The Christmas Goose

I arrive in London in the depth of an icy winter and check into my usual room at Dr Whipnade’s residence. Next morning, I hike across Regent’s Park to the home of Richard E Grant, the actor and substance-sniffer. He arrives at the door in his dressing gown and greets me with a glazed expression on his face. 

“Good morning, Richard,” I say. “I have a particularly aromatic specimen for you. It’s from the land of your birth.” 

“What?” he mumbles. “Oh, yes, come into the lounge. Don’t mind me, GB, I’m always like this in the morning.” 

When we are seated, I hand him an airtight plastic box containing the Purple Pansy of Swaziland. He pulls off the lid, sticks in his nose and takes a deep breath. 

“Exquisite, GB!” he murmurs. “I won’t need to use my Vicks inhaler until tea time.” 

“I thought you’d like it,” I remark. “So what’s the news, Richard?” 

“The news!” he exclaims. “I’ll tell you what the fucking news is! The students have been rioting! Swarms of them took to the streets, defacing monuments and hurling flower pots. Can you imagine wasting good flower pots like that? It’s a good thing it’s not summer, or the streets would be stinking with their horrible fucking body odour!” 

“Couldn’t the police control them?” I ask. 

“Oh, they arrested a few and whacked a few others on the head, but it didn’t deter them one iota. They outwitted the plods by splitting into hunting parties and running amok in different directions. A particularly vile posse rampaged down Regent’s Street and ambushed the limousine of Prince Charles and Camilla. They forced them out of their car, and one of the hooded ruffians pinched Camilla on the arse. I saw the whole thing from outside Banana Republic – you should have seen the look on her face!” 

“Unauthorised contact with Camilla’s posterior is a serious breach of protocol,” I remark. “Even her butler needs a royal warrant to do that. The student who committed the outrage will have to be exiled when Charles becomes the sovereign. You can’t have someone openly boasting that he’s goosed the Queen of England.” 

“Well, they’ve hushed it up pretty well so far,” says Richard. “The unofficial cover story is that someone poked her with a stick. I’m keeping my lips firmly sealed so as not to ruin my chances of a knighthood.” 

“Very wise, Richard.” I remark. “Speaking of knighthoods, how’s the career going? Seen any good scripts lately?” 

“I’ve read a great one for a remake of King Solomon’s Mines that’s true to the original novel. I’ve already turned down the part of Alan Quartermain so I can audition for the role of Gagool the witch-smeller.” 

I stare at Richard for a sign that he’s jesting, but his earnest face indicates otherwise. 

“You are aware that Gagool is a black woman aged somewhere between 120 and 240?” I say. 

“That’s exactly why I should play her!” he insists. “I’ll never broaden my range if my on-screen persona is always some toffee-nosed Englishman who speaks like a 1950s newsreader.” 

Unable to refute his arguments, I wish him good luck and bid him a fond farewell. On the way back, I spot a couple of hungry students foraging in the snow for dead rodents. It being Christmas, I invite them home for a bowl of broth and a shampoo. They accept my offer eagerly and walk behind me as a gesture of respect. I tell them to maintain a distance of ten feet and keep their hands in their pockets.

Gorilla Bananas wishes his readers a Merry Christmas. He will a return in the New Year after a two week holiday break.

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Scrabble subterfuge

Humans often remark upon my extraordinary vocabulary. “What’s your secret?” they ask. The answer is that I used to play Scrabble in my circus days. Initially with the clowns, who taught me only dirty words, but later with my mentor Dr Whipsnade, who exposed me to a broader lexicon. I do not play much in the jungles of the Congo, where word games are viewed as a sissy pastime, but in a few days time I shall be visiting London for the holiday season. It is there that I am scheduled to play a friendly game with the world champion. 

Some of you may not be aware that Scrabble has a world champion. The current holder of the title is a transvestite called Mikki Nicholson, who wears a pink wig. I do not expect to win, even though I am an accomplished player who could beat the pants off most humans. A gorilla’s pride can bear defeat to a world champion. 

I asked Dr Whipsnade to arrange the game as a means of enlisting Mikki in a noble cause. I hope to persuade her to apply for a job as a Playboy Bunny at the club that will open in London next year. My sources tell me that Mikki has all the required skills for the job, being attractive, polite, friendly and able to balance drinks on a tray. If they turn her down for the position (as we expect), we will sue Hef for unlawful discrimination. Our intention is to win punitive damages that will substantially lighten the silk-lined elephant scrotum that Hef uses for a money pouch. 

Please don’t think that I’ve hatched this plot because I’ve got it in for Hef. On the contrary, I have his best interests at heart. Hef, you see, is a man who has grown accustomed to making a gigantic anus of himself. The older he gets, the more anus-like he becomes. If he continues on his current path, he will be all anus and no cheeks. This will make him the terrestrial equivalent of a black hole, sucking passing bodies into his vortex and transporting them to the parallel universe inside The Playboy Mansion. Only by draining the anus of its cash supply will it be sapped of its lethal power, allowing Hef to live out his final years in dignity and peace. 

