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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