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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Natural gas

A geologist at the safari guesthouse tells me that the Earth’s atmosphere once consisted of noxious gases such as methane and ammonia. In effect, our planet was engulfed in a gigantic fart cloud.

“It’s a good thing no one lit a match,” I remark.

“There was no one around to light a match,” he says. “The only living creatures were micro-organisms in the ocean.”

“Just how long ago was this?” I ask through narrowed eyes.

“A billion years or so,” he answers. “And the gases wouldn’t have been combustible, you’ve got your chemistry wrong.”

I wonder silently how the hell he knows what happened a billion years ago. Even someone who had lived that long would have forgotten about it by now. There are very few humans who can remember the Chimpanzees’ Tea Party at London Zoo, which was discontinued in 1972. And his assertion that farty gases are not ignitable is certainly wrong – I have evidence which proves that they are.

A correspondent recently alerted me to a home video made by some college students. The opening scenes, in which a number of malicious hoodlums fart on the faces of their sleeping roommates, are not germane. I apologise for drawing attention to the behaviour of these humanoid skunks, whose lowly character is manifested in the hideous squeaky noises of their emissions. Farts like that are suggestive of a cowardly, sneaky nature. An honest, gorilla-like fart makes a low, rumbling noise.

Towards the end of the video, a couple of young ladies make an appearance and fart rather sweetly. After that, we get to the evidence. In a spirit of scientific inquiry, several fellows apply the naked flame to their flatulence. In each case, the fart burns with hues familiar to anyone who owns a gas cooker. It is the characteristic flame of the combustion of methane, which progresses according to the following chemical reaction:

CH4 + 2O2 = CO2 + 2H2O

Yes, Gorilla Bananas knows his chemistry. Apologies for showing off like this, but after mentioning the geologist’s ill-informed remark I needed to set the record straight. If he is reading this, I hope he is feeling sheepish.

Now the fascinating thing about methane is that it has no smell – the poo-ish odour of the fart is caused by hydrogen sulphide, which is useless as a fuel (although very effective in stink bombs). If someone could find a simple method of separating the flatus into its component gases, college boys and other enthusiasts could develop a thriving cottage industry. As the saying goes, it’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good.

The last thing I want to say about farts concerns a pathetic incident involving the Austrian police. It began when a 19-year-old lad called Hansi Sporer broke wind audibly at a music festival. Unfortunately for him, a pair of passing police officers heard the fart and took umbrage, apparently believing it had been discharged specifically to greet their arrival. They then slapped a fine of 50 euros on the boy, complaining that they had been “humiliated”. Did you ever hear of such a pair of sissies? Heaven help the Austrian police if all it takes to break their spirit is a fart. If Hitler were in a grave (rather than scattered in various pieces around Russia), he would surely be turning over in it.

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Peeping Yeti

A 19-year-old woman is claiming that she was stalked by a yeti who watched her as she bathed in a river. She should be so lucky. I don't know whether yetis exist, but I’m certain they wouldn't waste time spying on women if they did. Life in the wild is tough. You've got to forage for food, keep predators at bay and find a mate to breed with. Watching women splash about in rivers is a frivolous diversion from these essential activities. Nor would the yeti have got any pleasure from the spectacle. There’s no point getting excited about females you can’t impregnate.

It’s the old story. An arrogant human intrudes into a wild habitat and behaves as if the resident creatures were trespassers. Perhaps the woman got some sort of satisfaction from imagining that a big hairy monster was ogling her with lustful eyes. The whole thing sounds like pure fantasy on her part. Instead of making spurious allegations about yetis, she should join a dating site and find some unshaven roughneck who’ll sweep her off her feet.

Even if a yeti did happen to be in the vicinity, his only interest in the woman would have been to make sure she didn’t foul his drinking water. Had I been there, I would have offered him some friendly advice:

“Mr Yeti,” I would have said, “humans are big-headed creatures. If you observe them intently they inevitably think you want to have sex with them. Nubile women who paddle in rivers are particularly susceptible to this delusion. Give them a casual glance and they automatically assume you want to put your head between their jahoobies and make gurgling noises.”

