British women are bored

A survey has revealed that two-thirds of British women are completely bored with life. I can’t say I’m surprised. Back in my circus days, I was frequently accosted by English girls who wanted to escape their humdrum existence.

“Can I join the circus, GB?” they would ask.

“It takes years of training to perform in the ring,” I would explain.

“I don’t have to be a performer, I could be your personal assistant,” they would say.

Tempted as I was by such propositions, practical considerations forced me to decline:

“That’s a very kind offer, but you wouldn’t be entitled to a trailer and I couldn’t keep you as a house pet. Here is the card of my mentor, Dr Whipsnade, who is the patron of a society for aspiring young ladies. Give him a call and I’m sure he’ll set you on the right path.”

I regretted not being able to help them myself, but at least I placed them in good hands.

When I told the manager of the safari camp about the survey, he had no doubt at all about the cause of their discontentment.

“Of course they’re frustrated!” he exclaimed. “Most British men prefer watching snooker on TV to pleasuring their wives!”

“The survey made no mention of sexual dissatisfaction,” I said.

“Trust me, Bananas, when a woman says she's bored that’s code for ‘my husband doesn’t go down on me’.”

“Your decoding abilities astound me,” I replied. “You ought to run a translation service for couples with communication problems.”

I was being sarcastic, of course. Oral sex is nothing to be sniffed at, but it isn’t the answer to all life’s problems. Nor is it good for the health if it goes on for too long. There must come a point when the recipient feels like a lemon that’s had the juice sucked out of it. In any case, the contentment gained from satisfying carnal desires is ephemeral. It does not provide an antidote to a deeper malaise of the spirit.

If you ask me, these bored British broads need to get back to Nature. Look at my females. Their lives are as free and unfettered as birds in the sky. They roam; they forage; they pluck fresh fruit from the trees. If they get the urge to run amok, there’s not a power on Earth that can stop them. They don’t have to worry about snoopy neighbours or disapproving fishwives. The only malicious gossips in the jungle are parrots, and they can be silenced by sticking a knob of toffee on their beaks.

My advice to any world-weary women is to spend a few months on an uninhabited tropical island. Live off shell fish and coconuts; strip off and swim in the ocean; climb trees until your rump is as brown as a berry and as firm as an apple. The experience will change your whole outlook on life and make a new woman of you. If you’re still bored after that, you probably need a good seeing to.

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Royal Flush

My females have been cackling excitedly about the royal princes’ tour of Africa.

“Why don’t you invite them here?” they piped. “We’d make them feel at home.”

“No you wouldn’t,” I said firmly. “Feeling at home for them means playing polo, visiting chutney factories and having their toenails clipped by a servant. They aren’t used to your jungle tricks and you haven’t learned the correct etiquette. I don’t want you thrusting your hips at them instead of curtsying.”

That shut them up. In truth, I was worried that a similar faux pas to the one in Botswana might occur, where a nervous rock python pissed itself in fright after being introduced to the princes. Being English, they were too embarrassed to deal with the mishap like the president of Zambia, who sternly rebuked a monkey for passing water on his jacket. Let’s just hope the incident hasn’t left a sour taste in their mouths.

In accordance with royal protocol, the identity of the nurse who accompanied the princes remained a closely guarded secret. A hapless photographer who tried to take her picture was set upon by the royal bodyguards and forced to sit on a pineapple. If you think William and Harry are too old for a nurse you know little of the customs of the British monarchy. It is essential, on such visits, to keep the princes well clear of local floozies who would eagerly squat before them in the hope of receiving a royal rogering. The role of the nurse is to lessen the appeal of such sordid temptations by regularly milking the princes of their manly juices. The job is normally offered to a lady familiar with livestock breeding, who can render the service with clinical detachment. Surgical gloves and Vaseline are essential tools of the trade.

