Christmas Carols

 

I arrive in London to spend Christmas with the noble Dr Whipsnade, benefactor of the worthy, guardian of the innocent and chastiser of the villainous. After taking supper with the doctor and his wife, I step outside to watch a band of humans singing Christian hymns. Their voices are earnest and tuneful, although rather affected for my taste. We gorillas prefer a more robust style of vocal expression that reaches the pelvis as well as the ear drums. This does not stop me from applauding their performance: 

“Bravo!” I cry. “Wait here while I go inside to get something for you!” 

I brush past the butler when he opens the door and return with a couple of crisp banknotes in my paw. I am about to hand them over when Dr Whipsnade emerges in his overcoat and grabs my forearm. 

“Don’t do that, Bananas, they’re not licensed to collect for charity,” he says. “Jevons will bring them some mulled wine.” 

The choir look disappointed. “We wouldn’t have minded a tip,” mutters one of them as I re-enter the mansion with cash in hand. 

This incident illustrates one of the enduring features of an English Christmas: it’s the time of year when money is at the forefront of people’s minds. The first man who properly understood this was Charles Dickens, whose work is much celebrated in the festive season. A Christmas Carol, let no one forget, is a parable about a miser. I’ve seen it enacted so many times that I now hold revisionist views on it. 

The story, you see, has a glaring moral defect: Scrooge was scared into turning over a new leaf by ghosts. The use of terror tactics to make a sinner repent is not the Christmas spirit. It seems obvious to me that what the old codger really needed was a woman. Instead of harassing him with spectres, Dickens should have given Nancy from Oliver Twist a supporting role as the Wench from Novels Past. If she had snuck into Scrooge’s bed at midnight, straddling him between her broad and luscious thighs, he would have definitely been a new man in the morning. 

A consistent theme in all of Dickens’ work is that sex makes humans happy. Why else would Bob Cratchit be in such good cheer, in spite of all his woes? The size of his family suggests that servicing the missus was one of his favourite pastimes. The same is true of Dickens’ female characters. David Copperfield’s pretty young wife died with a smile on her face, which women don’t make a habit of doing unless they’ve been given a good seeing to. And no one was more miserable than Miss Havisham, the bitter old prune who renounced men after getting jilted on her wedding day. 

After retiring to my bedroom, I look out of the window at the grand houses in this affluent neighbourhood of London, and wonder how much shagging is going on. Not much, judging by the long faces I saw moping around in the morning. I blame Dickens. People are so preoccupied with money and presents that their libidos have turned Scrooge-like. They ought to remember the event that Christmas celebrates: the first and only time that God had sex with a woman. 

Gorilla Bananas wishes his readers a Merry Christmas.

The Japing Ape will return on Monday 9th January.

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Polar bear dispute

A lot of ignorant people are calling David Attenborough a hoaxer for using footage of zoo-dwelling polar bears in his latest nature programme. I bet these foolish hypocrites have enjoyed countless action movies in which stuntmen pretend to be Bruce Willis or Daniel Craig. What D.A. did was far more justified because: (i) there are no A-list actors in the polar bear community and (ii) all polar bears look the same to humans. Television viewers who want to see close-ups of real wild polar bears should piss off to the North Pole with a pair of binoculars. 

I have to be honest and declare a personal interest here. D.A. is a personal friend who has often asked me about gorilla etiquette. He once hired me as a consultant for a film shoot in the Congo. 

“Is it OK if I grunt and make eye-contact with the females?” he asked. 

“Not advisable with wild females, Davy,” I said. “They might think you were making a pass at them and end up sitting on your face. I suggest you shoot the scene at London Zoo. The female gorillas there are used to men flirting with them and know it’s just pussy-teasing.” 

Davy did as I suggested, and the BBC obtained some brilliant footage of him chatting up a female gorilla as she pouted and fluttered her eyelids. One of the most enthralling scenes ever filmed in a natural history show. 