To prove that I’m not motivated by malice, I am sending Hef a Christmas present he will surely appreciate. It is a new version of the Kama Sutra without the famous drawings of sex positions. As Hef is only capable of getting into those positions with the aid of a harness, it should not diminish the practical value of the gift. He will be able to absorb its timeless wisdom without constantly revisiting the dirty pictures like a randy old goat. 

Let us never forget that the Kama Sutra was originally intended to provide “advice for a courtly gentleman on how to live a well-rounded life”. As Hef will shortly learn, there’s more to being well-rounded than imitating an anus. 

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Chinese whispers

So the Chinese government launched a cyber-war against Google after a politburo member googled his own name and found he was as highly-regarded as a hornet on a horse’s arse. A classic example of shooting the messenger, I would say. Here is some friendly advice for Mr Li Changchun, minister for propaganda and chopstick torture – if you can’t stand the heat, get your face out of the frying wok. Hacking Google to pieces won’t stop people sticking your name in Ask Jeeves and other search engines. If a billion people think you’re a dickhead, nothing can stem the tide of opprobrium. 

It’s a pity the actions of the Chinese government are overshadowing all the good things emerging from the Middle Kingdom. Consider, for example, the Chinese cheerleading team sent to entertain spectators at the Asian Games. A picture of them is displayed above, so you can gaze at your leisure. After admiring their cheerful little faces and twirly little hip tassels, pay due regard to their flowing locks of hair, gently caressing the tender flesh above and between their pert little jahoobies. While it’s true that their slender bodies are not ideal for making babies, bear in mind that China already has more than enough people. A nation of one-and-a-half billion can afford a few million ornamental females. 

The Chinese cheerleaders were a mixed blessing for some. The captain of Yemen’s volleyball team complained that his players had been put off their game by the presence of these fragrant lotus blossoms. 

“They had an effect on how we played,” said Adeeb Mahfoudh. “I think they had something to do with our losing the match.” 

Before you pour scorn on his assertion, remember that he and his team mates come from a place where women walk around in mobile tents. The sight of pretty oriental girls prancing about in bikinis might easily have caused them to jizz their pants. Effective coordination of motor skills is close to impossible when you’re gnashing your teeth like a badger with its tail in a trap. 

“These girls are very beautiful,” added Mr Mahfoudh. "If I can, I hope to watch them perform at the next match." 

What a fine example of sportsmanship! A lesser captain might have harboured a grudge against the cheerleaders for their part in his team’s defeat. I do hope he managed to introduce himself to the girls and offer them tips on how to avoid distracting players during a game. I feel sure they would have taken his advice to heart. For all their beauty, I doubt they are used to the kind of outright admiration Mr Mahfoudh professes. Most men in China favour the Fu Manchu style of courtship, in which smug boasting and impatient cajoling are combined with mysterious herbal potions. 

The other thing in Mr Mahfoudh’s favour is that Chinese women find big noses sexually attractive. Why they do so is a mystery. I suspect they are subconsciously reminded of dragons, which are viewed as prodigiously sexy beasts in China. If a man has an appendage that women like, he may as well use it to his advantage. 

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Ancient wisdom

Does age make humans wiser? I’ve been pondering this question after reading about Sheila Vogel, an 82-year-old prostitute who shot to fame after being outed as the grandmother of a talent-show contestant. Her silly granddaughter claimed to be “absolutely devastated”, even though it could hardly have been news to her. She ought to have said that she was proud to have a grandmother whom men would pay for sex. There are times in life when the only honourable option is brazen defiance. 

When I told the manager of the safari camp about Ms Vogel’s exploits, he nodded in solemn appreciation. 

“She must have her tits screwed on,” he remarked. 

For once, I had to agree with him. A sex worker of 82 who can charge her clients £250 an hour must be a shrewd old bird. Then I read something which caused me to have second thoughts. It seems that Ms Vogel has publicly stated that she’d be happy to party with Wagner, the moustachioed Brazilian singer who looks like Zorro’s ugly uncle. I make no judgements about her preferences. I’ve seen enough of life to know that one woman’s slimy slug is another woman’s gossamer-winged butterfly. What isn’t very clever is admitting to fancying the multiple-chinned minstrel before agreeing a fee with him. Her bargaining position has been irreparably damaged, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Wagner turned up on her doorstep expecting to be serviced gratis. 

Ms Vogel’s behaviour reminds me of a fable told by Old Melonhead, the semi-mythical ape later copied by Aesop. It’s about a female spider who is visited by two male suitors. The first one approaches her timidly and gently taps one of her hairy legs. 

“If you mate with me I’ll let you eat me afterwards,” he says. 

“You loser!” cries the female. “Do you think I have to let you into my pants if I want to eat you?!” 

She then pounces on the hapless male and sucks out his innards until nothing remains but an empty husk. After kicking it contemptuously into the undergrowth, she sees the second suitor swagger up to her with a cocky expression on his face. 

“I’ll only mate with you if you make me a web, lie down in the middle of it, and let me tie down your legs,” he says. 

“Hmm,” thinks the female. “He’s an arrogant little prick, but I can’t deny he’s got balls. I wonder what kinky stuff he’s got in mind?” 

So she agrees to his terms and sets about making a web, while the male rests leisurely on a twig. When the web is finished, she lies down on her back in the middle of it, allowing the male to bind her legs. He then proceeds to probe her sexual opening with his palps, causing her to moan ecstatically until she shudders to a devastating climax. 

