A Baleful performance

I‘ve recently discovered that the actor Christian Bale is Welsh. He hides it very well, I must say. Gone are the days when Richard Burton would majestically utter the lines of a Roman nobleman in a rich Port Talbot drawl. Even the great Anthony Hopkins puts on an American accent for most of his screen roles. How much more seductive Hannibal Lecter would have been as a Welshman, beguiling the prissy Agent Starling with his sing-songy vowels and lubricious charm. You wouldn’t have blinked an eye if she’d let him nibble her tender parts. 

Mr Bale’s suppression of his Welshness has not brought him peace of mind. In a recent interview with Esquire magazine, he complained that being a film star was a humiliating job that made him feel like a sissy. 

“I learned there’s a certain character that can be built from embarrassing yourself endlessly,” he explained. 

In a way, that’s quite fitting. A shrewd observer once said that the Welsh were a nation that had nothing to be ashamed of and plenty to be embarrassed about. Yet, anyone who makes millions of dollars from showing off in front of a camera ought to be immune from such concerns. It is true that Bale has a tendency to fly off the handle and make an ass of himself, but people expect that of film stars. The hurdle of absurdity has been set pretty high ever since Mel Gibson starting channelling Mad Max. 

Real embarrassment is what humans suffer when they are caught doing something totally at variance with their public image. Here are two recent examples: 

• Australian rugby player Joel Monaghan is photographed simulating oral sex with a dog. 

• English nurse Jayne Reed confesses to a three-in-a-bed romp with a 46-year-old man and an 18-year-old girl. 

The rugby player is wisely seeking political asylum in Europe. An Australian sportsman who lets a dog sniff his groin is shown no mercy when he appears before thousands of beer-guzzling larrikins. They will bark at him until he feels like a bitch in heat. Making a dignified exit is better than being hounded out of your country. 

The case of the nurse is more complex. The man and the girl were patients, so what she did was arguably a form of post-operative therapy. Even if her intention was purely recreational, one can see a method in her madness. If you’re into heavy petting, four arms are better than two, and two heads are better than one. Not being sure who was doing what might have added to the thrill. 

However, one aspect of the nurse’s conduct will bring her unending lifelong shame. She referred to her bed-mates as “Daddy Bear” and “Baby Bear”, while styling herself as “Mummy Bear”. On hearing this revelation, the panel adjudicating her case groaned loudly and rubbed biscuits into their faces. A woman who seeks to enact the Goldilocks fable in her sexual escapades is sappier than a gum tree – she must be forced to suck lollipops until her tongue turns orange.

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Gay strife

Gay activists are protesting about a German zoo’s decision to split up a pair of male vultures. The zoo says they were being harassed by other vultures who took exception to their unconventional lifestyle. On balance, I think the zoo acted correctly. There is no defence against queer-bashing vultures – once those rowdy birds gang up with malign intent, the victims may as well fly to New Zealand. The heartbreak suffered by the separated couple could be eased by giving them an extra helping of offal for breakfast. Anyone who’s studied vultures knows that food comes before romance in their list of priorities. 

Humans occasionally ask me whether gay gorillas exist. I tell them the percentages are similar to the human population. The main difference is that no male gorilla, to my knowledge, has ever willingly taken it up the butt. Gorillas in all-male pairings always play the active role in relationships with smaller apes. A gorilla of this disposition lives in our neighbourhood – his name is Passion Fruit and he’s involved with a male chimpanzee. The two are pretty much inseparable, so it was quite a surprise when Passion Fruit turned up unaccompanied to the Annual Simian Convention. 

“Hey, Passion Fruit, where’s your bitch?” cried a cheeky monkey from the tree tops. 

“How dare you call him a bitch?!” shouted Passion Fruit furiously. “You’d better stay where you are, because if I catch you on the ground I’m going to tie a knot in your tail!” 

I later told the monkey that “catamite” was a more polite word than “bitch”, but either word was less prudent than keeping his mouth shut. The monkey who casts aspersions on a gorilla’s private life does so at his own peril. 

Baboons are the most homophobic of all the hairy primates – it’s because of the complex they have about their behinds. Heterosexual male baboons are tormented by the fear that people will think their exposed rump is a sign of gayness. That’s why they are so hard on baboons who are genuinely gay, driving them mercilessly into exile. I took pity on one such refugee as he sat forlornly on a tree stump: 

“You may stay with my females and groom them until you find a permanent home,” I said. 

The baboon accepted my offer with pathetic gratitude. My females were pleased as well – a gay hairdresser is a major status symbol in the jungle. 