Humans often ask me whether I approve of wildlife documentaries. It’s the sort of question that makes me want to lie on my back and scratch my chin with my toes. Like many things in life, they have their pros and cons. A positive feature is that the sex they contain is suitable for family audiences. Because let’s face it, most human parents are far too embarrassed to tell their children how babies are made. It’s much easier to let them watch animals do it and put two-and-two together. 

This is why documentary-makers should exercise discretion in the species they select for their hard-core scenes. Definitely not baboons. After watching them mate, boys might think that having sex involves drilling away for 10 seconds like a woodpecker and then running off to boast about it to their buddies. Elephants are not advisable either. The size and shape of a bull elephant’s appendage makes me clench my anus, so heaven knows how innocent girls would react. 

So much for the sex, but what about the violence? In my view, it gives modern humans the same kind of kicks that the Roman amphitheatre used to provide. Why are lions the most popular wildlife attraction? Because people want to see them chase down a zebra and bite chunks out of it. As a vegetarian gorilla, I find it pretty sickening, but at least lions don’t combine their violence with sex, like in a Tarentino movie. Can anyone explain why the black crime baron got raped by the white gimp-handler in Pulp Fiction? If that’s entertainment, I’m a duck-billed platypus.

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Mad rogues and Chinamen

Scientists from two European universities have postulated that the human brain can’t get any cleverer without driving its owner nuts. Too much grey matter in the skull, they say, overloads the emotional circuits and produces a personality that veers between the obsessive and the diabolical. That’s why modern humans are no smarter, on average, than Fred Flintstone and Barney Rubble. 

This theory clearly has grains of truth. All the super-villains James Bond had to deal with were fiendishly intelligent and mad as hatters. Take Goldfinger, for example. He had 007 just where he wanted him, shackled to a worktop with his legs apart and a laser beam closing in on his groin. Everyone thought Bond’s testicles were toast, but Goldfinger spared him at the last minute and revealed the details of his insidious master-plan. He then allowed Bond to connive with his dolly-birds and turn the tables on him, to the point where he got sucked out of his own aircraft. The fat git was plainly bonkers. 

When I mentioned this scientific conjecture to the manager of the safari camp, he made the following sceptical observation: 

“If it’s really true, how come clever races like the Chinese don’t have an unusually high proportion of evil geniuses?” 

He had a point, but not an unanswerable one. 

“Obviously, there are cultural factors at play,” I said. “The Chinese are into feng shui and yoga, which bring about a natural balance between the yin and yang. If you discipline your mind with these oriental techniques, it’s not so easy to go off your rocker.” 

“I don’t believe in all that stuff,” he replied. “The Chinese have their own unique brand of madness. Just look at Bruce Lee in Enter the Dragon. You don’t make noises and faces like that if you’re sound of mind.” 

This inspired me to do my own research on the Mad Chinaman syndrome. The first case that caught my eye involves a man who does headstands on a metal spike. His name is Li Xin and he’s a former kung fu master who evidently got bored of giving people flying kicks. He then spent years perfecting his new stunt, which created an abominable hole at the top of his skull. His behaviour seems amazingly barmy on the face of it, but then I noticed that each headstand only lasts for ten seconds. This suggests it’s a party trick rather than a lifestyle choice, and he’s probably quite normal when he’s not upside down. Could there be health benefits too? I wouldn’t rule it out. 

Then I came across a young fellow called Peter Chao, who lives in Vancouver and posts video clips of himself on You Tube. Chao is clearly very angry about a lot of things, but is he technically insane? I don’t think the ranting alone is sufficient evidence. However, he does have a habit of taking his shirt off for no reason, revealing the most hairless chest I’ve ever seen on a male primate. If that isn’t a sign of lunacy, I don’t know what is. 

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The Hugging Saint

A correspondent has sent me an intriguing news story about an elderly Indian woman who goes around the world hugging people. Amma, the Divine Mother, offers her open-armed blessing to all who queue to meet her. On a good day she can deliver 200 hugs per hour, which is quicker than a cattle rancher can geld and brand his herd. My females hooted with laughter when I told them about her. 

