Lady Gaga - the inside story

A tourist at the safari guesthouse asks me to speculate on whether a bugging device would fit inside Lady Gaga’s vagina. Although not familiar with the diva’s internal dimensions, I assure him that current eavesdropping technology would be up to the task. The latest miniaturised gadgets could comfortably nestle inside the tightest of birth canals. I nevertheless feel bound to ask what noble purpose would be served by placing the said gadget in Lady Gaga’s reproductive tract.

“I’ve heard a rumour that one of her lovers likes to talk to her twat before giving her oral sex,” explains the guest. “I’d love to know what he says to it.”

“Why on earth would anyone do that?” I ask. “It’s not as if you could get a decent conversation going.”

“Dunno,” replies the guest. “It might be like a gardener talking to his plants before watering them. It’s supposed to make them more receptive to the moisture.”

“In that so?” I remark. “In that case, one would suppose he woos the coochie with honeyed words. A haughty or boastful tone is unlikely to put it in a good mood. All of which will remain within the realm of conjecture, as there is no feasible method of implanting the listening device without Lady Gaga noticing.”

“How about embedding it inside a tampon?” asks the visitor.

“A clever idea, but I doubt any creature whose reflection is visible in a mirror would be interested in feasting on Lady Gaga’s vulva when its condition necessitated the use of a tampon.”

“Maybe her gynaecologist could be bribed,” he persists.

“I don’t know who the man is, but ones presumes he is eminent is his field. It would have to be an enormous bribe to induce him to risk his reputation by sneaking a gizmo into the holy of holies. I fear you will make no progress on this project until a method of debriefing pubic lice is discovered. My advice would be to wait until her lover spills the beans. They always do in the end.”

I am inspired by this conversation to do some research on Lady Gaga’s social activities. It seems that she mates promiscuously with humans of either gender. In an interview with Rolling Stone magazine, she spoke about her boyfriends’ attitude to her bisexuality:

"The fact that I’m into women, they’re all intimidated by it. It makes them uncomfortable. They’re like, “I don’t need to have a threesome. I’m happy with just you.”

I find this very puzzling. Surely most men would consider it a privilege and an education to participate in such lavish adventures. My friend Smacker Ramrod, the circus vet, said that when such opportunities arose he always brought a pen and paper to take notes. “There is nothing a woman can do to a woman that a man can’t do to a woman,” he wisely remarked.

So, in spite of her prodigious fame and fortune, it appears that Lady Gaga’s experience of men is rather limited. All her male lovers seem to be insecure wimps who resent her Sapphic activities and talk when they should be acting. I hope she soon meets a real man like the great Tom Jones: he would show her how men pleasured women in the days before oral sex was invented.

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The French woman's lieutenant

Rumours that the first lady of France is having an affair prompts one of our guests to call her “The French Open”. That’s an exaggeration in my view, as only the best players get to whack their balls on Ms Bruni’s hallowed turf. Her current amour is one of France’s leading musicians, which makes him a major celebrity for fans of maudlin songs packed with very long vowels. Calling her “The French Masters” might be more accurate, although I doubt even the greatest of the great would have mastered the hazards and heavy rough on her challenging course.

President Sarkozy, meanwhile, has found solace in the arms of his ecology minister, who happens to be a black belt in karate. That’s good news for Sarko, but a major headache for his bodyguard team. Suppose she feels spurned when the affair runs its course? Just one chop on the neck would leave France without a head of state. If I were in charge of the president’s security, I would insist on one of my men being in attendance during the whoopee-faire. If things got too hot on the king size bed, he could save the day by jumping in between them.

The spectre of marital infidelity haunts humans of all genders, races and persuasions. In a quest for a faithful spouse, a Japanese man has married a cushion. She was no ordinary beanbag, it must be said, having been moulded into the shape of a sexy cartoon character. I suppose other men might be tempted to sit on her if they found her alone, but at least she would never do anything to provoke their cruel lust. Her heart would always belong to the doting husband who washed her casing and re-stuffed her when the need arose.

It must be a great comfort to have a spouse you can sit on whenever you want. When I asked the manager of the safari camp whether he sat on his wife, a wistful expression appeared on his face.

“I used to sit on her all the time when we were newlyweds,” he said. “Now she only lets me do it as a special treat, when I’ve bought her something expensive. And after ten minutes she says I’m making her numb and shoves me off.”

“Is she as soft as a cushion?” I asked.

“Oh yes,” he replied. “Women are very soft if you sit on them in the right place.”