“That was so wonderful I could feel the web shake!” gasps the female. “What are you going to do now?” 

“Eat you,” replies the male. “And I’m not talking about oral sex.” 

The moral of the story is not to undervalue yourself if you want to be the diner rather than the dinner. I think Ms Vogel should charge Wagner £500 an hour. 

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Air pressure

Our guests are complaining about the aggravations of air travel, with its tedious security screening and delays. News of an indignity suffered by a woman in Orlando Airport has added fuel to their grumbling. This hapless female was “randomly” selected for a pat-down search, it being pure coincidence that her bosom resembled a dead-heat in a Zeppelin race (see picture). She claims that the two male security guards who engaged in this impropriety had previously been ogling her chest. I find her story entirely credible and hope that the guilty men are tarred and feathered by a feminist lynch mob. 

Big breasts are only a cause for suspicion when the passenger is a male transvestite who might be carrying contraband in his empty bra cups. Even in such cases, it should be possible to detect the subterfuge without squeezing the dubious extrusions. To cop a feel of a woman’s jahoobies on the pretext of a security check is the act of a villain. My friend Smacker Ramrod, the circus vet, said that he never even thought of touching a woman’s breasts until he had (a) bought her dinner, (b) told her she was beautiful, and (c) shown her the scar he got from being bitten by a horse he was examining. I should imagine that Smacker would have refused to give that woman a pat-down search if she had implored him to do so with moist eyes. 

Now I don’t need to tell you that the upsurge in airport security has been prompted by the threat of suicide terrorism. Only last Christmas, a young hooligan from Nigeria attempted to bring down a jet by creating an explosion in his underpants. A consequence of this climate of fear is that airlines have become extremely wary of passengers doing anything out of the ordinary. On a recent internal flight in Russia, a 23-year-old man emerged naked from a toilet and skipped gaily down the aisle. Who knows why he did it. As a former circus ape, I have observed that humans sometimes indulge strange whims on the spur of the moment. Psychologists will no doubt find an explanation linked to abnormal activity in the frontal lobes of the brain. 

Whatever the reason for his peculiar stunt, common sense should have told the cabin crew that he posed no threat. A naked man has limited options for concealing a deadly weapon on his person. No stick of dynamite was protruding from his rectum. Yet the flight attendants pounced on him while passengers cowered in fear, prompting the pilots to make an emergency landing in Vladivostok. 

I am actually surprised that no entrepreneur has set up a nudist airline, whose passengers could be whisked swiftly through security without the usual hoo-hah. It would definitely be the safest form of air travel – I can’t imagine any member of Al Qaeda boarding a flight on which a woman might laugh at his knob or throw a tampon in his face. I must mention this idea to Sir Richard Branson, who in spite of his beard is no fan of bin Laden. He is allegedly rather partial to naked ladies, though.

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A Baleful performance

I‘ve recently discovered that the actor Christian Bale is Welsh. He hides it very well, I must say. Gone are the days when Richard Burton would majestically utter the lines of a Roman nobleman in a rich Port Talbot drawl. Even the great Anthony Hopkins puts on an American accent for most of his screen roles. How much more seductive Hannibal Lecter would have been as a Welshman, beguiling the prissy Agent Starling with his sing-songy vowels and lubricious charm. You wouldn’t have blinked an eye if she’d let him nibble her tender parts. 

Mr Bale’s suppression of his Welshness has not brought him peace of mind. In a recent interview with Esquire magazine, he complained that being a film star was a humiliating job that made him feel like a sissy. 

“I learned there’s a certain character that can be built from embarrassing yourself endlessly,” he explained. 

In a way, that’s quite fitting. A shrewd observer once said that the Welsh were a nation that had nothing to be ashamed of and plenty to be embarrassed about. Yet, anyone who makes millions of dollars from showing off in front of a camera ought to be immune from such concerns. It is true that Bale has a tendency to fly off the handle and make an ass of himself, but people expect that of film stars. The hurdle of absurdity has been set pretty high ever since Mel Gibson starting channelling Mad Max. 

Real embarrassment is what humans suffer when they are caught doing something totally at variance with their public image. Here are two recent examples: 

• Australian rugby player Joel Monaghan is photographed simulating oral sex with a dog. 

• English nurse Jayne Reed confesses to a three-in-a-bed romp with a 46-year-old man and an 18-year-old girl. 

The rugby player is wisely seeking political asylum in Europe. An Australian sportsman who lets a dog sniff his groin is shown no mercy when he appears before thousands of beer-guzzling larrikins. They will bark at him until he feels like a bitch in heat. Making a dignified exit is better than being hounded out of your country. 

The case of the nurse is more complex. The man and the girl were patients, so what she did was arguably a form of post-operative therapy. Even if her intention was purely recreational, one can see a method in her madness. If you’re into heavy petting, four arms are better than two, and two heads are better than one. Not being sure who was doing what might have added to the thrill. 