“Why don’t those fools come to us?” they jeered. “Our hugs squeeze parts that old women cannot reach!” 

“Don’t be so cocksure,” I retorted. “Her embraces have a spiritual quality that yours lack, which is why she is revered as a saint by her followers. All you can do is grope and crush. Don’t forget what happened to that American footballer you tried to get friendly with.” 

 “He was a pussy!” they barked contemptuously, before wandering off to look for a baboon to molest. 

Hugging etiquette in human societies is a fascinating subject. There are so many ambivalent situations where no one is quite sure whether a hug is appropriate. Consider the question of man-on-man hugging. In Latin countries, it is perfectly normal for buddies to greet each other in that fashion, as long as a safe air corridor is maintained between the trousers. But Anglo-Saxon men are only supposed to do it if they’re gay or work in show business. Women, of course, can cuddle like koalas in any part of the world. No one thinks it's foreplay unless there's bumping and grinding going on.

Another interesting grey area is whether pre-pubescent boys appreciate being hugged by women. It seems to depend on the context. My old circus chum, Smacker Ramrod, was sent to an English boarding school at the age of 8. He told me that being hugged by Matron was one of the few consolations of a miserable incarceration. 

“She saw it as her duty to comfort homesick boys and would cuddle the ones who weren’t too grubby or obnoxious,” he explained. “Fortunately, I passed the test.” 

“How lucky for you, Smacker,” I remarked. “But surely her maternal snuggles ceased when you were no longer a new boy. She wouldn’t believe you were permanently homesick, would she?” 

“Yeah, but I came up with other excuses,” he said. “I once got my sister to write me a letter saying the dog had died. That worked like a charm.” 

“Good heavens, Smacker!” I exclaimed. “Were it not for the pre-existing canine theme, I would call you a sly dog! Did you not suffer from pangs of guilt in procuring Matron’s motherly embrace through deception?” 

“Not really,” he said. “It didn’t do her any harm and it did me a lot of good. Once you get used to burying your face in a woman’s bosom, you do whatever you have to to make it happen again.” 

I offered no objection to this pragmatic ethical formula. When a willing bosom makes contact with a willing face, the why’s and the wherefore’s are of minor importance.

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Lady Gaga's secret

Lady Gaga has revealed the secret of her “perfect skin”. Apparently, her alabaster complexion is maintained through lots of orgasms and spinach. I share this information with the manager of the safari camp, who hopes to entice La Gaga over here for a holiday. 

“Her spinach-orgasm therapy wouldn’t protect her skin from the mosquitoes,” I remark. “You’ll have to warn her if she visits.” 

“Wouldn’t the sound of her orgasms scare off the mozzies?” asks the manager facetiously. 

“Indeed not,” I reply. “Only female mosquitoes bite, and they wouldn’t be intimidated by her caterwauling. The female of the species instinctively knows when a creature of the same gender is getting herself off.” 

“In that case you’ll have to give her some of your natural jungle ointment,” says the manager with a smirk. 

“She’ll have to pay for it,” I insist. “Jungle skin cream doesn’t grow on trees, and she could easily afford the full retail price.” 

“Aren’t you worried she might think you’re a tight-fisted wanker?” guffaws the manager before sauntering off. I suppose he thinks he made a joke of some variety. 

As well as discussing her beauty secrets, Gaga explained why her love affairs have been short-lived and turbulent. It seems the artistic types she attracts soon grow envious of her musical talent: 

If I go to the piano and write a quick song and play it back, they are angry with how fast and effortless it is. That's who I am, and I don't apologise for it. 

I believe Mozart had similar problems, but Gaga is kidding herself if she thinks it’s why her boyfriends keep throwing her out of bed. Methinks the lady doth boast too much. The real reason for her break-ups might have something to do with her annoying little habits, like having 37 orgasms a day to avoid getting zits. And how do we know her skin is really so wonderful beneath the layers of make-up she puts on? I suspect her true complexion is like that of the Milky Bar Kid – pale and creamy, but lacking in lustre. 