The finale of the princes’ tour was a visit to South Africa, causing some people to suggest they were only here for the World Cup. Such cynics forget that they also met various dignitaries, including that great man whose long struggle for freedom inspired millions of down-trodden humans, and quite a few up-trodden ones as well. I refer, of course, to Bishop Tutu, who received the princes in one of his most fetching purple frocks. I don’t know what he said to the boys, but I’m sure he spiced up his sermon with plenty of whooping and jigging.

I had the honour of meeting the Bishop when he stayed at the safari guesthouse.

“Toots, “ I said, “don’t you resent all the hero-worship that Mandela gets when you did all the hard work in the dark days of P.W. Botha?”

“Not at all, GB!” he chirped. “My heart is full of joy for having done God’s work. And what makes you think I don’t have my own fans?”

He made a good point. The Bishop's many quiet admirers include a team of scientists who obtained a sample of his DNA. They discovered he belongs to one of the least in-bred human populations on Earth, which might explain his sunny disposition. This is something the princes should bear in mind when listening to the morose prattle of their bat-eared father, who recently condemned Galileo for a remark he made in 1597. When royalty breeds with royalty, the results are rarely pretty.

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Change of identity

People sometimes ask me to imagine that I’ve been changed into a human in my sleep by an evil wizard. I tell them it wouldn’t bother me until I awoke next morning and peered into a looking glass. Oh, what a horrible shock to see a fleshy little face staring back at me! I should imagine I would jump out of my hammock in despair and look for a baboon to kick. But being human, I would be no match for the baboon, who would give me a grievous hiding for my effrontery. This would undoubtedly add to my woes.

Now why do people ask me to contemplate such a disturbing scenario? Basically it’s curiosity. They want to find out what sort of human persona I would adopt if the metamorphosis were forced upon me by black magic. I suspect they want me to say I would prefer to be someone like them. Humans are very vain and love to belong to a favoured group. Yet strangely enough, I have no firm views on the question. With so many varieties of human on Earth, it’s difficult to decide where the soul of a gorilla would be most at home. Obviously not in a hairdresser or frogman, but that still leaves a lot of possibilities.

I used to think Shaolin monks were closest to gorillas in spirit. Like us, they are vegetarian pacifists who enjoy the outdoor life. Their kung fu tactics are pretty similar to how we silverbacks keep the yahoos at bay. Yet shaving one’s head is definitely not a gorilla-compatible custom. They also have an annoying habit of speaking in riddles, which creates a lot of unnecessary pussy-footing. If I want to hear riddles, I’ll buy a box of crackers.

Then I thought I might enjoy being the captain of a cruise ship. The job has numerous perks, including fresh sea air, a smart hat and a crew that says “Ay Skipper”. But then I found out that much of the captain’s time is spent listening to passengers’ complaints and humouring middle-aged women with wobbly bottoms. It might be tolerable if I could give the bottoms a slap or two, but apparently such salutations are no longer part of marine protocol.

My current choice would be an attractive blonde waitress with big breasts. Before you gape in astonishment, please note that this preference is based on solid scientific research. It is a proven fact that bosomy blonde waitresses get bigger tips than their darker-haired, flatter-chested sisters. In the dog-eat-dog world of homo sapiens, an edge over your rivals is an incalculable advantage. Having to check my breasts for lumps would be a chore, but I reckon I could get used to it.

Let me add, for the record, that I have never been influenced by bust size in the tipping of waitresses. The biases of the human male are not shared by us gorillas. The most generous gratuity I ever gave was to a ginger-haired girl with delightfully petite sugar plums. To protect her anonymity, I will call her “Miss Cherry Tomatoes”.

“Miss Tomatoes,” I said, “this is the last breakfast I shall eat at this café, for tomorrow the circus leaves town. To show my appreciation, I will leave you a tip equal to a full day’s pay.”

“Oh thank you, Mr Bananas!” she mewed. “It will help me save up for a boob job.”