However, one aspect of the nurse’s conduct will bring her unending lifelong shame. She referred to her bed-mates as “Daddy Bear” and “Baby Bear”, while styling herself as “Mummy Bear”. On hearing this revelation, the panel adjudicating her case groaned loudly and rubbed biscuits into their faces. A woman who seeks to enact the Goldilocks fable in her sexual escapades is sappier than a gum tree – she must be forced to suck lollipops until her tongue turns orange.

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Gay strife

Gay activists are protesting about a German zoo’s decision to split up a pair of male vultures. The zoo says they were being harassed by other vultures who took exception to their unconventional lifestyle. On balance, I think the zoo acted correctly. There is no defence against queer-bashing vultures – once those rowdy birds gang up with malign intent, the victims may as well fly to New Zealand. The heartbreak suffered by the separated couple could be eased by giving them an extra helping of offal for breakfast. Anyone who’s studied vultures knows that food comes before romance in their list of priorities. 

Humans occasionally ask me whether gay gorillas exist. I tell them the percentages are similar to the human population. The main difference is that no male gorilla, to my knowledge, has ever willingly taken it up the butt. Gorillas in all-male pairings always play the active role in relationships with smaller apes. A gorilla of this disposition lives in our neighbourhood – his name is Passion Fruit and he’s involved with a male chimpanzee. The two are pretty much inseparable, so it was quite a surprise when Passion Fruit turned up unaccompanied to the Annual Simian Convention. 

“Hey, Passion Fruit, where’s your bitch?” cried a cheeky monkey from the tree tops. 

“How dare you call him a bitch?!” shouted Passion Fruit furiously. “You’d better stay where you are, because if I catch you on the ground I’m going to tie a knot in your tail!” 

I later told the monkey that “catamite” was a more polite word than “bitch”, but either word was less prudent than keeping his mouth shut. The monkey who casts aspersions on a gorilla’s private life does so at his own peril. 

Baboons are the most homophobic of all the hairy primates – it’s because of the complex they have about their behinds. Heterosexual male baboons are tormented by the fear that people will think their exposed rump is a sign of gayness. That’s why they are so hard on baboons who are genuinely gay, driving them mercilessly into exile. I took pity on one such refugee as he sat forlornly on a tree stump: 

“You may stay with my females and groom them until you find a permanent home,” I said. 

The baboon accepted my offer with pathetic gratitude. My females were pleased as well – a gay hairdresser is a major status symbol in the jungle. 

The biggest gay-bashers in Africa are neither vultures nor baboons, however. That dubious honour belongs to various outspoken clergymen who accuse homosexuals of improbable practices such as eating each other’s poo poo. I remember the embarrassment caused by Bishop Badongo of Burkina Faso when he stayed at the safari guesthouse: 

“Who is that poofter?” he asked in a loud voice, pointing at a nattily dressed Austrian man. 

“Please sheath your finger and moderate your tone of voice!” I demanded in a firm whisper. 

I later told the bishop that we would be forced to ask him to leave if he assailed us with another of his boorish ejaculations.

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The art of flirting

A professor from the University of Kansas has published a paper about flirting. He identifies five main methods, ranging from “traditional” (man makes first move and behaves with impeccable manners) to “physical” (woman brushes buttocks against man’s thigh, causing him to gnash teeth and grab her jahoobies). 

The learned professor appears not to be aware of the latest on-line techniques. According to my friend Ms Tiny Temper, who is vainly searching for her Prince Charming on dating sites, a good many men have sent her photos of their todger. Fed up with being a magnet for flashers, she has taken measures to dissuade stray cocks from entering her hen house. I believe that most women share her distaste for men who expose themselves. It’s the sort of thing that might give a lady the vapours. 

Every rule has an exception, however. A woman in a position of power is generally perfectly at ease in the company of naked men, confident that no male organ would dare raise its head in the presence of an alpha female. Consider the example of Angela Merkel, chancellor of Germany, who had no qualms about entering the changing room of the German football team after another blitzkrieg performance. Most of the towelling players cheerfully accepted her congratulations, although a few bashful types placed their hands over their nipples. 

Frau Merkel’s political opponents have accused her of flirting for political gain. They claim she was soliciting the votes of Germany’s sportsmen by pretending to be the kind of woman who would jump into a communal bath with them and sing bawdy songs. The obvious question for her accusers is this: How do you know she was pretending? There is nothing wrong with a female politician joining the nation’s finest in their celebrations. I believe Mrs Thatcher did something very similar after the Iranian embassy siege. 

As a gorilla who is instinctively chivalrous to the human female, I have often wrongly been accused of flirting. I recall an incident from my circus days, when we hired a “glamour model” called Tracey to help us with our promotions. The female acrobats were given the job of looking after her, and seemed less than impressed with her airs and poses. Things came to a head when Tracey strutted before me in a pair of shiny hot-pants. 

“Does my bum look big in this, GB?” she asked coyly. 

“Not big enough for a gorilla,” I replied wistfully, “but it does look agreeably firm. A manual examination would allow me to give a more definitive opinion.” 

She giggled delightedly before blowing me a kiss and sauntering off. The acrobats had witnessed this exchange with stony faces. 

“You great big hairy flirt!” snorted one of them when Tracey was out of earshot. 

“Flirt?” I replied in a quizzical tone of voice. “That’s a strange epithet for one who honestly appraises a woman’s hindquarters.” 