Now, the Scandinavians claim that the best thing for the skin is a sauna. I once got invited to one in Sweden, by a couple of flaxen-haired girls who had watched me perform in the circus: 

“Please join us, GB!” they begged. “It will open up your pores and flush out the toxins. We will blow dry you afterwards if you like.” 

I thought it best to decline tactfully: “A most generous offer, ladies, but sweating is for the hairless. We gorillas flush out our toxins in other ways.” 

The girls were bitterly disappointed, and in truth I could have easily endured a sauna, which is not so different from the climate of a tropical rain forest. My real fear, of course, was wagging tongues. A gorilla should never get into a cabin with naked women unless there are witnesses who will testify to the absence of hanky-panky. That idiot King Kong has given us enough bad publicity.

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Sleeping booty

I’m feeling a little sorry for the 19-year-old Polish girl who mistook a snake for her boyfriend. She was asleep on a couch when the serpent coiled around her thighs, making her think that said boyfriend was exploring her nether regions. It’s an easy mistake to make in a country such as Poland, where snakes are rather thin on the ground. Apparently, this one had escaped from a pet shop and was looking for a safe place to hide in. It succeeded only partially, I should imagine. 

The girl was naturally horrified to find herself in flagrante delicto with a reptile when she awoke. I hope she didn’t feel violated. The snake obviously had no idea what it was doing and must have been as shocked as she was when its comfortable resting place turned into a mass of squirming flesh. If anyone deserves blame it’s the boyfriend, who left the young woman alone and unprotected. What’s the point of having a 19-year-old girlfriend if you abandon her the minute she lies down on a couch? 

Interestingly enough, the practice of fondling women in their sleep seems to be a growing niche area of erotic entertainment. Heaven knows why porn viewers find it arousing. In the first place, the actresses are obviously only pretending to be asleep; in the second place, their supposed condition severely restricts the range of acts they can perform. Maybe it’s something men dream of doing to their wives, to satisfy their needs with the minimum of fuss and no post-coital cuddling. I wouldn’t be surprised if quite a few husbands got kneed in the groin after unsuccessfully attempting the manoeuvre. Watching the deed depicted in pornography might help them live out their escapist fantasy. 

You might be wondering how a busy gorilla like me keeps up with the latest themes of the adult entertainment industry. As luck would have it, a couple of on-line acquaintances send me video clips, with a particular focus on the kinky genres. Are these correspondents readers of this blog? I’m not going to say, but they do encourage me to ruminate on their offerings and promulgate my views. Many humans, it seems, want to have their hobbies validated by a gorilla. 

Anyway, a more legitimate method of stimulating a sleeping woman has been devised by an Englishman called Tony Maggs. The Little Rooster Alarm Clock is a non-penetrative device that rests inside the knickers and brings the wearer to a joyous awakening at a time of her choosing. 

“It starts very gently, then slowly increases in power until you wake up,” explained Maggs. “It’s so much nicer than a conventional alarm clock,” he added. “Why would a woman want to wake-up any other way?” 

Maggs is clearly delighted with his invention, but I’d like to hear the opinion of a user before it gets the Bananas endorsement. If any lady bloggers are planning to give it a try, I will link their review at the end of this post.

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Sealed with a kiss

An Italian fashion house has launched an advertising campaign promoting the idea that enemies should kiss and make-up. A huge picture of President Obama and Hugo Chavez pressing lips recently appeared on a billboard outside the Brazzaville YMCA. Everyone knows the photo is a fake, so it generated very little excitement, even among the residents of the YMCA. 

It’s just as well that Obama is secure enough in his sexuality not to blast the poster to kingdom come with a Cruise missile. He’s recently been proving his heterosexual credentials by canoodling with Julia Gillard, the raunchy redhead who rules the roost in Australia. After greeting Ms Gillard with a moist-looking peck on the cheek, he patted her receptive tush right into the White House. I hope Michelle was mature enough not to give him hell afterwards – there’s no such thing as cheating when you’re making political alliances. 

