Public speaking

The manager of the safari camp suggests I give the guests a lecture. “Tell them about the mating habits of gorillas and stuff like that,” he says.

We jungle dwellers prefer to disseminate our ideas informally,” I reply. “Pontificating in front of an audience is a pastime for pompous old farts.”

“Well you certainly know how to fart,” he remarks tartly.

“I’ll give them a lecture from my arse if you want,” I retort.

I explain that the best way to learn about our social customs is simply to socialise with us. I am used to fielding questions when I’m tending bar at the guesthouse, and I’ve not yet denounced anyone for being a nosey parker. If visitors want to see us in our natural habitat, they can join us in the jungle and find their inner ape. I love teaching humans how to scratch facial itches with their toes - the boosts it gives their self-esteem warms my primate heart.

I once had to go to a lecture in my circus days. The ringmaster said I should listen to some physiotherapy guy explaining how to look after my body. I damned his impudence for suggesting that a human could teach a gorilla anything about physical fitness. He then showed me my contract of employment, which contained some ridiculous clause about attending a certain number of training events per year. I denounced the ringmaster for his legalistic pedantry and resigned myself to attending that execrable event.

The lecture theatre was almost full when I got there, the only empty seats being at the front. I cursed my bad luck. Having a quiet snooze isn’t very easy if the star of the show is spraying you with his spittle. When our venerable teacher entered the hall, I was struck by his pale complexion and wiry physique. Not the kind of features that pass for healthy in the Congo, I thought. He then began to speak in a dull drone, showing more interest in his slides than his listeners. I began to imagine what Houdini must have felt when he was underwater in a straitjacket.

Presently, the monotony was broken by the beeping of an electronic wristwatch at the back of the hall. This jolted our learned speaker into the realisation that the interest he was inspiring was less than rapt.

“Can everyone hear me?” he asked.

“I can hear you,” I announced, “but I wouldn’t mind changing places with someone who can’t.”

The audience tittered, and our lecturer’s pale face got some much needed colour.

“Let’s have a ten minute break while I sort out the mike,” he stuttered.

I clapped my hands delightedly and raced for the exit.

Before any teachers get annoyed, let me acknowledge that many in their profession are enthralling speakers. I would enthusiastically attend any lecture given by Booby Miss Saby, who has taught classes of more than a hundred students. I would especially relish the moments when she turned round to write on the board, thereby giving us an eyeful of her stupendously sexy bottom. She is one human female who can sit on my lap whenever she wants.

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A visit from Kylie?

I got a phone call from Kylie Minogue’s agent asking whether she could do anything for the gorillas of the Congo Basin.

“She could sit on top of a tree with a catapult and fire plum stones at any noisy parrots in the vicinity,” I suggested.

“Erm… we were thinking more along the lines of a donation and a photo opportunity,” replied the agent.

“Sounds good to me,” I said. “We’d be delighted to see her and I insist that she brings her boyfriend along. It’s been a while since my females had a man to play with.”

“Hmm,” pondered the agent, mulling it over in his head. “I’ll put your request to Miss Minogue and get back to you.”

“You do that,” I said. “And tell Kylie to ring back herself so we know we’re not being hoaxed by a hoaxer.”

The boyfriend in question is a Spanish model called Andres Valencoso, a mere ten years younger than Kylie. She shouldn’t worry about lending him to my females, because he’s told Hello magazine that he’s in love – with Kylie, one would hope. Call me a sentimental ape, but I’ve always believed that a man who’s in love can be trusted not to fool around. Even if my females did manage to excite him, he’d probably close his eyes and think of Kylie, which wouldn’t be cheating in the true sense of the word.

Kylie herself must be continually fighting the temptation to stray. Her waifish figure seems to bring out the beast in a certain type of man, and it's undoubtedly swollen her male fan base. In all honesty, she’s not the shape of woman that we gorillas admire. There’s simply not enough meat on her, and her posterior lacks that all important quality of squeezability.