Let no one forget that the Peeping Tom is an exclusively human archetype. Back in my circus days, the female acrobats always made me check their changing room for strategically placed holes drilled by villainous schoolboys. I soon became adept at sniffing out such apertures and filling them with cement. I once offered to stay in the room with the girls in the hope of catching one of the rascals in the act and giving him a poke in the eye. They thanked me for my concern but decided, on reflection, that prevention was more important than punishment. I shrugged my shoulders philosophically. It made no difference to me, of course.

This suggests another possible explanation for the alleged yeti incident: that the creature stalking the woman was a man in disguise. A cowardly human voyeur would think nothing of framing an innocent yeti for his own depraved acts. I’ve a good mind to organise an expedition to trap the impostor. We would need porters, a medic, a guide and a woman in a bathing suit to act as bait. I’m sure there would be no shortage of volunteers for this noble venture.

A plague on all the stalkers, peepers and flashers who make life uncomfortable for their victims. Small wonder that women are skittish about yetis when they have to put up with such vexations in their everyday lives. Why are men so hung-up on visual stimulation? It’s a mystery to us silverbacks. We’ll pamper any female who smells good, feels good and makes good noises.

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Kiss me quick

Rafael Nadal has forgiven the man who kissed him in front of 10,000 spectators at the US Open.

“He was really nice and said ‘I love you’,” explained Nadal.

I wouldn’t have fallen for that kind of sweet talk. One thing I learned in the circus is that fans are never satisfied. If you let them kiss you, they expect you to go to their tea parties and eat their fairy cakes. They are also incredibly jealous of each other. If one of them steals a kiss, they all expect to have smooching rights. That’s why I treated my fans firmly but fairly – like a strict schoolmaster. The only kissing allowed was when I kissed the hand of a female admirer, purely to demonstrate the chivalrous nature of the male gorilla.

It seems to me that tennis is not really a kissy sport. Let’s suppose you feel like kissing someone after winning a point. The umpire is out of reach and your opponent probably isn’t in the mood for it. Kissing a line judge after getting a decision in your favour would make sense, but it's the sort of behaviour that might incite the crowd. Kissing a ball boy would be an arrestable offence under any jurisdiction.

The manager of the safari camp said he’d like to see more kissing in the ladies’ game. He suggested that Serena Williams should plant a big wet one on the mouth of her vanquished opponent (unless this opponent were Venus, when the kiss would be incestuous).

“I’d love to see her treat one of those cute European blondes like her punk bitch,” he declared.

I’m not sure what he meant by that, but it sounds like unseemly behaviour for a grand slam champion. I hope that Serena continues to offer a ladylike handshake, perhaps followed by a friendly pat on the bottom if she knows her opponent well. An illustrious sportswoman should set a good example for the budding stars of tomorrow. Martina Navratilova and Billy-Jean King were not just admired for their penetrative forehands.

I’ve been kissed against my will on a couple of occasions. The first assailant was a circus clown. I didn’t punish him for his effrontery because he was highly emotional and only kissed my feet. I was relaxing in a deck chair, reading back issues of Cosmopolitan, when he crawled up to my toes.

“Thank you so much for curing my constipation, GB!” he bleated pathetically between kisses. “I’ve been shitting like a camel since you swung me by my ankles.”

I resisted the temptation to kick his head like a football. “Don’t mention it,” I replied. “When you have finished kissing my feet, wash them thoroughly with a pail of soapy water and a sponge.

After satisfying his peculiar urge, he did as instructed.

The other time I got kissed was when a female gorilla reacted to one of my witty ripostes by putting her mouth over my ear hole. It wasn’t technically a kiss because she blew rather than sucked, but it certainly made me feel giddy. I let her off with a stern rebuke after my head had cleared.

I’m glad to say that I’ve never been forcibly kissed on the lips, which is an indignity that no warm-blooded creature should have to endure. The practice was only ever acceptable in those old Technicolor Hollywood movies, when the bad guy would force his mouth on the lips of the sassy heroine and laugh wickedly afterwards. I have to admit I always loved those scenes. Does that make me bad?

