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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