The Christmas Goose

I arrive in London in the depth of an icy winter and check into my usual room at Dr Whipnade’s residence. Next morning, I hike across Regent’s Park to the home of Richard E Grant, the actor and substance-sniffer. He arrives at the door in his dressing gown and greets me with a glazed expression on his face. 

“Good morning, Richard,” I say. “I have a particularly aromatic specimen for you. It’s from the land of your birth.” 

“What?” he mumbles. “Oh, yes, come into the lounge. Don’t mind me, GB, I’m always like this in the morning.” 

When we are seated, I hand him an airtight plastic box containing the Purple Pansy of Swaziland. He pulls off the lid, sticks in his nose and takes a deep breath. 

“Exquisite, GB!” he murmurs. “I won’t need to use my Vicks inhaler until tea time.” 

“I thought you’d like it,” I remark. “So what’s the news, Richard?” 

“The news!” he exclaims. “I’ll tell you what the fucking news is! The students have been rioting! Swarms of them took to the streets, defacing monuments and hurling flower pots. Can you imagine wasting good flower pots like that? It’s a good thing it’s not summer, or the streets would be stinking with their horrible fucking body odour!” 

“Couldn’t the police control them?” I ask. 

“Oh, they arrested a few and whacked a few others on the head, but it didn’t deter them one iota. They outwitted the plods by splitting into hunting parties and running amok in different directions. A particularly vile posse rampaged down Regent’s Street and ambushed the limousine of Prince Charles and Camilla. They forced them out of their car, and one of the hooded ruffians pinched Camilla on the arse. I saw the whole thing from outside Banana Republic – you should have seen the look on her face!” 

“Unauthorised contact with Camilla’s posterior is a serious breach of protocol,” I remark. “Even her butler needs a royal warrant to do that. The student who committed the outrage will have to be exiled when Charles becomes the sovereign. You can’t have someone openly boasting that he’s goosed the Queen of England.” 

“Well, they’ve hushed it up pretty well so far,” says Richard. “The unofficial cover story is that someone poked her with a stick. I’m keeping my lips firmly sealed so as not to ruin my chances of a knighthood.” 

“Very wise, Richard.” I remark. “Speaking of knighthoods, how’s the career going? Seen any good scripts lately?” 

“I’ve read a great one for a remake of King Solomon’s Mines that’s true to the original novel. I’ve already turned down the part of Alan Quartermain so I can audition for the role of Gagool the witch-smeller.” 

I stare at Richard for a sign that he’s jesting, but his earnest face indicates otherwise. 

“You are aware that Gagool is a black woman aged somewhere between 120 and 240?” I say. 

“That’s exactly why I should play her!” he insists. “I’ll never broaden my range if my on-screen persona is always some toffee-nosed Englishman who speaks like a 1950s newsreader.” 

Unable to refute his arguments, I wish him good luck and bid him a fond farewell. On the way back, I spot a couple of hungry students foraging in the snow for dead rodents. It being Christmas, I invite them home for a bowl of broth and a shampoo. They accept my offer eagerly and walk behind me as a gesture of respect. I tell them to maintain a distance of ten feet and keep their hands in their pockets.

Gorilla Bananas wishes his readers a Merry Christmas. He will a return in the New Year after a two week holiday break.

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Scrabble subterfuge

Humans often remark upon my extraordinary vocabulary. “What’s your secret?” they ask. The answer is that I used to play Scrabble in my circus days. Initially with the clowns, who taught me only dirty words, but later with my mentor Dr Whipsnade, who exposed me to a broader lexicon. I do not play much in the jungles of the Congo, where word games are viewed as a sissy pastime, but in a few days time I shall be visiting London for the holiday season. It is there that I am scheduled to play a friendly game with the world champion. 

Some of you may not be aware that Scrabble has a world champion. The current holder of the title is a transvestite called Mikki Nicholson, who wears a pink wig. I do not expect to win, even though I am an accomplished player who could beat the pants off most humans. A gorilla’s pride can bear defeat to a world champion. 

I asked Dr Whipsnade to arrange the game as a means of enlisting Mikki in a noble cause. I hope to persuade her to apply for a job as a Playboy Bunny at the club that will open in London next year. My sources tell me that Mikki has all the required skills for the job, being attractive, polite, friendly and able to balance drinks on a tray. If they turn her down for the position (as we expect), we will sue Hef for unlawful discrimination. Our intention is to win punitive damages that will substantially lighten the silk-lined elephant scrotum that Hef uses for a money pouch. 