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Revenge of the Norse goddess

Scientists are saying that the volcano in Iceland could carrying on puffing and farting for a couple of years. That’s just the sort of inconsiderate behaviour I’d expect from a volcano near the artic circle. A tropical volcano gives you one massive eruption lasting a few days followed by 500 years of peace. You know where you are with a virile beast like that. This effeminate Icelandic orifice will go on shaking and moaning until the whole neighbourhood are tearing their hair in despair.

One thing this event has proved beyond all doubt is that vulcanologists are as useful as knickers on a baboon. They observe, they measure, they fiddle with their instruments, they mumble into their beards about how unpredictable everything is. What the Earth needs now is not vulcanologists but Vulcans – pointy-eared wizards with infallible logic who could devise a practical solution. The best idea I can think of is drenching Iceland with a massive wave until the volcano fizzles out like a cigarette in a toilet bowl.

In the olden days, humans would have appeased the offended spirit of the beast by throwing one of their number into its fiery interior. Our local witch doctor still believes in such remedies and has offered to send his mother-in-law to Iceland by DHL. I told him not to be an imbecile.

“The volcano is obviously female,” I said. “She needs a man to plunge down her crevice and scratch whatever is itching her. You’re always boasting about your knowledge of these mysteries so why not volunteer yourself?”

He told me he didn’t believe in such superstitious nonsense.

The manager of the safari camp is worried that disrupted airline schedules might affect our visitors from Europe.

“Suppose another ash cloud arrives when they’re due to return home,” he said. “What would we do with them?”

“Why not make any stranded guests work for their board and lodging?” I suggested. “I could teach them how to climb trees and harvest coconuts. They could fish for their supper once they’ve been educated in the basics of crocodile avoidance. We could help them build tree-houses so they could vacate their rooms when new guests arrived.”

The manager sucked his teeth and shook his head. “It wouldn’t work,” he said. “Humans who go on safari are used to being pampered and spoon-fed. If we made them fend for themselves they’d whine like sissies and contact their embassies in Brazzaville. We’d never hear the end of it.”

“Hmm,” I mused. “I’ll have to think of something else.”

My current contingency plan is to charter a ship and offer them a voyage back home care of Captain Bananas and his able sea-chimps. We wouldn’t take them all the way to Europe, of course. I’d make sure I had a good excuse to dump them in the Canary Islands, which is the nearest thing to a clearing house for unwanted tourists. They could pay a local fisherman to transport them to the Spanish coast.

Philanthropy has its limits, as Blackbeard the Pirate once said.

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Pretty girls make boys flip

An Australian tourist mentions a news item from his native land.

“Psychologists from the University of Queensland have noticed that guys on skateboards do more risky stunts when pretty girls are watching them,” he says.

“How very intriguing,” I remark politely. “Why would they do that?”

“The academics think it’s instinctive behaviour to scare off rivals. Isn’t that how you gorillas behave?”

“Only when we're pissed on fermented coconut milk,” I reply. “And speaking personally, I wouldn’t be intimidated by the sight of a rival risking injury to himself.”

“You wouldn’t? So what would you do if you saw another silverback swinging from a branch by his feet?”

“I would find a comfortable log to sit on and watch him making an ass of himself – preferably while eating a tub of popcorn.”

“Yeah? And what about your females?”

“They might join me if they were bored. Female gorillas aren’t easily impressed. I once rode a zebra rodeo-style and they called me Wild Bill Hiccup. Or was it Buffalo Bull?”

“Cheeky Sheilas! The Queensland study didn’t say whether the pretty girls were impressed by any of the skateboarders.”

“It’s doubtful, isn’t it? Those Australian lads were probably imitating male baboons. That’s what happens when you show too many wildlife programs on TV.”