My relations with the acrobats were strained for a while, but I eventually managed to sweeten them up with a dollop of jungle honey. 

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Sex tourism

A pharmaceutical company has published a report indicating that women are far more likely to indulge in reckless fornication when on holiday. I could have told them that for free. In this part of Africa, the unaccompanied female tourist is colloquially referred to as “a chicken in need of stuffing”. Not by me, of course – we gorillas shun coarse metaphors in our descriptions of the human female. The expression is common parlance among gigolos who frequent the beaches in search of clients. 

I recently observed one of these young bucks, flexing his limbs and girding his loins before approaching a mature-looking fowl with plenty of white meat on her. 

“Hello, lady, can you help me unpack my lunchbox?” he asked with a smirk. 

I didn’t catch her reply, but judging from the expression on her face it wasn’t entirely dismissive. 

We uphold a very strong safe-sex ethos at the safari camp. We simply can’t take the risk that a human will infect the wildlife, threatening the survival of a species already teetering on the brink. The rooms at the guesthouse are stocked with condoms, ointments, rubber gloves and stimulators. A party of nuns from Ireland, who stayed with us last year, were perplexed by this cornucopia of sex wares. Too embarrassed to mention it to the manager, they tapped me discreetly on the shoulder. 

“Could I trouble you remove those items, Mr Bananas?” asked Sister Bridget. “I’m sure we won’t be needing them.” 

“I would be most surprised if you did, Sister,” I replied. “Yet rules are rules and the ways of the Lord are mysterious, even for those who have taken the holy vows. Is it not written in the gospels that the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak?” 

So the sex goods stayed put, and after the nuns had vacated their rooms we noticed that a few of them were missing. The pious sisters must have appropriated them as more interesting souvenirs than soap or towels. Good thinking on their part. 

But let’s get back to the topic of women who visit Africa for carnal gratification. Why do they come over here to do something they could do at home? Consider the case of Ms Carol Bone, a 62-year-old English grandmother, who suffers from arthritis and back pain. After her 21-year marriage ended two years ago, she embarked on a frenetic bonking spree in which 200 gallants were ridden relentlessly to exhaustion. 

“My age means nothing,” declared Ms Bone. “I have a really high sex drive. Why shouldn’t I enjoy myself?” 

Why not indeed, although one has to wonder how her ex-husband managed to stay the course for 21 years. I’d like to hear his side of the story, assuming he’s not in an intensive care unit with his scrotum attached to a life support machine. 

In truth, I am insulted that women should visit Africa, with its stunning scenery and gorgeous wildlife, merely to behave like cows in search of a bull. The next time I see a European woman consorting with a gigolo, I’m going to give her a piece of my mind. 

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Sex education

The manager of the safari camp has been giving me dirty looks, and frankly I don’t blame him. A month ago, I gave his wife a book for her birthday called The Sexy Book of Sexy Sex. I like books with hard-hitting titles that don’t beat around the bush. Hopefully, they’ll follow it up with The Horny Book of Horny Horns and The Fruity Book of Fruity Fruits. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t thumb through them if you saw them in a bookshop. 

After his wife tore off the gift wrapping, the manager grinned slyly and gave me the thumbs-up sign. He obviously thought the book was an X-rated sex manual that would encourage his better half to experiment with cutting edge techniques. For the rest of the day, his face had the smirk of a man who expects edible ointments to be licked off his private parts. A grave disappointment awaited him, because that’s not what the book is about. 

It was co-written by a couple who believe that having good sex depends on verbal communication – before, after and during the lunging and writhing. Having found their argument persuasive, the manager’s wife now insists on briefing her husband before letting him off the leash, and giving him instructions while he’s chasing and retrieving the bone (so to speak). Worst of all, as far as the manager is concerned, is a section of the book which emphasizes the importance of laughter during love-making. In the words of co-author Rich Blomquist: 

“If you’re not laughing when you’re having sex, you’re probably not having sex.” 

The manager’s wife has taken this uncompromising doctrine to heart, afflicting her hapless husband with feelings of utter consternation. I know all of this because he has not shirked from updating me on his bedroom misfortunes. Indeed, he holds me personally responsible for them. 

“What the hell am I supposed to do?” he complained. “Tell her jokes while I’m sucking her tits?” 

“You could always try tickling her,” I suggested. 

“She hates that!” he snapped. “I stroked her foot once and she kicked me in the face. It’s all your fault for giving her that stupid book! I ought to sue you for sabotaging my marriage!” 

“Now, now,” I replied. “I can’t read every book from cover to cover before giving it as a present. I naturally assumed from the title that it would instruct your good lady in some of the manoeuvres you’ve been watching on the satellite porn channel.” 

“Well it hasn’t!” he barked. “She was perfectly happy before she read that crap. Now she thinks our sex life is lousy and I’m no good in bed. What am I supposed to do?” 

I had no good answer to this question, but felt I ought to offer some hope. 

“Women are fickle and prone to fads,” I said. “Eventually, she will tire of these avant-garde ideas and allow the book to gather dust on your bookshelf. She will then rediscover her appetite for the strong-but-silent style of copulation that is your forte.” 

“And what am I supposed to do in the meantime?” he asked. 