The only person complaining about the poster campaign is Pope Benedict, who was depicted smooching an Egyptian holy man. A Vatican spokesman denounced it as a violation of the Holy Father’s chastity, but I suspect what really upset Benny was the lack of passion in the kiss. No one ever got to be Pope without sticking his tongue down a few throats. The fashion house withdrew the Papal poster under threat of legal action, but there must be a few thousand stashed away in a warehouse. They'll become a collector’s item after Benny has his sex-change operation. 

The most puzzling poster is the one of Sarkozy kissing Frau Merkel. The couple were bosom allies the last time I checked, so why show them kissing? Could Sarko have bribed the fashion house to do it because he wanted to make his wife jealous? A new mother is often so infatuated with her baby that she neglects her husband’s needs. Maybe the poster will prompt Carla to accelerate her programme of coochie exercises so she can wrap her luscious thighs around Sarko the next time he ventures into the marital bed. If he keeps on fantasizing about getting into Frau Merkel's pants it might damage the French national interest. She doesn’t look like the sort of woman who’ll give it away for nothing. 

Now, this advertising campaign is a clever gimmick, but its premise looks flawed to me. There is no evidence from human history that kissing is a reliable indicator of benign intentions. Delilah kissed Sampson; Judas kissed Jesus; J Edgar Hoover kissed Dillinger and a dozen other gangsters. It’s the oldest trick in the book to butter up your victim with a smooch before giving him the big shaft. As Shirley Bassey said, it’s the kiss of death from Mr Goldfinger. 

Instead of kissing, humans who want to make peace should do what we gorillas do: bring about a controlled collision between their rumps. It takes real courage to turn your back on a rival and stick out your behind, trusting that he will do the same rather than kicking your arse or attempting some other unspeakable act. If President Obama started booty-bumping all the hostile characters who show up in the UN building, the Age of Universal Love might finally dawn.

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The erect posture

A professor from Utah is saying that man began walking upright to gain an advantage in fighting for females. A bipedal posture, he claims, makes it easier to punch your rival’s lights out and carry off his woman. To prove his point, he organised a few boxing matches between tall men and hunchbacks to see who could hit harder. 

The professor has my admiration for propounding his theory with a straight face and getting people to fund his slapstick experiments. It’s just as well no one thought of the obvious point that women also walk upright. If the sole purpose of posture were mating, they would squat on all fours like vixens in heat while the men slugged it out for the right to mount them. 

In reality, no sensible woman wants two men to fight over her. Being human, she is bound to prefer the good-looking one, so what would happen if he lost? The victorious Mr Goatface would come trotting over to claim his prize, not in a mood to take no for an answer. Even if Pretty Boy won, imagine the wear-and-tear he would be carrying from the recent battle. A broken nose? Missing teeth? Damage to the reproductive equipment if the fighting got dirty? In the light of these grievous perils, a woman’s best option is to elope with her favoured suitor, leaving his rival to run around holding his dick. 

I’m not saying that a woman should reject violence in all situations. Suppose, for example, that she and her fancy man were ambushed by an evil-looking ruffian intent on pillage and rapine. If you believe Hollywood, she has nothing better to do than watch from the sidelines while her beau and the ruffian fight to the death. The feminist in me rejects this portrayal of women as helpless sissies. What a resourceful woman would do is find a blunt instrument and circle the adversaries cagily until an opportunity arose to wallop the brigand on the back of the skull. As any female gorilla will tell you, there’s nothing unfeminine about sneaking up on a marauder and laying him out cold. 

Now the crux of the matter, of which the professor seems oblivious, is that humans are not built for unarmed combat. If Mother Nature had intended man to be a pugilist, she would have given him longer arms and a smaller nose. The last thing you need in a fist fight is an easy target in the middle of your face. 

The real reason why humans walk upright is well-known to students of African zoology: the erect posture intimidates carnivores like lions, who stupidly believe that anyone taller than them must be strong enough to kick their arses. Hence, a couple of audacious humans can drive an entire lion pride off its kill by walking up to them boldly and telling them to fuck off when they snarl. 

