The Pope forgives again

Pope Benny is behaving like a man who is desperate to change the subject. In his latest digression he declared himself a fan of The Beatles, lamenting the 40th anniversary of their break-up, and graciously forgiving them for their “drug-taking and blasphemy”. This has failed to impress Ringo, who noted that being forgiven by the Pope puts you in rather dodgy company. I personally won’t believe Benny is sincere until he reverses Yoko Ono’s excommunication for “witchcraft, satanic incantations and lewd exposure of the pudenda”. The Catholic Church will never be a moral voice for the acid-trippers and headbangers until it can distinguish the eccentric from the diabolical.

Meanwhile, the Pope’s ever loyal supporters have been walking on eggshells to avoid embarrassing him. Take the recent papal visit to Malta. The mayor of a small town wanted to tear down a much-loved phallic symbol lest the High Pontiff should accidentally gaze at this monstrous affront to ecclesiastical dignity. Commonsense prevailed after the creator of the monument told the mayor he was a philistine and an ignoramus.

“Rome, where the Pope lives, is full of columns, but I don’t see anyone complaining and asking for them to be removed!” he thundered.

A very good point indeed. Benny must have seen a veritable forest of oversized dicks in his long career of holy service – why would one more offend him?

If the Pope is determined to pardon child-abusers, he should start with those outside the priesthood guilty of the most venial sins. I was dismayed to hear of yet another schoolmistress getting arrested for seducing a teenage boy. The most dispiriting aspect of this case was the willingness of her 16-year-old pupil to testify against her in open court. Although the jury sensibly acquitted her of all wrongdoing, prosecutions like this send a terrible message to the young. A generation of schoolboys will have learned that kissing-and-telling and ingratitude are commendable forms of behaviour.

It seems to me that this schoolmistress is a good-natured and obliging young lady who made an unlucky choice. Call me a fanciful ape, but I feel that she and others like her belong in a religious order. They remind me of the pagan goddesses of antiquity who would bestow the ultimate favour on their most loyal devotees. What a happy position the Catholic Church would now be in if it had made these women priests instead of all those nasty paedophiles. Pope Benny, alas, is far too timid and reactionary to consider their ordination, but they could always offer their talents to another church. There are many progressive sects that encourage women to serve God in all positions.

Perhaps they should start by approaching the Mormons, who are rich enough to pay them well and weird enough to appreciate their unorthodox pastoral techniques. Before becoming priestesses, they would have to be trained to distinguish the deserving from the undeserving. Generosity is the finest of virtues, but it loses its heavenly aura if you toss it around indiscriminately.

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Taxi drama

An unsettling item of news from the north of England. Unwilling to pay a cab fare of ten guineas, a Polish gangster invited the taxi driver to come indoors for a quickie with his wife. When the driver said he’d prefer cash, the gangster flew into a rage and brandished a machete with evil intent. Fortunately, the driver was fleet of foot and managed to escape into an alleyway before the gangster could exact savage retribution for the insult to his pride.

Now the crucial fact in this sorry incident is that the taxi driver had not seen the gangster’s wife before declining to have his way with her. His refusal was therefore an issue of principle rather than an expression of contempt for the woman’s physical charms. It follows that the gangster had no reason whatever to take offence at the driver’s reluctance to mount his missus. The vanity of which humans are capable never fails to astonish me.

I relate this story to a couple of Englishmen staying at the safari guesthouse.

“If I’d been the driver I would have taken my chances and shagged her,” says one of them. “Gangsters’ wives are usually drop-dead gorgeous like Michelle Pfeiffer in Scarface.”

“It’s gangsters’ mistresses that are drop-dead gorgeous,” corrects his companion. “Their wives are usually fat birds they impregnated when playing truant from school.”

“That wouldn’t surprise me,” I remark. “And even if she were a beauty, suppose the gangster wanted to watch while you enjoyed her favours? Hoodlums often indulge in peculiar practices of that sort. I believe it’s how they confront their fears.”

“You seem to know a lot about it, GB,” says the first man with a smirk. “Have you ever offered one of your females as repayment for a debt?”

“I have no debts, good Sir,” I reply. “But if I did, I would never offer one of my females as payment in kind. Even if she agreed to do it, she would then demand reimbursement for the value of the services she had rendered on my behalf. It is far better to owe money to a creditor with whom one can negotiate a repayment plan than a female gorilla who would hound me for an immediate settlement in hard cash or coconuts. Of course, if she actually wanted to get intimate with the fellow it might be different story.”

“How would you know if she fancied him, GB?” asks the second man.

“We silverbacks always know when our females are appraising a man as a potential sex toy,” I reply. “My ones usually grind their teeth furiously. Sometimes they crack their fingers like a concert pianist about to give a performance.”

“Bloody hell, GB!” exclaims the first man. “If I ever give you money it’ll be a gift not a loan!”

“As you wish, my dear fellow,” I say reassuringly. “I have no need of gratuities, so I’ll forward your donation to a worthy charity.”

I don’t know why men are so scared of female gorillas. I should have told him not to talk until he’d tried it.

