Portuguese police drama

I have a certain amount of sympathy for the Portuguese policeman who was bitten by a member of the mayor’s office, but not enough to sacrifice a chicken on his behalf. The mayor’s aide was clearly the policeman’s social superior, so one can understand his rage at being addressed with the familiar pronoun. That said, no amount of plebeian impudence can justify sinking your teeth into people. A man of position should respond to such provocations with patrician hauteur. 

In all my years in the circus, I was never once bitten by a human. I would like to think it was because I treated people with courtesy, but in truth it was probably the fear of getting a mouthful of fur that deterred the maniacs. In any large crowd of humans, there are bound to be assorted yahoos who think that biting a gorilla might win them fame and the love of beautiful women. Fortunately, the prospect of having to hawk out hairs from the back of the throat was too vexatious for them to countenance. 

The nearest thing to getting bitten I experienced happened after a show in Winchester, when I was escorting my friend Lady Chuffington to her Bentley. From close behind, I heard a frantic woman utter the following words: 

“I want to make you my beard, you big hairy hulk!” 

Before I could turn round, she had buried her chin in the small of my back and was massaging vigorously. I have to admit it didn’t feel too bad, and had I been unaccompanied I might have allowed her to continue; but I obviously couldn’t let her carry on like that in full view of her ladyship, who would have been scandalised by the sight of a strange woman being afforded such liberties on my person. So I shook the woman off and told her to compose herself, while Lady Chuffington gave her a moisturising wipe for her flushed face. 

After calming down and attending to her appearance, the woman began to explain herself. It turned out that she was a kick-boxing champion who had been enthralled by my performance in the ring and wanted to show her appreciation in a tangible way. 

“I knew what I was doing was crazy but I just couldn’t help myself,” she said. 

“I quite understand,” I replied. “After attending to her ladyship, I shall escort you to my trailer and give you a souvenir.” 

It goes without saying that I did not invite her to serve me with further chin-to-back stimulation. Such things are only tolerable in the heat of the moment, and a gorilla does not press his advantage with an infatuated woman. 

Perhaps this incident sheds light on the behaviour of the mayor’s aide in Portugal. The rational part of his brain must have known that biting a policeman was an act of grotesque depravity, but such inhibitions were overridden by a powerful surge of emotion. I suspect that many of the world’s problems are caused by over-excitement. 

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Godiva and Gaga

I am going to instruct our local witch doctor to put a voodoo curse on the taxi driver who drove to a police station after a woman took her clothes off in his cab. Even a taxi driver should be capable of a little more sensitivity. Admittedly, voluptuous 29-year-old Jennifer Gille did also steal the vehicle, but only after the driver had absconded on arriving at the station. A man who is too cowardly to witness an arrest that he himself has instigated deserves what he gets. 

How would you have reacted if Ms Gille had stripped off in a cab you were driving? I take the view that such behaviour is usually a cry for help. Rather than dumping her on the police, I would have attempted to soothe her disquiet and address her legitimate concerns. 

“Madam,” I would have said, “your current state of undress is plainly the consequence of an agitated mind. What say I bring you a cup of coffee from yonder café, that we may discuss your aspirations in a civilised manner? Nudity is far more likely to yield a satisfactory outcome when combined with friendly negotiation. You will forgive me for taking the car keys with me.” 

As it was, the woman was arrested and must now face the humiliation of a courtroom appearance, where she will no doubt be lectured by a supercilious judge, while enduring the indecent smirks of the lackeys who attend such proceedings. Never was a fare-paying passenger so cruelly rewarded for exposing her assets. 

Truth be told, these are stressful times for women of all classes and persuasions. Even mega-stars such as Lady Gaga are feeling emotionally and sartorially vulnerable. The eccentric diva has attracted much comment for wearing a dress made of meat, but it seems that this was merely a ruse to divert attention from deeper insecurities. I say this because a former female assistant of Gaga has revealed that her boss couldn’t bear to spend the night apart from her. The fact that the assistant was married did not deter Gaga in the slightest. She would send text messages to her employee's husband saying: 

“Can your wife stay with me tonight?” 

For some reason, the husband rarely attempted to interpose his veto. Perhaps he was intimidated by Gaga’s status and wealth, or maybe he was flattered by her interest in his spouse. Whatever the whyfores and wherefores, his wife spent more time in her boss’s bed than his own. 

Before anyone gets the wrong idea, I should emphasize that there was no sexual motive in any of this – Gaga was simply frightened of sleeping alone and wanted to snuggle up to a girlfriend. It seems that her bold and brassy image is merely a front for a timid little girl who’s afraid of the Bogeyman. If she ever visits the Congo, I’ll be sure to introduce her to my females so they can soothe her girlish anxieties. There are few safer places to rest your head than the hairy bosom of a female gorilla.

