Kylie accuses Gaga

Kylie Minogue has accused Lady Gaga of copying her. 

“I think there's an element of me in her,” said Kylie. 

Possibly wishful thinking and hopefully not a statement of intent. If it came to a catfight, a crazy bitch like Gaga would pluck out Kylie’s pubic hair. Someone should invite the divas to a wigwam where they can share a peace pipe and inhale each other’s smoke. Those squaws need to become blood sisters before they start stealing each other’s boyfriends, which would lead to heinous atrocities. 

Kylie’s outburst reminds me of a lowland silverback who claimed to be Mick Jagger’s role model. This is what he said about the rubber-lipped crooner: 

“When I was performing back in ’63, I noticed that young Englishman in the audience, gaping at me night-after-night like a trout. Everything he later did on stage – the voice, the face, the strut – he took it all from me. And my bass player was a baboon who looked like Bill Wyman. The first time I saw ‘The Stones’ I thought they were a tribute act.” 

But his females said he was lying, so we can’t take his word for it. Jagger has obviously been copying someone, but for all we know it could be his Latin master. 

A tourist once asked me if I thought Tom Jones had been influenced by a gorilla. “No,” I replied. “He was clearly influenced by the gospel, rock, folk, jazz and blues singers of his youth. But perhaps you meant to ask whether Tom Jones is genetically close to a gorilla.” 

“Well is he?” asked the tourist. 

“Let me put it this way,” I replied. “There are certain ancient genes in the human line which, for reasons not yet properly understood, are more fully expressed in particular individuals. Such persons are invariably hairy-chested men who exude a pungent sexuality that induces middle-aged women to throw their knickers at them.” 

“Are you saying he smells like a gorilla?” asked the tourist. 

“I don’t know what he smells like,” I said, “but it seems to bring out the female gorilla in women.” 

In truth, the behaviour of all primates is driven by the urge to imitate. I often observed human kiddies pretending to be gorillas after I’d given a performance in the circus. I suspect many of the adults would have done so too if they hadn’t feared ridicule. The ape-impersonators in the remake of Planet of the Apes had a grand old time. Even Helena Bonham Carter, renowned for playing posh English roses, found the experience enlightening: 

I had to go back and learn how to be still. I had to learn an economy of movement, but to be immensely focused. To stop intellectualizing and instead make everything physical and be present and alive in the moment, which is completely ape-like. Apes are more sensual and tactile than we are. 

Humans sometimes ask me whether I found Helena attractive as an ape. I have to remind them that she played a chimpanzee, not a gorilla. If I were a male chimpanzee, I should imagine I’d want to pin her to the ground and put my tongue in her mouth.

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Dancing on the Rock

A French “exotic dancer” has been causing a stir in Australia. In a land where naked Sheilas are generally applauded, Alizee Sery has been winning hearts and loins all over the rugged continent. The miners and sheep-shearers were particularly impressed by the exhibition of her art. 

Unfortunately she hasn’t pleased everyone. The Aborigines were furious when she danced on Ayres Rock, which is a sacred monument in their ancient culture. They likened her performance to “defecating on the steps of the Vatican” and demanded her immediate repatriation. Chastened by their disapproval, Alizee was at pains to deny that she had shown any disrespect. 

“It was my tribute to their proud, naked way of living!” she protested.

I hope the Aborigines forgive her because of her nationality. French artists are often driven by grandiose conceptions which turn out, on closer examination, to be utter bollocks. Back in my circus days, I witnessed no end of silly pranks from giddy young women who were desperate to get my attention. But I bore it all stoically because they meant well. The female whose heart is in the right place should be treated indulgently. 

Indeed, Miss Sery is the precisely the kind of open-air artist we would love to see in Africa. Not far from where I live is a stupendous gorge above the Congo River called “Cassandra’s Crack”. It was named after the wife of Sir Arthur “Podgy” Podgkin, the Victorian explorer who tragically perished in the rapids below. If Alizee were to perform near the edge of The Crack, flinging her garments into the yawning fissure, it would certainly be celebrated as a pious deed of remembrance. The exotic dancer is revered in our part of the world. 