I should hasten to add that such bare-faced chicanery would never work with primates. You need cleverer tricks than walking tall to steal a monkey’s banana. 

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Bieber paternity suit

The manager of the safari camp shows me a picture of the woman who is claiming that Justin Bieber is the father of her child. 

“Look at her!” he demands in wide-eyed incredulity. “Why would a woman like that have sex with a scrawny teenage boy? She must be 6 inches taller and 50 pounds heavier!” 

“You don’t understand the mentality of the infatuated fan,” I reply. “The excited groupie loses all sense of propriety in the presence of her idol. I experienced this first hand in my circus days.” 

“You don’t say!” jeers the manager sarcastically. “I hope you were gentle with them, because women aren’t built like female gorillas!” 

“As gentle as a lamb, manager,” I answer indulgently. “They left my embrace with not a hair out of place.” 

The manager squeaks effeminately and plays with his hair, but is unable to engage in further repartee. Freed from the distraction of his facetious banter, I study the Bieber story in greater depth. 

The woman at the centre of the case is a 20-year-old blonde called Mariah Yeater. She alleges that Master Bieber invited her backstage after a concert and offered her the honour of popping his cherry. He declined to use a condom (she says) because he didn’t want his first sexual experience to be like paddling in Wellington boots. After 30-seconds of breathless coupling, Bieber was a spent force, and disengaged shamefacedly from his concubine. Apparently, he had expected to pound away for 50 minutes like Dirk Diggler in Boogie Nights. Children often get unrealistic expectations from what they see in movies.

The only thing one can say for certain about this tale is that it’s either true or false. It’s a logical dichotomy that cannot be avoided. Bieber has vehemently denied everything, claiming that Miss Yeater is a hoaxer and an embezzler and not his type. His bodyguards have backed-up his story, pointing out that they are trained to prevent licentious hussies from invading Justin’s personal space and ravishing him for nefarious ends. The maligned woman has tearfully stuck to her story, portraying herself as the delicate rose who got pollinated by an aggressive little wasp. 

The dispute will soon be resolved by a paternity test. If Justin does turn out to be the father, it will clearly have implications for his career. I would advise him to re-style himself as ‘Bullet-pants Bieber’, the badass rap artist who knocked up the skank ho who tried to make him her bitch. And he shouldn’t fret about the speed with which he consummated the endeavour – 30 seconds is probably par for the course in the annals of backstage shagging events. 

If the baby doesn’t have the Bieber DNA, Miss Yeater must be punished for her false and treacherous tongue. If I were passing sentence, I would order each of her thighs to be inscribed with a tattoo, one of King Kong and the other of Godzilla. It would be a brave man indeed who dared to venture between those raging monsters. 

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No weddings and a family

 

Hugh Grant has finally become a father at the age of 51. God bless him. According to his spokesman, the baby is the product of a “fleeting affair” with Miss Tinglan Hong, a Chinese actress. Hugh is nevertheless delighted to have a daughter and intends to play a role in her upbringing. Not too active a role, one would hope. Chinese infants are taught to respect and obey their parents, which would obviously be a mad thing to do if your father were Hugh Grant. 

Some people are tut-tutting because the couple had unprotected sex when they barely knew each other. They forget that Hugh has STD check-ups as frequently as most porn stars. As for Miss Hong, she may well have been a virgin who was saving herself for Hugh. Ludicrous though it may seem, people in the Far East actually revere him as the epitome of an English gentleman. One hopes he deflowered Miss Hong with the delicacy she would have anticipated.

Whatever the intimate details, the financial settlement appears to be generous. Hugh has already bought Miss Hong a fine house in London, one mile away from his own place. This will allow him to stroll over when the baby needs to be cuddled or listen to goo-goo noises. He seems, for now, to be relishing the prospect of such duties: 

“As much as I adore myself, I’m quite keen to find someone to care about more,” he quipped. 

He has no plans to live with his daughter, of course. Hugh may love his child as much as any father, but that doesn’t give her the right to ruin his beauty sleep. 