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Calendar girls

The manager of the safari camp is proudly displaying a calendar on his office wall, illustrated with pictures of naked young women.

“Would you like to buy one?” he asks on noticing my eyes wander.

“No, thank you,” I reply. “The jungle is full of natural calendars - blooming flowers, ripening fruit, oestrus cycles going on right under our noses. I can tell what the date is by lying on my back and inhaling deeply.”

“But it’s in a good cause!” insists the manager. “The girls in the calendar were flight attendants of a Spanish Airline that went bust. They’re owed nine months of unpaid wages! I thought you were keen on workers’ rights when you were in the circus.”

“If their grievance is just I will contribute gratis,” I declare. “You don’t have to bribe a gorilla to do good deeds. I suppose you won’t reach into your pockets for the new hospital in Brazzaville unless the nurses strip off.”

“That’s not a bad idea, now that you mention it,” says the manager with a villainous grin. “It ought to be put in the public domain. I’ll write a letter to The Gazette under the pen-name ‘Gorilla Bananas’.”

“Pfffft!” I exclaim scornfully. “As if anyone would believe it was me.”

I’m not the sort of ape who hears of an injustice done to vulnerable young women without investigating the matter thoroughly. It didn’t take me long to find a news bulletin confirming the manager’s story. I sympathize with the girls’ plight, but question their tactics. Will the shareholders of a bankrupt company be shamed into paying their back wages on being confronted with naked pictures of them? My guess is that most will offer goodwill and encouragement but very little else. The world of corporate finance is a pitiless domain in which naked woman are expected to take their losses on the chin, like everyone else.

Maybe the girls hope that those who buy the calendar will become vociferous champions of their cause. Realistically, most of these people will be men whose motives are decidedly mixed. The manager of the safari camp may be counted as one such example. The words he spoke on their behalf were betrayed by the expression on his face, which indicated sensual appreciation rather than burning indignation. A man with titties on the brain will never make a convincing advocate. Legal historians have cited cases at the Old Bailey that were lost because the prosecuting barrister was distracted by the defendant’s bosom.

I will certainly make a donation, but I feel I ought to do more. Supporting a charity with cash is all very well, but sometimes what’s really needed is fresh ideas and enthusiasm. I learned a few tricks in my circus days which I’m sure would impress the girls. The calendar was a valiant attempt, but there’s no substitute for live action if you want to win friends and influence people. Perhaps I should invite the girls to a beach conference and pitch a few proposals at them. I’ll get the ball rolling by sending an email to Miss August, who looks as if she has leadership potential.

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Indian sex scandal

An Indian holy man been has been filmed cavorting with actresses. This harmless recreation has disgraced him the eyes of his followers and created a big scandal. Even the police have got into the act, investigating the incident as if they themselves were celibate. Maybe they're jealous he has actresses at his beck and call while they can only afford the cheapest and ugliest whores. Hopefully the guru will be able to bribe them, but if he does become a fugitive some obliging person should offer him sanctuary. Perhaps a retired Bollywood actress could employ him as her live-in yoga instructor. You don’t become a holy man without having transferable skills.

As for his congregation, I’m not sure whether their outrage is justified. If he made a big point of being a bramacharya they are entitled to feel aggrieved. No one likes to be deceived by a shark in lobster’s clothing, especially if the shark has been taking your money and telling you not to eat meat. If that’s what he did, they have a reasonable excuse to chop off his fins and sell them to the Chinese. But if he never claimed to practice sexual abstinence, they should apologise for their ungrateful behaviour and tell the police to stuff chillies up their backsides. A man doesn’t become a charlatan just because a few actresses jump on top of him.

I know from experience that celibacy is not essential for a guru. Back in my circus days, we were honoured by a visit from Swami Nanga Anand, the venerable love doctor of Rajasthan. His Hindi name was purely symbolic, as he wore a white dhoti in deference to his modesty. Bald and beardless, yet strikingly handsome, he sat down cross-legged and bade us join him as he expounded on his Tantric philosophy:

“Sex, you see, is in the mind not the body. If the mind is corrupt then the body is also corrupt. If the man is thinking, I want to use this woman, I want to empty my lust into her, the sexual act will bring no contentment to his soul.”

Most of us nodded in reverential assent, but the ringmaster emitted a sceptical grunt.

“So what should the man be thinking?” he asked in a sardonic tone of voice.

The Swami smiled and shook his head before responding, which is how to show appreciation of a good question in India.

“While having sex, the man must be thinking, I will make this woman feel the warmth of a thousand suns, I will take her with me to heaven. Then the sex will be a purification of body and mind for both of them.”

I could tell the female acrobats were hugely impressed by this doctrine as they gazed at the Swami in rapt devotion. I discovered, a little while later, that a couple of them had asked him for a crash course before he left. Although I suspected Mr Nanga of being a devious impostor, I did nothing to dissuade them. Any man who can persuade women that having sex with him is a holy sacrament has fairly earned his oats.