A tourist once asked me if we gorillas had any holy places that were strictly off limits to humans on pain of having their nipples tweaked.

“No,” I said. “Holiness is a state of mind for us gorillas. The surface of the Earth is profane by its very nature, watered by piss and seasoned with dung. We apes conduct our sacred meditations while hanging upside down from a sturdy branch. Don’t try it yourself unless you’ve got a powerful toe grip.” 

I’m not trying to belittle Aboriginal beliefs, of course. Unlike apes, humans are sentimental creatures who get emotionally attached to the landscape they inhabit. The circus I belonged to once rented a venue which was a field with a great big bush in it. When we suggested pruning the wretched thing, the owner had a fit. 

“Leave my bush alone!” he bleated. “My cat hides there when she’s feeling shy.” 

So the bush stayed in the field, occupying valuable space we could have used for other purposes. As for the man’s cat, he was right about her being shy, because we noticed her watching us timidly from inside the bush. So did Catkins, our resident Tom, and by the end of our tenancy he’d done his duty and given her a litter of kittens. We didn’t ask the landlord for a rebate. 

This story clearly has a moral, but I’m not going to spell it out for you.

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Lone Knut

A mentally disturbed polar bear in Berlin Zoo is getting a lot of sympathy from animal rights groups. Raised by the Germans since he was a cub, Knut quickly learned to perform stunts that went beyond sniffing another bear’s arse. His audiences grew to love his zany antics and hurrahed him wildly in the traditional German manner. Unfortunately he got addicted to the adulation, and now gets nervous tics whenever his fans are absent. PETA has demanded his de-knackering to calm him down. These animal rights activists know the meaning of tough love. 

What Knut really needs is a kick up the backside. He reminds me of circus performers I knew who suffered withdrawal symptoms when they weren’t showing off in the ring. For my own part, I saw the off-season as an opportunity for philanthropic work. I spent a fair amount of time at Dr Whipsnade’s finishing school for aspiring young ladies, where I gave classes in repartee and self-defence. Hundreds of girls from all walks of life were tutored in the Bananas technique. I got this email from a former pupil last week: 

Dear GB, 

Your invaluable training served me grandly when some pot-bellied navvies wolf-whistled me today. In exactly the way you taught us, I gave them the gorilla stare and the crush-your-bollocks hand gesture. Their manhood seemed to shrivel before my very eyes.

I’m still practising the toe exercises and getting better at them!

Hope to see you next time you’re in England. 

Love and more love 

D****** 

I don’t consider myself to be an unduly emotional ape, but this warm tribute from a grateful student made my heart soar like a lappet-faced vulture. The next time we meet I shall challenge her to a friendly toe-wrestle – I might even let her win. 

Another hobby of mine was archaeology. After dirtying my hands in most of the digs in south-east England, I soon became adept at identifying fragments. When dilettanti volunteers got excited on unearthing a piece of bone, I was the one who congratulated them on discovering the mortal remains of one of Colonel Sanders’ finest. My greatest find was a gladiator’s jockstrap, dated to the reign of Antoninus Pius. I believe Russell Crowe wore a smaller replica in his famous film role. 

Getting back to the polar bear issue, it seems that Knut is one of 30 in Germany with behavioural problems. Could the Germans themselves be to blame? History suggests they have a weakness for idolising over-the-top performers who end up losing their marbles. It can’t be easy for a polar bear to bask in the acclaim of thigh-slapping crowds during the day, only to be left alone with a bucket of fish in the evening. 

These neurotic bears should be moved to a country where the zoos are visited by lumpen elements who taunt and heckle the animals. It has to be Wales, hasn’t it? Whatever you say about the Welsh, their yobbos can be trusted to keep a polar bear’s feet on the ground. 

