to be our kindred spirits. I feel particularly sorry for Worf, scowling away on the bridge while everyone else grooves to the pulse of the warp engines. If I were on the Enterprise, I’d try and get him to lighten up:

“Worfy baby,” I’d say, “you’ve got to lose the ‘fuck you’ attitude, which went out of fashion shortly after the death of Genghis Khan. Chill out in ‘Ten Forward’. Flirt with Whoopie Goldberg. Learn to play the guitar. Eat more fruit. That’s the way to make friends and influence people on a Federation star ship.”

But they’ll never top The Next Generation. A big part of its appeal lies in the depiction of a harmonious space community free of jealousy, intrigue and masturbation. There was no need for self-abuse on the Enterprise because of the holodeck, where the computer would generate fully functional surrogates capable of unlimited guilt-free coitus (and no risk of cooties). Instead of vainly trying to seduce Dr Crusher, a crewman could do his worst to her exact replica. How did Beverly feel about men using her simulacrum as a concubine? I don’t know, but I would hope she felt flattered.

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A ticklish question

Scientists have finally admitted that laughter was invented by apes (and not Charlie Chaplin, as some humans appear to believe). I once tried to explain this to a group of tourists on safari and they reacted with incredulity.

“What is there to laugh at in the jungle?” asked one of them.

“A baboon’s red bottom,” I replied.

They were forced to concede the point.

We gorillas are constantly laughing at stuff as a matter of fact – we chortle, we chuckle, we cackle, we guffaw. And it’s not just slapstick jokes like elephant-sex that we enjoy. The jungle is full of subtle little ironies that make us smirk – the forgetful frog; the confused snake; the bilious beetle. It’s difficult to keep a straight face with all these comedy acts going on around us.

But let’s get back to the scientists. After tickling some infant apes, they realised that humans had copied laughter from their hairy cousins. This having been established, they wondered whether it was safe to tickle gorillas. Now we gorillas are ticklish and enjoy it as much as the next ape, but you can’t just walk up and fiddle with us. If a stranger started prodding my belly, I would wonder what the devil he was up to and pull his nose until he stopped doing it. If you want to tickle a gorilla you’ve got to start by making polite conversation. Tell me your favourite colour; comment on the price of citrus fruit; discuss the likely ramifications of the El Niño weather phenomenon. Only after creating a friendly rapport should you ask permission to tweak the flesh in a decent area of the body. Try any naughty stuff and you’re going to get spanked.

I’m not a great tickler myself. My females laugh enough without it and the humans I encounter are too shy to bring up the subject. A woman did once ask me to tickle her in my circus days. She was agreeably fleshy, but I was not inclined to oblige her.

“Tickling is a blunt instrument only to be used when humour has failed,” I said. “Watch a comedy show instead.”

“But I don’t have a sense of humour,” she retorted.

“Nonsense!” I barked. “I’ll give you a free ticket to our next show so you can see my act with the clowns.”

So she came along to the circus and watched the show from start to finish. In all honesty, I was on top form. Our antics brought the house down, and never did a team of clowns leave a circus ring with buttocks so sore. I met the woman outside my trailer after the show.

“You were really funny but I just couldn’t laugh.” she said. “I told you I didn’t have a sense of humour.”

I stared at her grimly. Perhaps there was a defect in her brain that prevented her from reacting normally to the sight of clowns getting their arses repeatedly kicked.

“Very well,” I said dryly, “you leave me with no alternative but to employ cruder methods of stimulation.”

I invited her into my trailer, bound her hands and feet, and fingered her flesh methodically until she shrieked and squirmed convulsively. I carried on sadistically until she was begging for mercy, flushed, sweaty and exhausted.

“You may leave,” I said after untying her hands and feet. “Let that be a lesson to you. A sense of humour is a far kinder palliative than tickle torture. I suggest you visit a psychologist who might help you overcome your mental block.”

I ignored all her requests for further sessions.

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Marital problems

An impotent man has been arrested in Malaysia for attempting to deceive his wife with cucumbers and aubergines. The woman wasn’t fooled and endured six years of vegetable abuse before complaining to the police. It’s a depressing story which confirms what shrinks say about poor communication leading to marital break-ups. He should have come clean about his impotence, and she should have told him to get those damned vegetables out of the bed.

I’ve often thought I’d be good at counselling human couples with marital problems. When humans see other humans bickering they instinctively want to take sides, but we gorillas are more objective. In studying the dynamics of a human relationship, we have the emotional detachment of Davy Attenborough watching a pair of feuding ferrets. This makes us utterly impervious to the antagonisms that poison human gender relations. Feminism, male chauvinism, phallocentrism, pussy-magnetism – they are all irrelevant concepts to a gorilla.

Gorillas could counsel humans, but it would never work the other way around. When I have a tiff with my females, things progress fairly quickly from curses and pinches to frenzied violence. Any human who tried to mediate would be trembling like a leaf. Giving honest advice is impossible if you’re fearful that saying the wrong thing will lead to your arms getting ripped off.

That’s why we gorillas never intervene in disputes between animals heftier than ourselves. The matriarch of an elephant herd once asked me to have a quiet word with a rogue bull that was attempting to mount everything with a trunk.

“No can do, ma’am!” I said. “The job is outside of my size range. You’d better ask King Kong or Godzilla.”

The bull elephant was finally put out of his misery when he gate-crashed a training exercise of the Congolese Armed Forces and tried to have sex with a T-72.

Not all differences can be reconciled, of course. I doubt Mr Cucumber will ever patch things up with his missus however much remorse he shows. He ought to apologise to the vegetables as well as his wife. No nutritious plant should ever be made to act as a sexual surrogate against its will. After an experience like that, I would describe its condition as inedible. I certainly wouldn’t eat it, no matter how many times it was rinsed in cold water.

For some women adultery is an unforgivable offence, while others seem able to live with it. My theory is that the tolerant wives are the ones who intend to retaliate by having affairs of their own. Princess Diana didn’t leave Charles when he was carrying on with Camilla because she knew she’d soon be cheating like a trollop herself. By the end of his first marriage, Old Jug Ears must have been the most cuckolded heir to the throne in English history.

Charles and Diana were a hopeless case and I wouldn’t have wasted my energy on trying to keep them together. When famous humans divorce, my reaction is usually “What took you so long?”. The one celebrity marriage I would go out on a hairy limb to save is the union between Mr Becks and Victoria Spice. They are now more famous for being married to each other than anything else, and I’d hate to see them trade insults in the gutter press. Maybe I’ll invite them to the Congo for a second honeymoon and help them brush up on their non-verbal communication skills.

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