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Gaddafi's Italian blunder

Colonel Gaddafi must be feeling like a complete ass. On a recent visit to Italy, he invited 700 call girls to listen to him pontificate on women’s problems and his important role in solving them. In a fit of zealous pride, he urged them to migrate to Libya, boasting that the status of women in his country was an example to the world. The call girls naturally took this to mean that prostitutes earned fabulous rates of pay there, and a dozen or so eager beavers flew to Tripoli to make their fortunes.

On arriving, they were shocked to discover that hookers in Libya were paid less than the average shoe-shine boy. When they tried plying their trade in hotel bars frequented by foreign nationals they were shooed away like cats. Nor were they allowed to advertise their services in high-quality periodicals like the Camel Breeder’s Gazette. Enraged by this turn of events, they rushed to berate Gaddafi in his tent, telling him that unless he reimbursed their expenses they would tell everyone that Libya was a shit-hole. Gaddafi had no option but to cough up the cash and apologise for having misled them, which he blamed on a mistranslation of his words. The girls then returned to Italy and told everyone that Libya was a shit-hole.

The actual position of women in Libya is not a topic on which I have reliable information. Certainly, the young ladies in Gaddafi’s bodyguard detail must have a pretty cushy life – a woman who walks around with a semi-automatic weapon slung over her shoulder doesn’t have to take crap from anyone. As for the rest of the female population, who really knows? The Colonel likes to present himself as a progressive revolutionary type, but men in that part of the world are used to wearing the trousers and hogging the poufs. If a wife gets too lippy with her husband she might find herself being bartered for a goat at the souk.

To find out where women are truly respected, one must ignore the rhetoric and look at actual behaviour. Take the recent example of Senor Gustavo Rojas, a candidate for Venezuela’s National Assembly. He is raising funds for his campaign by means of a raffle in which the first-prize is breast enlargement surgery. The fact that he chose such a prize shows his interest in women’s issues and his desire to attract their support – or more particularly, the support of women who want bigger boobs. On getting elected, he will no doubt offer the winner of the raffle a secretarial position in his office.

Now recognising a woman’s right to have big jugs (should she wish to) doesn’t mean a society has dealt with all its gender issues. The political classes in Venezuela should view this as a stepping stone for other equally important rights, such as a firm and peachy butt. But it does make one wonder what Colonel Gaddafi would have to say if he toured Venezuela on a fact-finding mission, meeting the flower of its voluptuous womanhood. I wouldn’t be surprised if his famous eloquence deserted him, and he found himself tripping over his tongue.

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Spanish church brawl

Disturbing news of a punch-up in a church in Spain, which began when a member of the congregation spat out a wafer the priest had put in his mouth. No one likes to see their cooking insulted in that way, so Father Victor Jimeno might be forgiven for departing from Christian norms and giving the ungrateful wretch a slap on his insolent face. Mayhem then ensued, with blows being exchanged in pews and arses being kicked on the altar. 

In spite of following the strict dietary laws of my race, I have never had occasion to spit out food given to me by humans. If you don’t like what’s on the menu don’t order it – or, if possible, get the menu changed. 

A few years ago I paid a surprise visit to my friend Ernesto Bongodrum, who owns a farm in Kenya. The Bongodrums have been in my debt ever since I rescued their virgin daughter from the clutches of a predatory movie producer and found her a position in a respectable circus. Yes, there are respectable circuses if you know where to find them, and she didn’t surrender her virtue until she was a fully-trained acrobat, which is as much as any parents could hope for their daughter. 

Ernesto was appropriately overcome with joy when he saw me hiking through the fields to the salutations of his smiling farmhands. 

“Gorilla Bananas, our dear friend and benefactor!” he exclaimed. “Tonight we shall have a feast in your honour! I shall tell Dolores to light the oven while I slaughter the fatted calf!” 

Touched as I was by this effusion of honest veneration, I could not allow him to butcher a calf on my behalf, which would have violated the sacred edicts of Old Melonhead the Wise. So I tactfully proposed an alternative: 

“Ernesto, my dear fellow, your hospitality would put the Raja of Mehmoodabad to shame. Rather than slaughtering the fatted calf, please indulge my fancy by milking the fatted cow instead. I have a bunch of overripe bananas in my knapsack and presently crave to toast our friendship with a sweet and frothy milkshake.” 

Ernesto did as I bade, giving the udders of his favourite ungulate a good pumping while I sat in the lounge, entertaining Dolores with bawdy anecdotes from my circus days. 

I wish I could say that all great apes were as careful about their diet as we gorillas. I was shocked to hear news of a captive orang-utan called Oshine, who was fed junk food by irresponsible humans until she ballooned into a hairy version of Jabba the Hut. 

There’s not much future for a fat female orang-utan. Unlike the human species, there are no kinky males with a blubber fetish. I don’t envy her new owners in Dorset, who hope to restore her to a normal weight by putting her on a diet. A spoiled orang-utan used to eating sweets and desserts isn’t going to look kindly upon humans who present her with plates of carrots and broccoli. Vegetables will fly through the air before this portly princess is in serviceable condition. 