This has no bearing on our appreciation of her music, of course. My favourite song of hers is Can’t get you out of my head, or “La-la-la, la-la, la-la-la” as it’s known in the jungle. Did you know that those “la-la’s” spell out the letters O-I-W in Morse code? Kylie has admitted that it's an acronym for “Ollie Is Wonderful”, a reference to her beloved Great Dane.

A lot of men are surprised (and possibly envious) of how fond women can be of big hairy animals. Back in my circus days, the ringmaster resented the attention I got from the all-girl acrobat team.

“How come they’re always fussing over you and stroking your fur and calling you ‘darling’?” he asked. “Anyone would think you were their Sugar Daddy or something.”

I eyed him archly before replying as follows: “It’s called affection, Ringmaster. It’s how women respond when you treat them kindly and aren’t obsessed with getting in their pants. I hope you will experience it yourself one day.”

He grunted like an ox and stomped off.

Such reminiscences make me all the more eager to receive Kylie in the Congo. It doesn’t bother me at all that she’s jumping on the gorilla bandwagon, following in the footsteps of Sigourney Weaver, Daryl Hannah and other damsels of note. My bandwagon is sturdy enough to bear the weight of a dozen Kylies.

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Book review offer

The editor of a magazine has asked me to review a book. I got the following email from him yesterday:

Dear Bananas

Have you heard of an idiot called Seymore Butts? He used to act in pornographic films and now presents himself as an authority on sexual matters. He has written a book called 'Rock Her World' implying that most men have no idea how to please a woman in bed. It is frankly flabbergasting that a publishing house should promote the ideas of a man whose only claim to expertise lies in cavorting with harlots and nymphomaniacs. Would you be interested in writing a piece for a gentleman’s periodical demolishing this absurd drivel? You are the very ape I am looking for to put this drooling buffoon in his place.

Respectfully yours

J D Spoon, editor

Now I don’t know much about an editor’s job, but there is something very strange about being asked to write a negative review before one has even opened the book. Does Spoon believe that a gorilla is a factotum who will do anything a human asks of him for an appropriate fee? Piqued by his presumption, I replied as follows:

Dear Spoon

Thank you for your recent message. I had not heard of Seymore Butts until you mentioned him. May I ask why you think I have the knowledge or inclination to review his book in the manner you suggest? For all I know, most men may indeed be hopeless lovers. Even if Butts is wrong, he ought to be able to express his views without being subjected to a character assassination. Pending clarification of these issues, I provisionally respond to your request in the negative.

With regrets

G. Bananas

Spoon responded quickly to my email.

Dear Bananas

Let me expand on the sentiments expressed in my earlier message. I assume you are a silverback gorilla who regularly attends to the business of servicing his mates. Has anyone ever written a book claiming that your females were howling in frustration at your performance? Of course not! You simply follow your instincts, and no one calls you an ignorant, selfish dolt for doing so. So please spare a thought for your fellow male primates of the human species! My offer to review the book stands.

Kind Regards

J D Spoon

This email cast a more sympathetic light on Spoon and his peculiar animus. He is quite right that no one has written a book criticising the sexual prowess of the male gorilla. This is possibly because our females would rather give explicit instructions in the heat of the moment than indulge in futile carping afterwards. You tend to do what a lady gorilla says when she’s gnashing her teeth in feverish anticipation.

So being a fair-minded ape, I decided to read an existing review of the book to find out what all the fuss is about. Although the review was favourable, it is blindingly obvious that Butts is a fatuous ninny. According to the reviewer, the author’s philosophy is encapsulated in the following catchphrase:

“Guys, you gotta give to get – and that is the bottom line.”

How appropriate that the word “bottom” appears in it.

In all probability, the pages of this book are worthy of wiping a baboon’s anus. Yet I shall not entangle myself in human controversies by penning a hostile review. I will send Spoon a friendly message suggesting that he asks Dickie Dawkins to review it instead. As a man who favours instinctive behaviour, Dickie will relish giving Butts a thorough caning.