Call me an innocent ape, but I never realised that human females made such comfortable bottom rests. I’ve never inflicted my own weight on them, of course – I’m not the sort of ape who enjoys making women suffer and groan. Female gorillas, by contrast, would rather sit than be sat on. There’s not much you can do when a group of them gang up on you, so I usually pretend to enjoy it. Be that as it may, there must be a lightweight midget who could safely test women for comfort in a variety of different positions. In a world where ladies can be harshly judged for not having the perfect figure, it would surely be a great consolation to be rated as a first class pouf.

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Shabby Road

The equinox arrives, which means it’s time to write to Paul McCartney. Every year, I invite him to give a concert in the Congo; thus far he has always declined, citing prior engagements. What can I do to tempt the great tunesmith to the jungle this year? Free lessons on the Congolese nose-flute? A year’s supply of Jamba weed reefers? A brightly-plumed parrot that will sit on his shoulder and squawk the lyrics of Hey Jude? Maybe it’s impossible to tempt him with bribes because he’s worried about the reception he’ll get from the chimpanzees. Rumour has it that he used to snub Bubbles during his visits to Neverland. These things can weigh on the conscience of an artist.

Macca, let it be said, is a tremendous friend of the gorilla nation. During his last world tour, he insisted that only vegetarian meals were served to the workmen who put up the fixtures. When it was suggested to him that men who did heavy lifting needed to eat steaks, Paul pointed out that gorillas were plenty brawny on a meat-free diet. How right he was! It’s as easy as walnuts in a condom to acquire a muscular physique on fruit and vegetables. You just have to combine the wholesome fare with a rigorous exercise regime involving tree-climbing, chest-thumping and the spanking of recalcitrant baboons.

He might have also mentioned that eating meat gives you halitosis. Lions may look pretty feisty in wildlife documentaries, but most of their time is spent sprawled on the ground, panting out foul gases that would poison a dung beetle. Fresh vegetables, by contrast, only give you flatulence. In the words of Old Melonhead The Wise, “Tis better to fart like thunder than to have bad breath.”

Paul has recently been in the news for trying to save the famous studio near the famous zebra crossing which he famously walked across barefoot. Miserly EMI Records want to sell the property to a consortium planning to convert it into a plastic surgery clinic. “All you need is a nose job,” as John said to Ringo. I suppose Paul is reluctant to buy it himself after paying his ex-wife £24 million for three years of viper-tongued bliss. But maybe the real problem is excessive nostalgia. The Beatles are gone, and posing for a picture on a zebra crossing in London does nothing to honour their memory. For what great band ever wished to be remembered for disrupting the flow of traffic and increasing the blood pressure of motorists?

Forget about the zebra crossing. If Paul comes to Africa, we’ll give him a real live zebra instead. Ordinarily they’re truculent beasts, but if one of the Beatles is in the vicinity they lie on their backs and giggle like star-struck schoolgirls. Paul’s barefoot march across Abbey Road will seem like a trivial detail of history after he’s ridden bare-arsed on a galloping zebra, tanning his ageing butt-cheeks in the African sun. A picture of Macca mooning the baboons would make a far more exciting album cover than that over-hyped tiptoe on the tarmac.

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The Exorcist

I got an emotional phonecall from my old friend Luca Bacchetta, the only trapeze artist to have become a cardinal in the Roman Catholic Church. As the Vatican’s official physical trainer, he has pioneered bending and stretching exercises which conform to the principles of human dignity set out in the Catechism. The Pope himself is a frequent bender, but a less enthusiastic stretcher.

“Our situation is unbearable, GB!” he bleated. “The Chief Exorcist has taken up residence after announcing that the Devil is in the Vatican. He is currently snooping around the place, spying on all the cardinals for signs of demonic possession. You can’t have a shit without fearing that Father Gabriele Amorth will poke his head over the cubicle and ask you why you’re taking the Lord’s name in vain. He says that constipation is a sign of satanic effluvium in the bowels.”

“Can’t you get the Pope to do something about him?” I asked.

“Are you joking? The Pope is more terrified of him than anyone else. ‘Father Amorth must not be impeded in his holy mission,’ says the High Pontiff. The real reason, of course, is that he’s shit scared of being condemned himself. That madman wouldn’t think twice about denouncing the Pope as a Satanist, so the Holy Father is behaving like his punk.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” I asked, purely as a courtesy.

“I’m so glad you asked, GB!” replied Luca excitedly. “You’re the only person I know who could put that bastard is his place. If you came here, the heat would be well and truly off us. Amorth will call you a demon and order you to flee to the bowels of Hell, but his powers will be impotent because you’re a gorilla. When he realises he can’t harm you he’ll be like a castrated bull without horns. He’d be at your mercy, GB, you could squash him like a dog turd!”