The biggest gay-bashers in Africa are neither vultures nor baboons, however. That dubious honour belongs to various outspoken clergymen who accuse homosexuals of improbable practices such as eating each other’s poo poo. I remember the embarrassment caused by Bishop Badongo of Burkina Faso when he stayed at the safari guesthouse: 

“Who is that poofter?” he asked in a loud voice, pointing at a nattily dressed Austrian man. 

“Please sheath your finger and moderate your tone of voice!” I demanded in a firm whisper. 

I later told the bishop that we would be forced to ask him to leave if he assailed us with another of his boorish ejaculations.

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The art of flirting

A professor from the University of Kansas has published a paper about flirting. He identifies five main methods, ranging from “traditional” (man makes first move and behaves with impeccable manners) to “physical” (woman brushes buttocks against man’s thigh, causing him to gnash teeth and grab her jahoobies). 

The learned professor appears not to be aware of the latest on-line techniques. According to my friend Ms Tiny Temper, who is vainly searching for her Prince Charming on dating sites, a good many men have sent her photos of their todger. Fed up with being a magnet for flashers, she has taken measures to dissuade stray cocks from entering her hen house. I believe that most women share her distaste for men who expose themselves. It’s the sort of thing that might give a lady the vapours. 

Every rule has an exception, however. A woman in a position of power is generally perfectly at ease in the company of naked men, confident that no male organ would dare raise its head in the presence of an alpha female. Consider the example of Angela Merkel, chancellor of Germany, who had no qualms about entering the changing room of the German football team after another blitzkrieg performance. Most of the towelling players cheerfully accepted her congratulations, although a few bashful types placed their hands over their nipples. 

Frau Merkel’s political opponents have accused her of flirting for political gain. They claim she was soliciting the votes of Germany’s sportsmen by pretending to be the kind of woman who would jump into a communal bath with them and sing bawdy songs. The obvious question for her accusers is this: How do you know she was pretending? There is nothing wrong with a female politician joining the nation’s finest in their celebrations. I believe Mrs Thatcher did something very similar after the Iranian embassy siege. 

As a gorilla who is instinctively chivalrous to the human female, I have often wrongly been accused of flirting. I recall an incident from my circus days, when we hired a “glamour model” called Tracey to help us with our promotions. The female acrobats were given the job of looking after her, and seemed less than impressed with her airs and poses. Things came to a head when Tracey strutted before me in a pair of shiny hot-pants. 

“Does my bum look big in this, GB?” she asked coyly. 

“Not big enough for a gorilla,” I replied wistfully, “but it does look agreeably firm. A manual examination would allow me to give a more definitive opinion.” 

She giggled delightedly before blowing me a kiss and sauntering off. The acrobats had witnessed this exchange with stony faces. 

“You great big hairy flirt!” snorted one of them when Tracey was out of earshot. 

“Flirt?” I replied in a quizzical tone of voice. “That’s a strange epithet for one who honestly appraises a woman’s hindquarters.” 

My relations with the acrobats were strained for a while, but I eventually managed to sweeten them up with a dollop of jungle honey. 

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Sex tourism

A pharmaceutical company has published a report indicating that women are far more likely to indulge in reckless fornication when on holiday. I could have told them that for free. In this part of Africa, the unaccompanied female tourist is colloquially referred to as “a chicken in need of stuffing”. Not by me, of course – we gorillas shun coarse metaphors in our descriptions of the human female. The expression is common parlance among gigolos who frequent the beaches in search of clients. 

I recently observed one of these young bucks, flexing his limbs and girding his loins before approaching a mature-looking fowl with plenty of white meat on her. 

“Hello, lady, can you help me unpack my lunchbox?” he asked with a smirk. 

I didn’t catch her reply, but judging from the expression on her face it wasn’t entirely dismissive. 

We uphold a very strong safe-sex ethos at the safari camp. We simply can’t take the risk that a human will infect the wildlife, threatening the survival of a species already teetering on the brink. The rooms at the guesthouse are stocked with condoms, ointments, rubber gloves and stimulators. A party of nuns from Ireland, who stayed with us last year, were perplexed by this cornucopia of sex wares. Too embarrassed to mention it to the manager, they tapped me discreetly on the shoulder. 

“Could I trouble you remove those items, Mr Bananas?” asked Sister Bridget. “I’m sure we won’t be needing them.” 

“I would be most surprised if you did, Sister,” I replied. “Yet rules are rules and the ways of the Lord are mysterious, even for those who have taken the holy vows. Is it not written in the gospels that the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak?” 