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Seduction tricks

Someone has asked me to contribute to a fund for a Korean man who tried to hypnotise a woman into bed. After failing in his attempt he was arrested and heavily fined. I won’t donate a penny. If hypnotists are allowed to get away with that kind of chicanery, no virtuous maiden will be safe unless she wears ear plugs. Instead of looking for macho sympathisers to reimburse him, he should thank the judge for being so lenient. I would have imposed the ancient Roman penalty involving fish paste and a ram’s horn.

Although human seduction techniques are irrelevant to a gorilla, I like to keep an eye on current developments. Apparently there is a society which helps men to perfect such wiles. A favoured method is for the seducer to invite the object of his lust to offer her opinion on a quirky topic he is supposedly debating with his buddies. Once enticed into communication, she is beguiled with pre-planned banter designed to make her feel she is being courted by Oscar Wilde’s heterosexual twin. If all goes to plan, she will consent to sexual relations before her charmer exhausts his bag of tricks.

Such tactics would never work with female gorillas. Too much clever talk is viewed as pretentious in the jungle. “Ignore the words, observe the deeds” is the motto they follow when sizing up eligible silverbacks. I remember the case of a wily chimpanzee who tried to chat up a pubescent female gorilla. He told her all kinds of tall stories about edible snakes and suckable coconuts. She listened to him with an amused look on her face and then immobilised him with a headlock. He must have spent hours lying on the ground with her vice-like ankles wrapped around his neck. He couldn’t move his head for a week after she released him.

Now I’m not saying that human females should adopt a similar approach. What works in the jungle might cause an unpleasant ruckus in a singles bar. But if a man sounds too clever, he ought to be reminded that his words are merely noises from a vibrating Adam’s Apple. The shrewd girl-about-town will listen to him with a twinkle in her eye and say “How you talk!” when he’s finished. If he looks annoyed, it means she’s seen through him.

It seems to me that the authentic ladies’ man learns his craft by hanging out with women and finding out what they really want from a lover. The fellow who only approaches a woman when he wants sex will never be a Casanova in my view. The same principle applies when the genders are reversed, of course. A lady gorilla who expects the alpha male to jump all over her when she’s in season might be gravely disappointed if the big guy feels he’s being used like a sperm bank.

“Where were you last week when I wanted a fruit smoothie and my back needed scratching?” I asked one of my horny females the other day.

She had no good answer to my question.

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Ride of the Valkyries

The manager of the safari camp attempts to humour me by claiming that a bullet-proof bra has been invented in Germany. I am not impressed by his apocryphal assertion.

"The Germans invented bosom armour centuries ago,” I remind him. “Brunhilde 'Iron-tits' Kugelbrecher charged into battle with a pair of metal cones sprouting from her bust. As well as protecting her jahoobies from missiles, she could impale a man’s head on her spiky bodkins.”

“That’s not the same thing,” retorts the manager. “A metal bra would cause bullets to ricochet everywhere and get hot after being sprayed with automatic fire. Brunhilde’s titties would have been well and truly cooked.”

“It’s just as well such weapons did not exist when she was alive,” I remark. “What materials is the contemporary boob-protector made of?”

“Ordinary fabrics with extra padding,” he answers.

I later discover that the garment cited by the manager offers no protection whatever against bullets. German policewomen have been advised to wear it underneath an ordinary bullet-proof vest. Once again, a gullible human has been fooled by a misleading news headline.

It follows that metallic bosom armour remains state-of-the-art, and not just for women who do battle in horny helmets. It is also the most effective countermeasure against the insidious groper who will exploit any opportunity to manipulate a woman’s melons. I’m thinking particularly of those degenerate dentists who cannot resist the temptation to paw their female patients, often when they are prone and defenceless on the chair. The number of fiends arrested for this offence continues to accumulate.