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Forbidden love

I’m feeling a bit sorry for the man from South Carolina who was arrested for making love to a horse. He was convicted of molesting the same animal last year, so it must have been true love rather than a wicked horse-shagging fetish. The woman who owns the mare caught them in the act and predictably put all the blame on the man, holding him up at gunpoint until the police arrived. She insists that her animal was raped, but I’ve not yet seen the man who can overpower a horse without getting his teeth kicked down his throat.

“Sugar was acting strange and getting infections,” said Barbara Kenly, the mare’s gun-toting owner.

Maybe she was, but that’s hardly evidence of sexual abuse. Mary Ann Faithful was behaving strangely and getting infections when she was touring with The Vibrators, but that didn’t mean she was being unlawfully interfered with.

I hope the judge gives him a suspended sentence on condition that he makes an honest mare of Miss Sugar. The weather in South Carolina must be pretty good at this time of year, so they ought to have an outdoor wedding. Let him escort the bridled bride through the grassy glades, to be joined in holy wedlock in the paddock. All the filly bridesmaids would be whinnying with tears in their eyes when the 22-carot wedding shoe was hammered into Sugar’s foot. “Memories are made of this,” as the late Dean Martin said.

Now I shouldn’t give you the impression that I approve of interspecies coupling. Of all the primates, we gorillas are the least interested in that sort of thing. The movie King Kong was a gigantic and offensive hoax. Chimpanzees are keener about it than us, but the biggest dabblers of all are our human cousins (as if you needed me to tell you that). Horses are the just the tip of the iceberg for homo sapiens. And don’t think that women aren’t as capable of it as men. There is an infamous scene in a movie by Jean-Luc Godard in which the farmer’s mistress removes her bare bottom from an enclosure full of suckling calves. One assumes it had been there long enough to get a good polish.

Such depravities would not appeal to the female gorillas in London Zoo, who have been pining for some hairy action since their resident silverback died last December. Rather than attempting to molest their keeper, they have persuaded the zoo management to fly in a new male from France called Yeboah. He’s a good-looking boy, although I must say I’m worried he might not be up to the job. Female gorillas are rowdy at the best of times, but the ones that live in England are absolutely wild. They pick up their bad habits from watching the local women.

I’ve sent a message to Yeboah advising him to stay well clear of the females during hen nights and other occasions involving all-girl revelry. I hope he can handle what he’s got coming.

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Change in Japan

Someone has told me that Japan has a new prime minister. I never knew it had an old one to be honest, but the holder of the office has my full support, whoever he is. It can’t be much fun managing the affairs of a nation on the edge of the world, with the Pacific Ocean on one side and people who dislike you on the other. I have a theory that the further humans migrated from the Mother Continent, the stranger they became in their customs and behaviour. I asked the manager of the safari camp what he thought about it, and he said that Japan is the only country whose porn stars still have pubic hair. Fascinating titbit, but I don’t think it conclusively disproves my theory.

The new PM looks like a schoolboy who suffers from a premature ageing disease. His wife’s appearance is far more impressive. I would guess she was a cheeky minx in her youth and became an even cheekier minx as she got older. She claims to have been abducted by aliens. Apparently they behaved like perfect gentlemen, taking her on a sightseeing trip to Venus and letting her go on all their best rides. As the new first lady of Japan, she ought to invite them back for a state visit. They could land their flying saucer on the summit of Mount Fuji and toboggan down the slope to Tokyo.

People often assume that the first alien delegation to visit Earth will appear on the White House lawn, but I think that might end in disaster. The president would be hospitable enough, but his secret service men would go nuts, pulling out their weapons and jumping on any aliens who made a sudden move. I sense that Japan would be a much better place for their first visit. The humans there are too steeped in manners and etiquette to do anything that might upset their guests. The cultural attractions are also of the highest standard. There are few more intriguing spectacles than a pair of obese men in nappies bouncing off each other in a sumo ring.