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Forced pleasure

A female charity executive who allowed her boss to hypnotise her is claiming that he fondled her bosom and repeatedly brought her to orgasm by means of hypnotic suggestion. Seeking redress for this gross abuse of trust, Ms Susan Patroski is suing her former employer for five million dollars. 

When I told the manager of the safari camp about this case he was astonished. “She wants five million dollars for having an orgasm!” he exclaimed. “How much would she want for a trip to the moon and back? Ten million?” 

“You are forgetting that he felt up her boobs before tricking her into climaxing,” I replied. “The ends do not justify the means, and the chest of a hypnotised woman is a forbidden zone in both law and common morality.” 

“Fine!” barked the manager. “Let her do to him what he did to her. I bet he wouldn’t mind if she fondled his chest and gave him an orgasm.” 

“That’s how Solomon and Sheba settled their lawsuit in 970 BC, isn’t it?” I remarked. “It’s a pity you’re not the man’s lawyer so you could dazzle the courtroom with your brilliant legal insights.” 

Detecting a hint of sarcasm in my remarks, the manager blew a small raspberry and went off to play with his remote-controlled Barbie doll. Much as I abhor his crass opinions, I find myself agreeing with him that this dispute does not belong in a courtroom. Can any sum of money, no matter how large, ever compensate a woman for being forced to have an orgasm? Even five million bucks would never wipe away the shame of being made to moan ecstatically while waves of toe-curling rapture wash over her quivering body. Once again, it seems that a rapacious law firm has persuaded a woman to pursue litigation that will bring her no satisfaction in the long run. 

The other problem, of course, is that Ms Patroski has now revealed to the world that she has no control over her climaxes. Although this is not the worst condition in the world, perhaps being the opposite of frigidity, it does make her a tempting target for fiends and perverts. Speaking as a former circus ape, I can assure you that the dwarves I knew would have been creaming their tights at the thought of getting into a confined space with Ms Patroski. Although small in stature, they preferred normal-sized women and had fingers that could poke holes in a watermelon. 

Had I been Ms Patroski’s confidant, I would have advised her to seek justice by other means. For example, she could have hired one of those detective agencies that secretly film adulterous liaisons, and instructed them to make a video of her boss masturbating. Threatening to make the footage public would have surely persuaded him to apologise and perform appropriate acts of penance. I should imagine he would have shaved his head and pierced his nipples to avoid having his exertions displayed on the internet. Checking thy body may amend thy soul, as we say in the jungle

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The moving finger writes

Hats off to the BBC weatherman who flipped the bird on live TV. The raised middle finger of Mr Tomasz Schafernaker appeared on-screen after the news anchorman had made a snide remark about the accuracy of his forecasts. The camera then moved back to the newsreader, who squirmed in his chair like a man with a boil on his arse. 

There is no media functionary more deserving of a defiant gesture than the TV news anchorman. A pompous upstart who thinks that reading an autocue and pulling smug faces entitles him to esteem needs to feel the scorn of the masses. An erect digit sets the perfect tone for further affronts and aspersions. The weather presenter, by contrast, is an honourable and morally courageous actor. Those who make forecasts for a living, thereby running the risk of getting it wrong and looking like a pillock, deserve the respect of the righteous. 

When I mentioned this uplifting story to the manager of the safari camp, he missed the point entirely. 

“I don’t approve of men giving the weather forecast,” he remarked irrelevantly. “That’s a job for tasty girls in skimpy dresses. After watching the news, you need something soft and visually appealing.” 

“Would you like me to buy you a Teddy Bear?” I asked facetiously. 

He responded to my quip by raising his middle finger, which I interpreted as a laboured attempt at irony. He then ambled off to sit at his desk and play with his balls. 

I should mention, in passing, that I have nothing against female weather presenters. Back in my circus days, I remember a young lady called Ulrika Jonsson who delivered weather bulletins on a commercial TV station. She did her job competently enough, but I instinctively knew that it was merely a stepping stone for greater things. She later proved me right by having an affair with England’s football coach and saying the word “scrotum” on daytime TV. I believe she now has four children, each sired by a different father. It is a reproductive strategy that would make a female gorilla envious. 

Engaging though Ulrika was, I don’t recall her doing anything interesting with her finger on TV. Flipping the bird may have been too confrontational for a Swedish coquette, but there were other more feminine options. She could have appeared on a cookery program, sticking her finger into appetising dishes and sucking it clean, possibly while making ecstatic noises with her eyes shut. It’s little touches like this that persuade viewers to jot down recipes and look for the right ingredients in the supermarket. 

As for Mr Schafernaker, his intrepid finger has nothing more to prove. The cowardly executives at the BBC may banish him from the live studio, but a man of his calibre is bound to find another outlet for his talents. I would put him charge of the switchboard dealing with complaints from viewers about nudity and bad language. I’m sure he’d find novel ways of responding to their concerns in a sensitive and understanding manner. 

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