The defining event in Hugh’s career occurred in 1995, when he paid a hooker to oblige him orally in the front seat of his BMW. The police caught him in the act and took a famous mug shot, which quickly went round the world. A lesser man would have sulked in the shadows until the story had blown over (so to speak), bitterly brooding on his humiliating fall from grace. What Hugh did was appear in chat shows so he could cheerfully admit to being an ass and grin at the jokes made at his expense. This artful piece of PR ensured he continued to get leading roles in romantic comedies, playing the foppish buffoon we have grown to know and love. 

I was delighted to hear that the prostitute who siphoned Hugh’s manly fluids has thrived and prospered. Stella Marie Thompson (alias Miss Divine Brown) made a small fortune from the media interest in her escapade, allowing her to move into a four-bedroom house and put her daughters through private school.

According to Stella, Hugh told her she was gorgeous and asked if he could kiss her before agreeing to settle for a sixty-dollar blow job. Didn't he know that there's no need to compliment a call girl before she gets down to business? Or is it possible that beneath the rakish veneer of insouciance lies a gallant and amorous soul? No, that can't be possible - it must have been a conditioned reflex induced by the stiffy in his pants.

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Deceptive behaviour

Tending bar at the safari guesthouse, I serve a drink to a young American man who resembles the actor Robert Downey Junior. After exchanging a few pleasantries, he confides that he is a compulsive womaniser. We gorillas are used to hearing such confessions from humans, who often confuse us with their shrinks. 

“I pretend to be gay,” he says. “Women love having gay boyfriends who’ll go shopping with them and tell them their ass looks great. The gayness puts them off their guard and they soon start hugging and kissing me. After that happens, I just pick the right moment to stick my nose between their hooters.” 

“What if they object to being caressed in that fashion?” I ask. 

“They never do,” he replies. “Women are vain and can’t resist the idea of turning a gay guy straight. It makes them feel special.” 

“What a sly fellow you are!” I exclaim. “Don’t try it in the Congo, though. Pretty boys who pretend to be gay over here end up in the tent of a tribal chief.” 

I later reflect on the women deceived by this wily seducer. What went through their minds when the man-friend who said he was gay started nuzzling their jahoobies? Clearly, emotion and wishful-thinking must have clouded their judgement. The lesson for nubile women everywhere is clear: the man who talks gay but pets straight is not to be trusted. He is probably a devious bounder with dishonourable intentions. 

Having said all that, it is noteworthy that there are men in America who can feign gayness without feeling shame. This is a social advance to be applauded. Obviously, they must drop the act when they’re in a redneck bar or riding with the Hell’s Angels, but that’s just a matter of common sense. You don’t go for a swim in a pool full of sharks. 

Not so long ago, it was gay men who pretended to be straight. Some, like the cowboys in Brokeback Mountain, even married women to camouflage their true nature. Apparently, women who perform this function are called “beards”. I learnt of this terminology when Chris Martin (the pop musician) referred to Gwyneth Paltrow (his wife) as a great beard. He was obviously joking, but it was still an ugly slur. No A-list actress should be given an epithet which befits the bush sprouting from Brian Blessed’s chin. 

Do beards still exist in the modern world? Some people have jumped to the conclusion that George Clooney’s latest girlfriend is a beard, merely because she used to be a professional wrestler. That doesn’t follow at all. Being attracted to a female who can put you in a headlock has nothing to do with being gay, as any male gorilla will tell you. 

I do have a suspicion that Britney Spears is an unwitting beard, though. Her current boyfriend is a narcissistic fellow called Jason Trawick, who co-starred with Britney in her latest pop video. Their simulated sex scenes were so unconvincing that Britney had to grope a couple of pillows to portray her ecstasy. A man who allows pillows to steal his love-scene obviously isn’t performing with his first choice. 

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Artistic exposure

A fad seems to be emerging in the art world for daubing paint on the skin of naked women. The artists who are doing it (most of them men) say a woman’s body makes a far more interesting canvas than paper or board. Maybe so, but it’s rather less easy to frame a woman and hang her up on your wall. The most an enthusiastic collector could hope for is a good long inspection followed by some snaps for the photo album. 