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Soldier Witches

I am delighted to hear that the British Army has 30 serving witches. The manager of the safari camp was less than impressed when I told him. 

“They must be working in a catering unit, making soups and potions,” he said. “You can’t put women up against the Taliban.” 

“Nonsense!” I exclaimed. “They would make mincemeat of the Taliban! Witch combat has come a long way since the days of the Roman Empire, when they charged into battle naked with their tits painted blue. I’ve met some of these English witches and they impressed me hugely with their supple-bodied cunning.” 

The manager then called me “a silly hairy feminist” and went off to the local market to buy his wife slippers and toiletries – a man clearly chafing under a petticoat administration. 

The issue of women serving in the armed forces has been close to my heart ever since I saw the film Private Benjamin. Does anyone remember it? Cute little Goldie Hawn joins the US Army after being widowed on her wedding night. She then proves all her critics wrong by mastering the art of soldiering and making an ass of her dykey commanding officer. 

The most fascinating part of the movie occurs when she is posted to Europe and acquires a French lover. 

“Now I know what I’ve been faking all these years,” she says after being expertly serviced by Henri de Cockville. 

But the relationship is doomed because de Cockville is a philanderer who plays rugby and belongs to the Communist Party. Imagine having your first orgasm with such a rogue! She must have felt quite dirty afterwards. 

Anyway, the film convinced me that women were fully capable of serving bravely on the battlefield. If a Jewish American Princess can do it, so can Betty Boop. Witches have the added advantage of being able to hex the enemy before getting into close combat. 

I was briefly a member of the Communist Party myself, back in my circus days. They made me take lessons in Marxist theory as part of my induction, which is when I got expelled for “reactionary and bourgeois attitudes”. I then got added to their list of enemies, which made me somewhat uncomfortable. 

Fortunately, the revolution never came to England and I breathed a little easier when the Berlin Wall came down in ’89. I still get nervous when anything happens that might presage the fall of Capitalism, which is why I’ve been reading the Wall Street Journal during the recent financial crisis. You may think I’m safe in the Congo, but these buggers are ruthless. Look what they did to Trotsky. 

A few months ago, I was worried that a tourist on safari might be a red assassin. He was a shifty looking fellow with greasy hair and a moustache. I walked right up to him and looked him in the eye. 

“Are you or have you ever been a member of the Communist Party?” I asked. 

“Are you or have you?” he replied, returning my stare. 

Damn sneaky of him to answer a question with a question, particularly as my honest answer would have been “yes”. But it turned out the man was a Scientologist rather than a Communist. Not as dangerous but equally barmy.

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Kissing whales

The manager of the safari camp is worried about a nature resort in Baja California that enables tourists to kiss grey whales.

“Full on the lips, Bananas!” he exclaimed. “Here is a picture of them doing it!”

I examined the photograph casually without feeling the slightest arousal.

“That’s very romantic,” I said, “but what does it have to do with us?”

“Can’t you see we’ll be in trouble if the idea catches on? We’ll never get our animals to kiss tourists on safari.”

“True enough,” I agreed. “They’d chew off the head of any human who tried to smooch them.”

“Unless, perhaps, you’d consider doing it,” he murmured, giving me a coy look.

“Not for all the bananas in Jamaica!” I thundered. “Do you think I’m a hairy whore who’ll kiss any human who’s ape-curious? No one gets to plant one on my lips unless they buy me dinner and take me to the movies. And besides, my females might get jealous.”

“Your females?” repeated the manager quizzically. “How about getting them to kiss our visitors? You’re always going on about how randy they are.”

“Not advisable,” I said, shaking my head. “They’d never be satisfied with a kiss – it’s all or nothing with them. You might end up getting sued for assault.”

“How about the chimps?” he asked.

“Too unpredictable,” I answered. “When they’re in a mean mood they strip tourists naked and chase them out of the jungle. What makes you think our guests want to kiss animals anyway? That sort of thing is for sentimental types who think the natural world is like a big hippy commune. We don’t get hippies in the Congo.”