Please don’t think that I’ve hatched this plot because I’ve got it in for Hef. On the contrary, I have his best interests at heart. Hef, you see, is a man who has grown accustomed to making a gigantic anus of himself. The older he gets, the more anus-like he becomes. If he continues on his current path, he will be all anus and no cheeks. This will make him the terrestrial equivalent of a black hole, sucking passing bodies into his vortex and transporting them to the parallel universe inside The Playboy Mansion. Only by draining the anus of its cash supply will it be sapped of its lethal power, allowing Hef to live out his final years in dignity and peace. 

To prove that I’m not motivated by malice, I am sending Hef a Christmas present he will surely appreciate. It is a new version of the Kama Sutra without the famous drawings of sex positions. As Hef is only capable of getting into those positions with the aid of a harness, it should not diminish the practical value of the gift. He will be able to absorb its timeless wisdom without constantly revisiting the dirty pictures like a randy old goat. 

Let us never forget that the Kama Sutra was originally intended to provide “advice for a courtly gentleman on how to live a well-rounded life”. As Hef will shortly learn, there’s more to being well-rounded than imitating an anus. 

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Chinese whispers

So the Chinese government launched a cyber-war against Google after a politburo member googled his own name and found he was as highly-regarded as a hornet on a horse’s arse. A classic example of shooting the messenger, I would say. Here is some friendly advice for Mr Li Changchun, minister for propaganda and chopstick torture – if you can’t stand the heat, get your face out of the frying wok. Hacking Google to pieces won’t stop people sticking your name in Ask Jeeves and other search engines. If a billion people think you’re a dickhead, nothing can stem the tide of opprobrium. 

It’s a pity the actions of the Chinese government are overshadowing all the good things emerging from the Middle Kingdom. Consider, for example, the Chinese cheerleading team sent to entertain spectators at the Asian Games. A picture of them is displayed above, so you can gaze at your leisure. After admiring their cheerful little faces and twirly little hip tassels, pay due regard to their flowing locks of hair, gently caressing the tender flesh above and between their pert little jahoobies. While it’s true that their slender bodies are not ideal for making babies, bear in mind that China already has more than enough people. A nation of one-and-a-half billion can afford a few million ornamental females. 

The Chinese cheerleaders were a mixed blessing for some. The captain of Yemen’s volleyball team complained that his players had been put off their game by the presence of these fragrant lotus blossoms. 

“They had an effect on how we played,” said Adeeb Mahfoudh. “I think they had something to do with our losing the match.” 

Before you pour scorn on his assertion, remember that he and his team mates come from a place where women walk around in mobile tents. The sight of pretty oriental girls prancing about in bikinis might easily have caused them to jizz their pants. Effective coordination of motor skills is close to impossible when you’re gnashing your teeth like a badger with its tail in a trap. 

“These girls are very beautiful,” added Mr Mahfoudh. "If I can, I hope to watch them perform at the next match." 

What a fine example of sportsmanship! A lesser captain might have harboured a grudge against the cheerleaders for their part in his team’s defeat. I do hope he managed to introduce himself to the girls and offer them tips on how to avoid distracting players during a game. I feel sure they would have taken his advice to heart. For all their beauty, I doubt they are used to the kind of outright admiration Mr Mahfoudh professes. Most men in China favour the Fu Manchu style of courtship, in which smug boasting and impatient cajoling are combined with mysterious herbal potions. 

The other thing in Mr Mahfoudh’s favour is that Chinese women find big noses sexually attractive. Why they do so is a mystery. I suspect they are subconsciously reminded of dragons, which are viewed as prodigiously sexy beasts in China. If a man has an appendage that women like, he may as well use it to his advantage. 

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Ancient wisdom

Does age make humans wiser? I’ve been pondering this question after reading about Sheila Vogel, an 82-year-old prostitute who shot to fame after being outed as the grandmother of a talent-show contestant. Her silly granddaughter claimed to be “absolutely devastated”, even though it could hardly have been news to her. She ought to have said that she was proud to have a grandmother whom men would pay for sex. There are times in life when the only honourable option is brazen defiance. 

When I told the manager of the safari camp about Ms Vogel’s exploits, he nodded in solemn appreciation. 

“She must have her tits screwed on,” he remarked. 