A chastity belt would be going too far though. Call me an unadventurous ape, but I’ve never been comfortable with the idea of a two-legged creature going about its business with an object pressed against its crotch. There are certain areas of the body that Nature intended to be well-ventilated, the gusset being the most obvious one. I pity the medieval maidens who had to wear those ungainly groin-padlocks, which through contact with bodily fluids may have poisoned many a cha-cha. The modern human female is will rid of such treacherous and unhygienic appliances.

I’ve never understood the need for knickers either. Why do women wear them? Do they hold something up that would otherwise fall down? Do they prevent things from rubbing against the naked flesh, causing discomfort or embarrassing pleasure? I suspect they are one of those fashion fads that arose in the days of Marie Antoinette, and got passed down through the generations from mother to daughter. If a famous woman like Angela Merkel or Hilldog were to publicly renounce her knickers, great swathes of the female population would surely go commando.

A lot of men would miss seeing panties hanging on clothes lines and having a quick sniff of them in the laundry basket, but they can’t expect women to dance to their tune in these days of gender equality. The gentlemen among them would obtain vicarious pleasure from imagining the sensation of cool air circulating around the female crevices.

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Colonel Kooky

An American woman at the safari guesthouse asks me whether Colonel Gaddafi dyes his hair.

“I am not familiar with the contents of his bathroom cabinet, ma’am,” I reply, “but my guess would be that he doesn’t. Mr Gaddafi sleeps in a tent, and humans who favour the camping lifestyle tend to view hair-dying as a decadent affectation.”

“Yeah, it looks like his natural colour,” she agrees. “I always thought he was cute in a kooky kind of way. Back in college I used to have dreams about him.”

“Really? I hope his conduct was gentlemanly.”

“I guess so. I’m like dying of thirst in the desert and Gaddafi drives up in his jeep. He gets out and stares at me while I’m gasping on the ground. Then he puts a bottle of Evian to my lips and says “drink, baby, drink” in this soothing Arab voice. I gulp it down in one go.”

“How very thoughtful of him. Did he do anything else?”

“No, after drinking the water I always wake up and go to the bathroom.

“A wise precaution in the circumstances,” I remark.

She wouldn’t be the first woman to have fallen for Gaddafi’s diabolical charm. His all-female bodyguard detail reputedly adore him. Many have wondered whether those fierce little houris ever visit his tent for a puff on the presidential hookah. My own view is that Gaddafi’s preference for female bodyguards is entirely pragmatic. He doesn’t want some burly fellow throwing him to the ground and shielding his body from would-be assassins. If anyone took a suggestive photo of such an incident, it would be curtains for his political career. The one thing a dictator can never do is get a reputation for taking it up the butt. All the Roman emperors who were exposed as sodomites came to a sticky end soon afterwards.

The turning point in the Libya’s foreign policy came in 1991, when a cabal of old-school Bolsheviks put Gorbachev under house arrest. Unable to contain his glee, Gaddafi sent a congratulatory telegram to the new Soviet junta, lavishing praise on the size of their testicles. He was the only national leader to do so, for a couple of days later the coup plotters were behind bars. This left Gaddafi looking like the biggest chump since Elmer Fudd said “I hate that wabbit!”. Chastened by the experience, he vowed never again to suck up to the fickle Russians, and sucked up to the fickless West instead. To President Clinton, in fact, who was known to appreciate a bit of sucking up.

Almost two decades later, who can deny that Gaddafi has matured with age? Having renounced his military uniform, which made him look like a tin pot dictator, he now wears the more statesmanlike Ali Bongo costume (available at Hamleys Toyshop for 49 pounds sterling). Should I invite him to the jungle for a complimentary safari holiday? I think not. Gaddafi is a nervous, fidgety character who wouldn’t be comfortable near wild animals. The baboons would smell his fear and initiate stalking manoeuvres. It might end in an ugly incident.

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