I later ponder the issues raised in our discussion. The first point to make is that women who require men to perform daring deeds for them are ball-breakers. Their vanity befits an era in which knights on horseback went around poking their lances into everyone’s business. A damsel who expects that kind of service will never be content. After her champion has satisfied her carnal needs she will nag him to go out and buy her ice cream. High-maintenance women create a lot of exhausted men.

As for those Aussie skateboarders, what they really need is some quality time with Brigitta Bulgari, the Hungarian porn star who was unjustly imprisoned for allowing teenage boys to feel her up. Her lawyer was obviously an incompetent courtroom advocate. The closing speech for the defence should have been something like this:

“Members of the jury, you must put aside all feelings of envy in reaching your verdict. However undeserving you consider those boys to be, Miss Bulgari committed no crime in allowing them to grope her succulent flesh. The ladies among you must not allow your disapproval of Miss Bulgari’s licentious conduct to cloud your judgement. Yes, she is a hoochie, but she works in the hoochie industry. However wanton her behaviour might appear to respectable matrons and spinsters, it is how she makes an honest living – or a living at any rate. And please ignore any instructions from the learned judge, who would have done what those boys did if he weren’t so scared of his wrinkly-titted wife.”

You don’t need to have a brilliant legal mind to convince a fair-minded jury to acquit a woman guilty of nothing more than allowing boys to give her an exotic massage. I reckon I could have got her off myself.

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Women need testosterone

A Dutch professor has persuaded young women to take testosterone tablets in the cause of scientific inquiry. Apparently it made them less trusting of men’s faces, which he argued was a beneficial effect. I suppose it might compensate them for growing hair on their bosoms, which is a small price to pay to avoid being deceived by a wily rogue.

Is it possible for a man to have a trustworthy face? Two often cited examples are Henry Fonda in Twelve Angry Men and Sidney Poitier in Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner. Men like that wouldn’t peek in the bedroom mirror if Catherine Deneuve were in the bathroom with the door wide open, soaping her glistening thighs with a fragrant shower gel. Yet were their faces inherently reliable or did it just seem that way because of their righteous behaviour? What if Henry Fonda had voted to hang the kid (who was probably a repugnant oik in spite of his innocence)? Those baby blue eyes of his might have seemed a lot more icy.

When I was in the circus, there was a snaggletoothed handyman with bushy eyebrows that met in the middle of his forehead. Nobody trusted him and he was shunned by women. I decided to make him my henchman.

“Ethelred,” I said (for that was his name). “I am giving you the spare key to the trunk in my trailer, which contains valuables such as gold coins, precious jewels, silk pantaloons and nose-hair clippers. Should I misplace my key, I will ask you for the duplicate.”

Ethelred tugged his forelock and bowed. When people expressed surprised at my patronage of him, I gave them the following explanation:

“Like Jesus, we gorillas are magnanimous to misfits and pariahs. I am confident that Ethelred will be as loyal as a hound dog. And besides, he reminds me of an uncle of mine.”

My trust in Ethelred was not misplaced and helped to ease his exclusion from the society of his fellow humans. He ended up marrying a pretty girl who worked in the meat-processing industry. Some people claimed she had a Bride-of-Frankenstein complex, but that was probably sour grapes.

Different rules apply to women and gorillas, of course. Human females have good reason to be wary of strange men, whatever their appearance. I was disturbed of hear of a conman in Cornwall who swindled large sums of money from women he met on a dating site. His resemblance to Buster Bloodvessel did not impair his powers of persuasion.

“When I met him I thought he looked like Shrek,” said Sarah Terry, a 42-year-old divorcee. “But we had so much to talk about, and he was so interested in me that, to my surprise, I found him very attractive.”

One has to pity Ms Terry, although she is partly to blame for not getting a chaperone to screen her suitors. It is a task I have performed for several women in whom I have an avuncular concern. Asking for bank statements and DNA samples usually scares off the scoundrels immediately. As for the honest men, promising them a sound thrashing if they misbehave is good for their souls. The innocent have nothing to fear, as we say in the jungle.

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