“I hope I’d find some other way of reasoning with him,” I said. “Squashing humans is always a last resort for us gorillas. Let me consider your request and get back to you. A few more days of being witch-hunted won’t kill you. Do you remember when Mariana the Magnificent dug her fingernails into your arse on the trapeze? Just grin and bear it as you did then. Be a man, Luca!”

I’m not the kind of ape who accepts an assignment without doing his homework, so I googled the exorcist’s name and found this article. It seems that Luca’s allegations about him are well-founded, although one has to give Amorth credit for being so full of pep at the age of 85. I suspect the old viper has kept himself sprightly by drinking milk from his own personal wet nurse – directly from the teat, I’d wager. I’m tempted to visit Rome simply to meet the man and ask for his views on having gorillas in the clergy. Who knows, we might hit it off and stage a coup d'état against Pope Benny, who is clearly a snivelling poltroon with no ability to inspire the faithful.

If I became Pope Bananas, I would revitalise the Catholic Church in a hundred different ways. The first thing I’d do is legalise masturbation, so a billion guilty Catholics could spank the monkey in peace without saying a thousand Hail Mary’s afterwards. Progressive reforms like this would win me the verdict of history.

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The eye of the tummy

Another evening tending bar at the safari guesthouse, and I hear some men discussing their favourite scenes in a James Bond movie. One mentions the ominous advance of a deadly laser beam towards Sean Connery’s flinching testicles. Another recalls the chest-crunching squeeze inflicted on Pearce Brosnan by the vice-like thighs of Miss Xenia Onatopp. Before I can reflect on the peculiarly masochistic character of these choices, I am asked for my own treasured highlight of the Bond canon. I answer without hesitation:

“It is the moment in The Spy Who Loved Me when Roger Moore sucks a ruby from the navel of an Egyptian belly dancer.”

“I remember that!” exclaims one of the guests. “He was lucky he didn’t swallow it!”

“007 never swallows,” I reply solemnly. “His suction power is always finely tuned to the requirements of the mission.”

“Ho-ho-ho,” they chuckle, giving me a knowing look.

I wonder what it’s like for a woman to have a jewel sucked from her navel. Probably quite shocking the first time, but then more enjoyable as she acquires a taste for it. The technique of the sucker is obviously very important. I should imagine the crucial point is to extract the stone quickly in one powerful suck, rather than gobbling at it half-heartedly like an ailing goldfish. You could practice by sucking an egg out of a chicken.

I’ve had a soft spot for belly dancers ever since Princess Banu, the Turkish maestro, visited the circus I worked in. After watching us rehearse, she returned the favour by giving us a free demonstration of her art, performed to the tune of a popular Levantine love ballad. I was utterly enthralled by the spectacle, my eyes following her belly button as it tossed and rolled amid the smooth undulating flesh of her abdomen.

After hooting exuberantly when she took her bow, I raced to give her my compliments in person.

“Marvellous, Princess!” I effused. “Your fabulous exhibition of tummy twisting has elevated me to a state of transcendental rapture!”

“Thank you so much, GB,” she said. “As I have pleased you, perhaps you could do a little favour for me.”

“Name it, Princess!” I exclaimed. “You are Salome to my King Herod… although I’d rather not chop anyone’s head off, which might compromise my philanthropic work with the Quakers.”

“I don’t want anyone’s head, GB!” she giggled. “It is your wonderful feet I am interested in. I have heard they can do amazing things. Would you peel and eat a banana for me using just your feet and toes?”

If you think I found this request demeaning you’d be absolutely wrong. We gorillas are not ashamed of what we are and what we can do with our feet. Only humans are strangely sensitive about being asked to perform acts for which they or their breed are particularly renowned.

“Of course, Princess,” I said. “I have a fine ripe bunch in my trailer. Let us repair there forthwith, that I might demonstrate the feat which has tickled your fancy.”

When the ringmaster asked if he could join us I told him to fuck off.

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Miss Plastic 2010

I’ve received an invitation to be a judge at beauty contest. No sniggers please. The event is taking place in Hungary, a nation I’ve always admired for its fruity soups. An unusual feature of the pageant is that all the contestants will be women who have had cosmetic surgery. The subtext is that this surgery should have resulted in enhancement or reshaping of the bust.

It’s not all about titties though. There are also points for personality, which is where I come in. They’re looking for a judge who can evaluate a woman’s inner beauty without being distracted by the shallow attractions of her physical form (a task far beyond the grinning old lechers who customarily adjudicate such tournaments).