So the sex goods stayed put, and after the nuns had vacated their rooms we noticed that a few of them were missing. The pious sisters must have appropriated them as more interesting souvenirs than soap or towels. Good thinking on their part. 

But let’s get back to the topic of women who visit Africa for carnal gratification. Why do they come over here to do something they could do at home? Consider the case of Ms Carol Bone, a 62-year-old English grandmother, who suffers from arthritis and back pain. After her 21-year marriage ended two years ago, she embarked on a frenetic bonking spree in which 200 gallants were ridden relentlessly to exhaustion. 

“My age means nothing,” declared Ms Bone. “I have a really high sex drive. Why shouldn’t I enjoy myself?” 

Why not indeed, although one has to wonder how her ex-husband managed to stay the course for 21 years. I’d like to hear his side of the story, assuming he’s not in an intensive care unit with his scrotum attached to a life support machine. 

In truth, I am insulted that women should visit Africa, with its stunning scenery and gorgeous wildlife, merely to behave like cows in search of a bull. The next time I see a European woman consorting with a gigolo, I’m going to give her a piece of my mind. 

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Sex education

The manager of the safari camp has been giving me dirty looks, and frankly I don’t blame him. A month ago, I gave his wife a book for her birthday called The Sexy Book of Sexy Sex. I like books with hard-hitting titles that don’t beat around the bush. Hopefully, they’ll follow it up with The Horny Book of Horny Horns and The Fruity Book of Fruity Fruits. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t thumb through them if you saw them in a bookshop. 

After his wife tore off the gift wrapping, the manager grinned slyly and gave me the thumbs-up sign. He obviously thought the book was an X-rated sex manual that would encourage his better half to experiment with cutting edge techniques. For the rest of the day, his face had the smirk of a man who expects edible ointments to be licked off his private parts. A grave disappointment awaited him, because that’s not what the book is about. 

It was co-written by a couple who believe that having good sex depends on verbal communication – before, after and during the lunging and writhing. Having found their argument persuasive, the manager’s wife now insists on briefing her husband before letting him off the leash, and giving him instructions while he’s chasing and retrieving the bone (so to speak). Worst of all, as far as the manager is concerned, is a section of the book which emphasizes the importance of laughter during love-making. In the words of co-author Rich Blomquist: 

“If you’re not laughing when you’re having sex, you’re probably not having sex.” 

The manager’s wife has taken this uncompromising doctrine to heart, afflicting her hapless husband with feelings of utter consternation. I know all of this because he has not shirked from updating me on his bedroom misfortunes. Indeed, he holds me personally responsible for them. 

“What the hell am I supposed to do?” he complained. “Tell her jokes while I’m sucking her tits?” 

“You could always try tickling her,” I suggested. 

“She hates that!” he snapped. “I stroked her foot once and she kicked me in the face. It’s all your fault for giving her that stupid book! I ought to sue you for sabotaging my marriage!” 

“Now, now,” I replied. “I can’t read every book from cover to cover before giving it as a present. I naturally assumed from the title that it would instruct your good lady in some of the manoeuvres you’ve been watching on the satellite porn channel.” 

“Well it hasn’t!” he barked. “She was perfectly happy before she read that crap. Now she thinks our sex life is lousy and I’m no good in bed. What am I supposed to do?” 

I had no good answer to this question, but felt I ought to offer some hope. 

“Women are fickle and prone to fads,” I said. “Eventually, she will tire of these avant-garde ideas and allow the book to gather dust on your bookshelf. She will then rediscover her appetite for the strong-but-silent style of copulation that is your forte.” 

“And what am I supposed to do in the meantime?” he asked. 

“Endeavour to persevere, manager.” I declared solemnly. “Endeavour to persevere.” 

If worst comes to worst, I’ll find him a good divorce lawyer. 

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The ringtone revolution

My afternoon nap is disturbed by the noise of ululating women. They are celebrating the news that Mrs Cherry-Blair and Hilldog are planning to give them cheap mobile phones. This noble act of philanthropy will transform the lives of millions of African women. Instead of walking to the bazaar to gossip about the president’s latest mistress, they will soon be able to do so while feeding the hens or stroking the rooster. (But not while milking the goat, which requires two hands.) 

It may surprise you to learn that I do not, myself, own one of these devices. I do have a mobile number, but anyone who dials it is directed to the phone of a chimpanzee. This chimp screens my calls to save me the bother of telling salesmen and other hucksters to piss off. If I get a legitimate caller, the chimp arranges a time for a return call and lends me his phone for this purpose. 