“Endeavour to persevere, manager.” I declared solemnly. “Endeavour to persevere.” 

If worst comes to worst, I’ll find him a good divorce lawyer. 

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The ringtone revolution

My afternoon nap is disturbed by the noise of ululating women. They are celebrating the news that Mrs Cherry-Blair and Hilldog are planning to give them cheap mobile phones. This noble act of philanthropy will transform the lives of millions of African women. Instead of walking to the bazaar to gossip about the president’s latest mistress, they will soon be able to do so while feeding the hens or stroking the rooster. (But not while milking the goat, which requires two hands.) 

It may surprise you to learn that I do not, myself, own one of these devices. I do have a mobile number, but anyone who dials it is directed to the phone of a chimpanzee. This chimp screens my calls to save me the bother of telling salesmen and other hucksters to piss off. If I get a legitimate caller, the chimp arranges a time for a return call and lends me his phone for this purpose. 

Before you accuse me of exploiting the chimp, please be informed that he receives a generous stipend for his pains. He is ungrateful in spite of it, continually whining about the inconvenience of being my receptionist and so forth. His latest complaint is that women have been sending revealing photos of themselves to my number. 

“I didn’t realise I had to be your pimp as well as your secretary!” he bleated. “I want extra money for dealing with those messages. All that naked flesh is ruining my appetite. It looks unnaturally bare, even for humans!” 

He was obviously exaggerating his distaste to better his bargaining position. The chimpanzee who can hustle Gorilla Bananas has not been born. 

“You accursed fool!” I barked. “Do you think I have any idea who those women are? Some practical joker must have given my number to a swingers’ chat room. You have my permission to delete such messages immediately. And I’m not paying you extra because you can’t stop yourself from ogling!” 

“All right,” he agreed meekly. “But don’t you want to look at the pictures yourself? They are still on my phone and there might be someone you know there.” 

He had a point. This business of “sexting” has become such a craze that there’s no telling who might be dabbling in it. The practice is highly disreputable, of course, and videos have been made warning against it. But for some women, this might simply increase the thrill. 

“Very well,” I said. “Bring me your phone and I will scrutinise the photos before deleting them myself. Most of the women will certainly be strangers to me, but I cannot rule out the possibility that someone I know has suffered a lapse in standards. If so, I will punish her accordingly and instruct her to desist.” 

I am currently waiting for the chimp to give me his phone. I sincerely hope that no woman in my acquaintance has sent me an indecent photo of herself. Because if she has, Doctor Spank will be paying a visit to Bottomland.

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Lessons from a lady

Although I generally eschew favouritism in my relations with humans, I will admit to having a soft spot for the schoolmistress. My love affair with the breed began at the start of my circus career, when the proprietor, Mr McDougall, summoned me to finalise the details of my contract. 

“You’re a great talent, Bananas,” he said, “but you’ll need to improve your diction so you can mingle at ease with the VIPs who’ll want to meet you. I’ve hired a teacher to give you elocution lessons. She’ll have you speaking the Queen’s English in no time.” 

He wasn’t wrong. As well as showing me how to enunciate my vowels, Miss Emily Honeysuckle instructed me in all the social graces. I don’t just mean kissing ladies’ hands and eating soup without slurping. She also taught me gorilla-specific skills, such as combing my chest hairs and giving women piggy-back rides without making them flustered or over-excited. 

Miss Honeysuckle tutored me for the best part of a year, and would have doubtless continued for the best part of a decade had I not gently prodded her to conclude our business. 

“My dear Emily!” I said (for we had grown rather close). “You have taught me everything I need to know with patience and tenderness and sweet sugar dumplings. Your work here is now complete, and armed with my glowing reference you will surely find a position at a prestigious school. Perhaps you will meet a handsome young geography master, who will beguile you with tales of exotic landscapes bearing luscious fruit and extra firm vegetables.” 

“Oh GB!” she cried, shedding bitter tears. “I knew this day would come, yet now that it has arrived, my heart aches like an abandoned puppy!” 

“There, there, Emily!” I said, pulling her gently to my bosom with a long hairy arm. “You must be brave and fulfill your destiny as a pedagogue and a woman.” 

The reason for sharing this rather touching anecdote with you (apart from enhancing your capacity for empathy) is to explain my concern for a schoolmistress in England, who has been unjustly suspended from her job. Miss Kirsty Cook-Bell was dealt this harsh blow after publishing a few holiday snaps of herself on Facebook. The photos show her baring a little flesh (as ladies are wont to do in sunny climes), and the school is worried about the effect this will have on her pupils. 

I can’t see what the problem is. Boys in her classroom will now pay her more attention, which is precisely what they should be doing. Perhaps the school is worried that some of these boys, in the privacy of their bedrooms, will use the photos as an aid to self-abuse. To address this particular concern, I will pass on some intelligence from my friend Smacker Ramrod, the circus vet. He once told me that the onanism he practiced as a boy fell into two distinct categories: 

• the Who’s Your Daddy? wank, aided by pictures of unknown women in girlie magazines; 

• the Darling I Love You wank, inspired by fantasies of women he was acquainted with, such as school teachers and mothers of school friends. 

He confided to me that the second variety was (a) superior in the physical elation it produced and (b) more conducive to emotional well-being in the aftermath. 