Appreciating inner beauty, you see, is one of my greatest talents. My penetrating eyes can see beyond the pouting and posing (to say nothing of the titting and bumming) and examine the soul within. In my circus days, no woman could hide her true character from the Bananas gaze. I recall the case of the knife-thrower’s assistant, whose blond hair and unusually large breasts caused everyone to judge her harshly.

“Doris is a stupid tart!” they cried.

I was the only one who dissented from this hasty indictment.

“You are all wrong,” I said. “When I look into her eyes I see a woman of intelligence and sensitivity.”

It later transpired that she was taking a correspondence course in cosmology and had a crush on Professor Stephen Hawking, the wheelchair-bound genius with a voice like a friendly Dalek. A bit kinky, perhaps, but not the kind of infatuation one would expect of a promiscuous airhead. Doris was enormously grateful when she heard how I had championed her cause.

“Think nothing of it, Doris,” I said, as she approached me in tears of gratitude. “A gorilla needs no courage to stand against the baying mob. You may scratch my back if you wish.”

But let’s get back to the beauty contest. I asked my friend Laszlo Paszlo, the Hungarian journalist, for his opinion on my participation.

“They’re using you as window dressing, Bananas,” he said. “The feminists are saying the whole thing is just an excuse for men to stare at the girls’ breasts. The organisers want to reply: ‘This is not true because one of the judges is a gorilla who has no interest in breasts.’”

I found this very surprising, as I never realised there were feminists in Hungary. It seems they found their voice after the Iron Curtain collapsed. There was no need for feminism under the Communist system because all citizens were equal by official decree of the State, and any woman who dared to deny it had her boobs tweaked by the secret police. Then came democracy, and women had to get organised to prevent men from looking at pornography and enjoying the new freedoms in other unfair ways.

Frankly, I don’t blame the organisers for wanting to placate the feminists. Never was a group of females more sorely in need of placation. I myself placated several of them in my circus days. Although telling them I have no interest in breasts would be a slight exaggeration, I do not object to the use of this argument to keep them at bay. Consider my flight to Budapest booked.

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Holly Folly

Should we allow scenes of a pornographic film to be filmed at the safari camp? The manager is agonising over the decision. The publicity will be good, but he’s worried about attracting tourists who masturbate to dirty movies. I told him wankers have as much right to go on safari as anyone else. Everything should be fine provided they refrain from lewd acts in the jungle, which might provoke the chimpanzees to run amok. The faces of self-abusing humans appear terribly hostile to other primates. That’s why guests who stay with my band are given hoods to wear should they feel like touching themselves at an inopportune moment.

The female lead in the film is to be played by a blond bombshell called Holly Sampson, who claims to have had sex with Tiger Woods on his 24th birthday. The concept of the movie is to re-enact that glorious event as the culmination of Ms Sampson’s career as a professional hoochie.

According to Holly, Tiger had talent in the bedroom. I don’t doubt it. By that stage in his career he must have mastered all kinds of trick shots with his 9-iron. But could we be sure that the action depicted in the movie was what she and Tiger actually did? It would be very easy for Holly to recall what some meaty-loined stud called Leroy Longpole did to her and pretend it was part of Tiger’s repertoire. Tiger certainly won’t confirm or deny anything after apologising to mummy in front of the TV cameras.

The scenes they want to film at the safari camp are flashbacks of Holly’s sexual awakening, which supposedly occurs after her marriage to a tribal chief. He buys Holly from her wicked uncle for a 4-carat diamond, the market price of an eager virgin of the white race. Holly is so insatiable that the chief is soon ailing like a worn-out old bull. To avoid the humiliation of being cuckolded by his kinsmen, he pays Holly’s airfare back to Los Angeles, where she starts a new career as an erotic dancer and peep show performer. She is spotted at an orgy by one of Tiger’s pimps and hired to entertain him at his birthday party.

The race is on to find the actor who’ll play Tiger. I hope they give the part to Jackrabbit Lemon, son of Meadowlark of Harlem Globetrotters’ fame. Jackrabbit has Tiger’s lean build and boyish features. His other qualifications for the role are his fondness for blond strumpets and his ability to look contrite when caught with his hand in the cookie jar. His golf handicap is in single figures, but that won’t be very useful for the games he’ll play in the movie.

If the manager agrees to the shoot, I’ll probably be given the job of chaperoning Holly. You may think a porn actress should be capable of taking care of herself, but the sultry aromas of the African bush can turn civilised men into rampaging satyrs. The film crew might easily lose their self-control when they see a naked woman cavorting before their eyes. I should imagine I’ll be able to restrain them without breaking their bones or putting venomous insects down their trousers.

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