“I hope you’re right,” mused the manager as he wandered off.

What do you think about this whale-kissing gimmick? Personally, I’m sceptical. Whales may be sociable creatures, but they can’t pucker their lips and their tongues are too big. I would guess their saliva tastes salty. Admittedly, a big part of kissing is the emotion involved, but do the whales even realise they’re being kissed? A human mouth probably feels like a chapstick to them. If someone told them they’d just been snogged by a human, they’d probably puke a ton of plankton in disgust.

The thorny topic of animal sex tourism reminds of a conversation I had with a Welshman while tending bar at the safari guesthouse. After downing this third glass of beer, he asked me the following question:

“If a man went to Disneyland, tied up Goofy and shagged him, do you think he would be charged with rape?”

I didn’t bat an eyelid. A bartender learns not to show surprise at anything he hears.

“If he allowed Goofy to keep his costume on, I should imagine his lawyer would be able to negotiate a plea bargain of indecent exposure,” I said.

“I see you’re a legal expert,” said the Welshman. “I’ve got a friend who could use your advice. I’ll write down his email address and a website where the details of his case are available.”

I accepted the chit without the slightest intention of contacting his friend. I’m not running a legal practice from the Congo and wouldn’t offer counsel to a Welshman of dubious character if I were. The web address will be supplied to private correspondents on request.

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Bras for Africa

The local bigwigs are raising cash for a charity that sends bras to Africa. It seems that women in the West have bras coming out of their armpits, and can afford to donate a few to their un-cupped African sisters. Money is still required to pay for shipping and “sundry expenses”, i.e. the bribes required to prevent the merchandise ending up in a boutique owned by the president’s fat-arsed sister. I can’t help wondering whether it’s safe to transport ladies’ underwear by sea. Merchant sailors are prone to peculiar fancies, and one wouldn’t want the cargo to be seasoned with their sauces and condiments.

I must say I never realised there was such a bra glut in the developed world. Are women continually buying new pairs to match the ever-changing dimensions of their dumplings? An Australian woman on safari looked well-stacked enough to know, so I asked her what was going on.

“You wouldn’t believe how many pairs I have, GB,” she said. “I use one as a holder for pot plants in my garden.”

“Do you have bras of different sizes?” I asked.

“Oh yeah,” she affirmed, adding: “My tits have changed size more often than my prescription for spectacles.”

She then gave me a long list of activities which might cause a woman’s breasts to alter in magnitude, ranging from pregnancy to heavy breathing. Frequent groping, she assured me, changes their shape but not their size. Who was I to argue?

One person who certainly won’t be donating a penny to this charity is my friend Kola Boof, the Nubian freedom fighter and poetess. She views the brassiere as an oppressive chest-shackle invented by imperialist white men to enslave the proud African bosom. Devotees of her bare-titty cult will no doubt be agitating against this scheme in various ways, possibly including sabotage. I will advise Kola to play it cool and let the fad run out of steam of its own accord. Dumping bras into the Atlantic Ocean would annoy a lot of people who might otherwise be sympathetic, including fishermen and snorkelers.

My only issue with this charity is that many of the donated bras won’t find a suitable pair of jahoobies to encase, given that African women tend to have fuller figures than their Caucasian sisters. There aren’t many AA ladies in our neck of the jungle, which I must admit has never previously been a cause for concern. What other uses are there for small-cupped bras? The manager of the safari camp suggests giving them to the chimpanzees, who are pretty inventive in their use of human bric-a-brac. But suppose they actually wore them? It’s the sort of thing that would make us a laughing stock if anyone took pictures.

A better idea might be donating them to fruit vendors to put their wares in. It could be a very successful marketing ploy. Imagine a nice juicy pair of oranges hanging demurely inside a Balconette Banger Booster by Gok Wan. I don’t see many men walking past the stall without giving them a squeeze at the very least.

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