If Smacker’s experience is typical of schoolboys, Miss Cook-Bell should be reinstated forthwith, with a generous raise in her salary.

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Religious tolerance

I’m not the sort of ape who takes sides in human squabbles, but it warms my hairy cockles when an oppressed religious minority wins its legitimate rights. I’m talking about the druids, who have finally been recognised by the British state as followers of an authentic faith, rather than a bunch of herb-sniffing weirdos who have read too many Asterix comics. 

To achieve this auspicious end, the druids have had to compromise on some of their traditional practices. Human sacrifice will now be restricted to the Festival of the Giant Hooting Barn Owl, which occurs every 721 years. And caterwauling in the small hours to ward off the Demon Duckface will only be allowed in underground caves or nuclear bunkers. In exchange for these pragmatic concessions, druidic trust funds have been given tax-exempt status, which means there’ll plenty of savoury fish-balls and dandelion wine to go round at this year’s winter solstice celebrations. 

The lesson we can draw from their successful campaign is that good things come to those who wait. The druids were wizards-most-exalted of the British Isles before the Roman invasion of 43 AD, which they resisted fanatically by wailing and letting off stick bombs. According to the historian Tacitus, their frightful antics… 

…struck the Romans with awe and terror. They stood in stupid amazement, as if their limbs were benumbed… 

But the men of the Roman army soon pulled out their weapons and got stuck in, burning down the sacred druidic groves and forcing the survivors to hide amongst the Welsh. It was a bitter pill to swallow for a proud indigenous priesthood. 

Pope Benny must be looking with envy at these neo-pagan cults, gaining influence and winning converts while his own church is mired in scandal. He has only himself to blame. When he visited Africa last year, he foolishly condemned our native tribal religions, denouncing the witch-doctor as a devil in ostrich feathers. This inevitably brought a thousand voodoo curses down upon his holy head, causing skeletons to emerge from cupboards and poke him in the vitals. 

Instead of bad-mouthing other faiths, a wise high pontiff would raid them for good ideas. If you ask rank-and-file Catholics what they most admire about paganism, they’ll inevitably mention female deities. The Virgin Mary isn’t quite up to the job, as she’s revered for being someone’s mother rather than a goddess in her own right. There is also the problem of her virginity, which prevents her from answering the prayers of the sexually frustrated. 

If I were the Pope, I would make Lucy Lawless the goddess of Christianity.  Xena the Warrior Princess was a class act - proud of bosom and earnest of thigh, she rode into battle like a true Christian knight. Yet she was also a coquette, who let beefcake suitors woo her like a wood nymph. If she became the Queen of Heaven, the Catholic Church would once more be a fitting home for fearless swordsmen and swooning damsels, whose sins in the heat of passion would be forgiven. This might not be to everyone’s taste, but it beats getting buggered by men in frocks.

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The Facebook fixation

A tourist recently advised me to set up a Facebook account. 

“You don’t exist if you’re not on Facebook,” she opined. “I added another 20 friends last month, which took me over 1000.” 

“We gorillas are not so promiscuous in the making of friends,” I replied. “If you pat too many dogs on the head, you’re liable to catch fleas.” 

I didn’t tell her that I do, in fact, have a Facebook account, which I never update and discourage people from visiting. I use it purely to engage in psychological warfare against those who lampoon the great apes. The lampooners adopt cunning disguises to avoid exposure, but that doesn’t stop me from responding to their cowardly barbs with chest-thumping vigour. They need to know that the eyes of the Hairy One are upon them. 

Some notable humans have spoken out against Facebook. One of them is Miss Drew Barrymore, the chubby-cheeked child star who blossomed into a chubby-cheeked adult one. She complained that Facebook was spoiling her love life by giving her too much information about her suitors before meeting them on first dates. 

“If a guy plays the ukulele or has an extra penis, I want to find out about it in the normal way instead of reading it on his Facebook profile,” she declared. 

She makes a good point. There are far too many posturing dandies who advertise their assets on Facebook, enticing desperate females to stalk them obsessively. When will women realise that men who disclose their personal affairs in such a forum will never offer reliable service? Far better that they should take their chances with the honest fellow who repairs their TV set and allows them to play with his tool box. 

Facebook did not exist when I was in the circus, so my fans had to write me letters in the old-fashioned way. One such missive was from a young lady called Sophie Dahl, who said she was an aspiring model and invited me to lunch. This put me in an awkward position. I didn’t want to disappoint a female admirer, but was reluctant to dine with a human stick-insect who would peck at her food and put me off my own victuals. I decided to accept her invitation, reasoning that I could always fill my belly afterwards at Luigi and Dino’s Pasta House. 

When I arrived at her residence, the door was opened by a buxom blonde of generous proportions who greeted me like a long lost friend. I felt like a farmer who enters a hen house to find a goose honking at him affectionately. Sophie had prepared a fine meal, and when we sat down to eat she put it away like a hungry mare. I naturally ate a little more than her to show proper appreciation of her cooking. After lunch, we lay down together on her mohair rug, digesting our food and discussing the future of the Congo Basin ecosystem 

Would such an afternoon of pleasant surprises be possible in today’s Facebook bazaar? I think not.