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Peaches and Face Cream

Poor little Peachy Geldof! The sharp-tongued denizens of New York City have been calling her “tranny” and other unpleasant names. This discourtesy has been provoked by Peachy appearing in public with several layers of foundation on her face. For some mysterious reason she acquired a queer fancy to mimic Boy George, the hermaphrodite singer of the 1980s. This aptly illustrates the danger of fame at too young an age – lacking a sense of decorum, one is tempted to indulge in grotesque displays. Young female baboons often smack their own bottoms to make them appear more swollen and red. It never impresses the males.

If I were Peachy’s guardian, I would send her to a convent until the age of 27. Mother Superior would be given strict instructions not to tolerate her conceits and caprices. She would be permitted to read classics of English literature such as Pride and Prejudice and Little Women, and expected to give a seminar on each book. Any inane opinions would be ruthlessly censured and derided by the nuns. She would only be allowed to leave the convent in the company of four strong-willed sisters, armed with coshes and mace sprays. By such means, she would be prevented from engaging in frivolous behaviour that might otherwise haunt her to her dying day. In the fullness of time, she would appreciate what I had done for her:

“My dear Uncle Bananas!” she might say to me on her wedding day. “What a headstrong filly I was, and how I needed to be restrained for my own good! What chance that I would have wed the honourable Chad Cadwalader without my corrective sojourn in a convent? I owe my good fortune to your timely intervention.”

Let me emphasize, in passing, that I have no issue with humans wearing make-up. If one habitually exposes one’s bare skin to the elements, there is much to be said for a little plastering and varnishing to fill in the cracks and cover the blemishes. As a former circus ape, I fully appreciate its decorative function as well. Fellow performers of both genders used cosmetics to beautify themselves before appearing in the ring. It made the women look like dolls and the men look like Freddie Mercury. I never needed to wear the stuff myself, of course – a gorilla’s noble countenance needs no decoration.

"What about clowns?" I hear you ask. They are a special case. The purpose of their face paint is to make them look like clowns, which it never fails to do. It amuses me that some humans actually find them frightening. It seems they are scared of the mask-like quality of the make-up, which allows the clown to hide its true emotions from the observer. Beneath the painted-on goofy expression, they fear that the clown may be glaring at them malevolently and planning to assault them in their beds.

I must say such thoughts never entered my head. My job was simply to kick the clowns in the arse, which I did repeatedly with considerable zest. We gorillas never over-analyse the intentions of a potential adversary. Ignore the attitude but watch the movements, as we say in the jungle.

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Iran's Space Program

The arrival of an Iranian tour party is making the chimpanzees nervous. The Iranians have recently sent worms and turtles into space, and the chimps are worried that they will be next. They haven’t forgotten how NASA ruthlessly press-ganged members of their species into rocket-service back in the 1960s. At least those hapless simians had the good fortune to blast off in the mighty Saturn-5, which was the Biggus Dickus of space exploration. The Iranian Kavoshgar-3 is more of a Naughtius Maximus by comparison, and might end up dumping its payload in Salman Rushdie’s back garden.

Our Iranian visitors are actually US residents who have nothing to do with the regime. The manager of the safari camp removed the porn channels from their rooms out of respect for their supposed religious beliefs. In less time than it takes to unpack a suitcase, a delegation of them gathered outside his office to demand restoration of the standard en-suite entertainment package. I must say I’d feel the same in their place. Although I have little interest in human porn, denying me the right to watch it would be viewed as an inhospitable act. We don’t stop humans watching apes mate in the wild, so they should extend the same courtesy to us.

I don’t want the chimpanzees to have an irrational fear of Iranians, so I’m holding a jungle symposium called “Understanding the Cultural Diversity of our Human Cousins”. It should be well attended, given that chimps are very curious about humans and love to mimic their habits. President Obama’s recent video message to the Iranian people shows he shares my philosophy. His speech was very good, although excessively tactful in avoiding any mention of beards. If most Americans believe that the Supreme Mullah in Tehran should be forcibly deprived of his whiskers, the Iranian people should hear it from the horse’s mouth. I hope the president uses his proposed “cultural exchanges” to send them the latest Gillette products. The Iranians are sure to take the hint.

As a gorilla, I am well qualified to be a mediator in human disputes of a tribal or sectarian nature. Back in my circus days, the 6th form of a local girls’ school was torn between two factions called The Virgins and The Tarts. Things had got very nasty when they asked me to intervene – hair was being pulled, cosmetics were being vandalized and tampons were being dipped in ink. So I went to the school and gave the girls a speech.

“Virgins! Tarts!” I exclaimed. “You are both essential to a healthy ecosystem, for Nature thrives on biodiversity! Without tarts, what appreciation would exist for a virgin’s maidenly blush? Without virgins, what gratitude would exist for a tart’s wanton lubricity? And yet, you are not so different! In every virgin is a quiescent tart who longs to abandon herself to the pleasures of carnal indulgence. In every tart is the memory of a fresh-faced virgin who shyly contemplated her own ripening womanhood. When your aberrant antagonism has abated, you will appreciate these truths and join hands in sisterhood.”

They looked at me in a puzzled sort of way, which seemed to take some heat from their feud. I won’t pretend one speech solved everything. I did a fair amount of work with the girls in the following weeks, both jointly and individually. But we got there in the end.

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