A Japanese tourist once asked me for my autograph after seeing me perform in the circus. “GB-san,” he said, “you should come to Japan and join a sumo school – you would become a great yokozuna.”

I studied his face carefully to ascertain whether he was pulling my leg, but his demeanour gave me no clue. These Orientals can be very inscrutable, even to a gorilla.

“Your confidence in my wrestling ability is well-founded,” I replied, “but I could not wear the girdle your wrestlers wrap around their loins. We gorillas need air to circulate around our nether regions. Adopting that form of dress would be like putting vegetables in a pressure cooker.”

He bowed and left without further comment. “A master of the art of polite conversation,” I thought. I wish more humans knew when to shut up and leave.

The aliens would surely enjoy a sumo tournament, even without my participation, but they should be kept well clear of public transport. The Japanese may be well-mannered on formal occasions, but pack them into crowded commuter trains and they turn into demonic gropers. It’s normally nubile women who are targeted for such attention, but I doubt the fiends responsible would be able to resist a pert pair of alien buttocks. I’ve never seen an alien react to having its arse pinched, but there’s a fair chance it wouldn’t like it. The peace of the galaxy is more important than experiments in social etiquette.

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A generous offer

A pat on the back for the Kenyan man who offered Hillary Clinton twenty cows and forty goats for her daughter’s hand in marriage. Hilldog thanked him graciously and promised to convey his proposal to Chelsea, but shouldn’t a mother do more than act as a mere go-between? I hope she sits down with Chelsea and reviews her current list of suitors, putting a line through all the fortune-hunters and gigolos without a cow or goat to their name. That’s the kind of hands-on parenting I like to see in my human cousins.

The Clintons are denying that their 29-year-old daughter is planning to marry this year. If I were Chelsea’s godmother, I’d advise her to get hitched while the bloom is still fresh on the rose. The latest pictures of her suggest that her resemblance to pappy is growing stronger by the day. He’s not a bad looking fellow by any means, but his features won’t travel well across the gender divide. Can anyone imagine a less attractive woman than Bill Clinton in drag? I tried to do so and it gave me stomach cramps.

Whenever the wedding occurs, I doubt it will be a highlight of the social calendar. Knowing Bill, he’ll want to hold in it Arkansas so that every Cletus and Thetus who knew him when he was governor can pay his respects. I pity the guests from out of state who’ll have to spend a couple of days in a place devoid of tourist attractions. The Holidays in Hicksville guide says the state’s main leisure activities are possum-hunting, square-dancing and speculating on which children are the product of an incestuous union.

The Arkansans should learn from their cowboy cousins in Oklahoma, who have put up a bronze statue of Angelina Jolie suckling her twins. The breasts are entirely visible and you couldn’t wish to see rounder pair of milk dumplings. I should imagine it will quickly become a place of pilgrimage for those who venerate the mother in all her boobaceous munificence. The only problem with the sculpture is the presence of the feeding twins, who will prevent visitors from allowing their own infants to suck on Angelina’s bronze nipples. Maybe she should go there in person every month to wet-nurse the lucky winner of a raffle.

Chelsea, of course, is much too sophisticated and intelligent to have people thinking about her breasts. Even the manager of the safari camp, who is a fanatical boob-man, admitted that he hadn’t considered them until I brought up the subject. A lot of credit must go to Chelsea herself, who has never been tempted to take part in a wet t-shirt competition or allowed herself to be photographed in a bikini. This is the behaviour of a young woman who expects to have a career in high politics. You can’t have good working relationships with foreign statesmen if they’re thinking about your tits the whole time.

Yet according to my friend Kola Boof, women won’t truly be liberated until they can walk around topless without caring what men think about it. The goddess, she points out, is traditionally bare-breasted to excite the fervour of her devotees. Thus a woman who exposes her bosom is actually projecting her divine spark. I have my reservations about this argument, but I’m not going to debate titties with Kola. Those who want to cross swords with her may ask me for her email address.

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