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A strange affair

A 31-year-old woman in Ohio has pleaded guilty to “sexual imposition” after disguising herself as a man and seducing a 16-year-old girl. I am puzzled by several aspects of this case, and not necessarily because I’m a gorilla. I should imagine that Lieutenant Columbo himself would be scratching his head and asking searching questions if he were trying to get to the bottom of it. 

The first thing to wonder about is the charge. Not abduction or rape, but “sexual imposition”. What exactly does that mean? The manager of the safari camp thought it meant having sex with someone in an unusual position, but his intuitions in such matters are not to be trusted. If it refers to the cajoling and posturing that occurs prior to sexual activity, I don’t see why it’s a crime at all. Such behaviour is surely an integral part of courtship for humans, as it is for gorillas. My females and I are constantly at it – I impose myself on them, they impose themselves on me, and whoever seizes the high ground dictates the terms of surrender. Without this preliminary sparring, mating would be a namby-pamby affair lacking vigour or excitement. 

The facts of the case are even more perplexing. It seems that the teenage girl ran away from home to live with her “boyfriend” for an unspecified period of time. One has to wonder how the older woman managed to pull off the hoax. To sustain such a deception while the two were cohabiting as lovers would have required a disguise worthy of the Scarlet Pimpernel. Unable to make head or tail of it, I gave my friend Lady Chuffington a call: 

“It’s all quite plausible,” she said. “The torso of a flat-chested woman is not that different in appearance from a male one, and the girl was obviously brought up to believe that nice girls don’t look at men’s groins. She must come from a traditional American family of pilgrim stock. It’s quite sweet really.” 

“Indeed?” I replied. “And what about the consummation of their intimacy? Pilgrim stock or not, she must have noticed that something was missing from the experience.” 

“Really, Bananas!” exclaimed Her Ladyship. “She was a 16-year-old girl and a virgin I should hope. At that age, I wouldn’t have known the difference between a man’s appendage and a stick of celery! Not with the lights out, at any rate. I refuse to elaborate further – please use your imagination!” 

I paid my respects and terminated the call. 

Whatever happened with the lights out, the girl is now saying that she is afraid to walk her dog. I feel sorry for the dog, who must be wondering why its mistress is so horribly traumatised. If I were the girl’s counsellor, I would attempt to reassure her with the following words. 

“Falling in love with a woman who looks like a man is nothing to be ashamed of. Many notable people have done it, including Ann Heche, Virginia Woolf and King Edward VIII. Although hard to bear, such misfortunes can teach us valuable lessons. In time, you will put this troubling incident behind you.” 

If that doesn’t get her to walk the dog, I don’t know what will.

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Lunar weight loss

The moon is shrinking. That’s what the eggheads at NASA are saying, and who are we to doubt them? So if you’re planning to build a holiday home there, you’d better buy a plot of land before prices go through the roof. 

When important news like this breaks, one should pass it on. 

“The moon is getting smaller,” I said to the manager of the safari camp. 

“Yeah, but Uranus is getting bigger!” he retorted. 

I patted him on the head as he sniggered delightedly at his own wit. 

“Your mastery of scatological puns makes my sphincter dilate in awe,” I said. “But have you no interest in the fate of our heavenly neighbour, whose ethereal light bathes the African night in silvery splendour?” 

“No!” he replied stubbornly. “The lanterns in the garden give us all the light we need and they don’t churn up the sea with stupid fucking tides. The moon can kiss my behind!” 

I saw no point in pressing the matter with a man whose soul was so utterly devoid of poetry. I suspect he secretly fears the moon as the malevolent force behind werewolves and other apocryphal demons. Humans can be very superstitious. 

The next person I passed the news to was a middle-aged American woman of impressive girth, who had just arrived at the safari guesthouse. 

“No kidding?” she said. “I wish I could make my butt shrink as well.” 

I could not let this unworthy sentiment pass without comment. 

“Unlike a lump of rock, Madam, your posterior has important biological functions, such as bearing the not inconsiderable weight it is attached to. It has every right to expand to whatever size is required to perform the task.” 

“You don’t say?” she remarked. “That’s the first time I heard anyone speak in defence of my tush. What are you, the UN protector of asses’ rights?” 

“No, but I’d accept the job if they offered it to me,” I said. “I like to stick up for the unappreciated organ.” 

“Oh I appreciate it just fine, I just wish it wasn’t so big. Diets don’t seem to work so I’m thinking of getting it surgically reduced.” 

To say I was flabbergasted by this statement would belittle the extent of my consternation. 

“You cannot be serious, Madam!” I exclaimed with far more gravitas than John McEnroe. “Are you aware that deflating a beach ball merely produces a flabbier version of the same thing? Women who have undergone this perverse procedure must bitterly regret the shrivelled old pumpkin they got lumbered with. A fat, juicy peach is better than a prune.” 

“Hmm,” she mused. “I’m not convinced but thanks for your input. I’ll mention your concerns to my doctor.” 

I hope my cautionary words will be enough to dissuade her. Let me add that I make no judgments about women who undergo cosmetic surgery on their faces, boobs, or even their cha-chas. Sometimes a woman has to do what a woman has to do. But the rump should never be messed with. Some things are sacred to a gorilla.

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