Before you accuse me of exploiting the chimp, please be informed that he receives a generous stipend for his pains. He is ungrateful in spite of it, continually whining about the inconvenience of being my receptionist and so forth. His latest complaint is that women have been sending revealing photos of themselves to my number. 

“I didn’t realise I had to be your pimp as well as your secretary!” he bleated. “I want extra money for dealing with those messages. All that naked flesh is ruining my appetite. It looks unnaturally bare, even for humans!” 

He was obviously exaggerating his distaste to better his bargaining position. The chimpanzee who can hustle Gorilla Bananas has not been born. 

“You accursed fool!” I barked. “Do you think I have any idea who those women are? Some practical joker must have given my number to a swingers’ chat room. You have my permission to delete such messages immediately. And I’m not paying you extra because you can’t stop yourself from ogling!” 

“All right,” he agreed meekly. “But don’t you want to look at the pictures yourself? They are still on my phone and there might be someone you know there.” 

He had a point. This business of “sexting” has become such a craze that there’s no telling who might be dabbling in it. The practice is highly disreputable, of course, and videos have been made warning against it. But for some women, this might simply increase the thrill. 

“Very well,” I said. “Bring me your phone and I will scrutinise the photos before deleting them myself. Most of the women will certainly be strangers to me, but I cannot rule out the possibility that someone I know has suffered a lapse in standards. If so, I will punish her accordingly and instruct her to desist.” 

I am currently waiting for the chimp to give me his phone. I sincerely hope that no woman in my acquaintance has sent me an indecent photo of herself. Because if she has, Doctor Spank will be paying a visit to Bottomland.

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Lessons from a lady

Although I generally eschew favouritism in my relations with humans, I will admit to having a soft spot for the schoolmistress. My love affair with the breed began at the start of my circus career, when the proprietor, Mr McDougall, summoned me to finalise the details of my contract. 

“You’re a great talent, Bananas,” he said, “but you’ll need to improve your diction so you can mingle at ease with the VIPs who’ll want to meet you. I’ve hired a teacher to give you elocution lessons. She’ll have you speaking the Queen’s English in no time.” 

He wasn’t wrong. As well as showing me how to enunciate my vowels, Miss Emily Honeysuckle instructed me in all the social graces. I don’t just mean kissing ladies’ hands and eating soup without slurping. She also taught me gorilla-specific skills, such as combing my chest hairs and giving women piggy-back rides without making them flustered or over-excited. 

Miss Honeysuckle tutored me for the best part of a year, and would have doubtless continued for the best part of a decade had I not gently prodded her to conclude our business. 

“My dear Emily!” I said (for we had grown rather close). “You have taught me everything I need to know with patience and tenderness and sweet sugar dumplings. Your work here is now complete, and armed with my glowing reference you will surely find a position at a prestigious school. Perhaps you will meet a handsome young geography master, who will beguile you with tales of exotic landscapes bearing luscious fruit and extra firm vegetables.” 

“Oh GB!” she cried, shedding bitter tears. “I knew this day would come, yet now that it has arrived, my heart aches like an abandoned puppy!” 

“There, there, Emily!” I said, pulling her gently to my bosom with a long hairy arm. “You must be brave and fulfill your destiny as a pedagogue and a woman.” 

The reason for sharing this rather touching anecdote with you (apart from enhancing your capacity for empathy) is to explain my concern for a schoolmistress in England, who has been unjustly suspended from her job. Miss Kirsty Cook-Bell was dealt this harsh blow after publishing a few holiday snaps of herself on Facebook. The photos show her baring a little flesh (as ladies are wont to do in sunny climes), and the school is worried about the effect this will have on her pupils. 

I can’t see what the problem is. Boys in her classroom will now pay her more attention, which is precisely what they should be doing. Perhaps the school is worried that some of these boys, in the privacy of their bedrooms, will use the photos as an aid to self-abuse. To address this particular concern, I will pass on some intelligence from my friend Smacker Ramrod, the circus vet. He once told me that the onanism he practiced as a boy fell into two distinct categories: 

• the Who’s Your Daddy? wank, aided by pictures of unknown women in girlie magazines; 

• the Darling I Love You wank, inspired by fantasies of women he was acquainted with, such as school teachers and mothers of school friends. 

He confided to me that the second variety was (a) superior in the physical elation it produced and (b) more conducive to emotional well-being in the aftermath. 

If Smacker’s experience is typical of schoolboys, Miss Cook-Bell should be reinstated forthwith, with a generous raise in her salary.

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