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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