For once, I had to agree with him. A sex worker of 82 who can charge her clients £250 an hour must be a shrewd old bird. Then I read something which caused me to have second thoughts. It seems that Ms Vogel has publicly stated that she’d be happy to party with Wagner, the moustachioed Brazilian singer who looks like Zorro’s ugly uncle. I make no judgements about her preferences. I’ve seen enough of life to know that one woman’s slimy slug is another woman’s gossamer-winged butterfly. What isn’t very clever is admitting to fancying the multiple-chinned minstrel before agreeing a fee with him. Her bargaining position has been irreparably damaged, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Wagner turned up on her doorstep expecting to be serviced gratis. 

Ms Vogel’s behaviour reminds me of a fable told by Old Melonhead, the semi-mythical ape later copied by Aesop. It’s about a female spider who is visited by two male suitors. The first one approaches her timidly and gently taps one of her hairy legs. 

“If you mate with me I’ll let you eat me afterwards,” he says. 

“You loser!” cries the female. “Do you think I have to let you into my pants if I want to eat you?!” 

She then pounces on the hapless male and sucks out his innards until nothing remains but an empty husk. After kicking it contemptuously into the undergrowth, she sees the second suitor swagger up to her with a cocky expression on his face. 

“I’ll only mate with you if you make me a web, lie down in the middle of it, and let me tie down your legs,” he says. 

“Hmm,” thinks the female. “He’s an arrogant little prick, but I can’t deny he’s got balls. I wonder what kinky stuff he’s got in mind?” 

So she agrees to his terms and sets about making a web, while the male rests leisurely on a twig. When the web is finished, she lies down on her back in the middle of it, allowing the male to bind her legs. He then proceeds to probe her sexual opening with his palps, causing her to moan ecstatically until she shudders to a devastating climax. 

“That was so wonderful I could feel the web shake!” gasps the female. “What are you going to do now?” 

“Eat you,” replies the male. “And I’m not talking about oral sex.” 

The moral of the story is not to undervalue yourself if you want to be the diner rather than the dinner. I think Ms Vogel should charge Wagner £500 an hour. 

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Air pressure

Our guests are complaining about the aggravations of air travel, with its tedious security screening and delays. News of an indignity suffered by a woman in Orlando Airport has added fuel to their grumbling. This hapless female was “randomly” selected for a pat-down search, it being pure coincidence that her bosom resembled a dead-heat in a Zeppelin race (see picture). She claims that the two male security guards who engaged in this impropriety had previously been ogling her chest. I find her story entirely credible and hope that the guilty men are tarred and feathered by a feminist lynch mob. 

Big breasts are only a cause for suspicion when the passenger is a male transvestite who might be carrying contraband in his empty bra cups. Even in such cases, it should be possible to detect the subterfuge without squeezing the dubious extrusions. To cop a feel of a woman’s jahoobies on the pretext of a security check is the act of a villain. My friend Smacker Ramrod, the circus vet, said that he never even thought of touching a woman’s breasts until he had (a) bought her dinner, (b) told her she was beautiful, and (c) shown her the scar he got from being bitten by a horse he was examining. I should imagine that Smacker would have refused to give that woman a pat-down search if she had implored him to do so with moist eyes. 

Now I don’t need to tell you that the upsurge in airport security has been prompted by the threat of suicide terrorism. Only last Christmas, a young hooligan from Nigeria attempted to bring down a jet by creating an explosion in his underpants. A consequence of this climate of fear is that airlines have become extremely wary of passengers doing anything out of the ordinary. On a recent internal flight in Russia, a 23-year-old man emerged naked from a toilet and skipped gaily down the aisle. Who knows why he did it. As a former circus ape, I have observed that humans sometimes indulge strange whims on the spur of the moment. Psychologists will no doubt find an explanation linked to abnormal activity in the frontal lobes of the brain. 

Whatever the reason for his peculiar stunt, common sense should have told the cabin crew that he posed no threat. A naked man has limited options for concealing a deadly weapon on his person. No stick of dynamite was protruding from his rectum. Yet the flight attendants pounced on him while passengers cowered in fear, prompting the pilots to make an emergency landing in Vladivostok. 

I am actually surprised that no entrepreneur has set up a nudist airline, whose passengers could be whisked swiftly through security without the usual hoo-hah. It would definitely be the safest form of air travel – I can’t imagine any member of Al Qaeda boarding a flight on which a woman might laugh at his knob or throw a tampon in his face. I must mention this idea to Sir Richard Branson, who in spite of his beard is no fan of bin Laden. He is allegedly rather partial to naked ladies, though.

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