The latest exponent of this technique is a fellow called Andy Golub, who spent last summer painting volunteers on the streets of New York City. After being charged with “public lewdness”, he was allowed to continue with his work on condition that his models kept their G-strings on until nightfall. A fair compromise, I would say. For all its brash in-your-faceness, the Big Apple isn’t ready for beavers in broad daylight. Even I sometimes get a peculiar taste in my mouth after seeing them in humid conditions. 

As with all art forms, there are radical pioneers pushing at the boundaries. A performance artist called Marni Kotak recently gave birth in a New York art gallery, claiming her delivery was “the highest form of art”. The critics were suitably impressed: 

“I feel the entire audience accomplished this together with Marni using their commonly created positive energy,” declared Katherine Hybenova, editor of the Bushwick Daily. 

I wonder what they did to make her feel their positive energy. I would have sung a gentle yet uplifting tune, like She’ll Be Coming Round the Mountain. On second thoughts, I would have hummed it – a woman in labour shouldn’t be distracted with fatuous lyrics. 

Araceli Cruz of the Village Voice arrived shortly after the birth to find Marni “calmly eating a banana”. You have to admire the devotion of an artist who continues to perform for her public after the exhibition is over. When I left the ring in my circus career, I scratched my armpits and buggered off quickly. Any bananas were eaten in the privacy of my trailer.

I have to admit I’m in two minds about Marni’s nativity performance. A human infant squeezing out of its mother’s birth canal is certainly an amazing spectacle that rivals the special effects in Alien or similar movies. But shouldn’t the baby have a say on whether it’s displayed covered in yucky goo, bawling its head off with a horrible tube sticking out of its navel? I wouldn’t want to be gawked at by New York avant-gardistes in such an undignified condition.

A photograph of Marni in the final days of her gestation is displayed below for my curious readers. Rarely have I seen such a prime specimen of luscious womanhood. I printed out a copy for my females, who immediately pestered me to invite her to the Congo in their eagerness to massage her thighs and buttocks. There was nothing remotely sexual about their request. We gorillas are broad-minded apes who appreciate firm flesh from whatever quarter, particular the hindquarters.

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French twittering

Although I don’t make a habit of interfering in human politics, I do feel obliged to offer words of support to Monsieur Eric Besson, the 51-year-old French industry minister who accidentally publicised a twitter message intended only for the eyes of his shapely young wife. The tweet went thus: 

“When I come home I am going to bed. Too exhausted. With you?” 

His treacherous followers forwarded this message widely before he could delete it. Consequently, he is being mocked throughout France for propositioning the ravishing Madame Besson with words that Basil Fawlty might have used to persuade Sybil to put on her crotchless knickers. The French expect better of their prominent men, having been raised in the belief that seduction is an exquisite art form perfected, over the centuries, by the nation’s bushy-eyebrowed poets.

This jeering at Monsieur Besson is a grave injustice, for even a one-eyed rooster could see he was paying his wife the greatest of compliments. There he was, making his way home, so dog-tired that he planned to hit the hay without even watching an episode of CSI Miami (with subtitles). Yet he still expressed a desire for physical intimacy with his mouth-wateringly sultry spouse. And let us acknowledge that Twitter is a wholly inadequate medium for romantic solicitation. Even the noble Lord Byron might have tweeted “Fancy a shag?" while riding home on his horse, his buttocks sore after a long day in the saddle. Sometimes a man has to get to the point instead of pussy-footing around with fancy language. 

Now the French claim to be a nation of great lovers, but is this really true? There are baboons who claim their rumps are smoother than a billiard ball. I suspect the Gallic reputation for amorous indulgence is a myth created by overblown characters such as Maurice Chevalier and Pepé Le Pew. Even they did nothing particularly special, unless you believe that kissing a woman’s arm from wrist to shoulder while talking like Inspector Clouseau is guaranteed to turn her innards to putty. 

The kind of love the French really excel at is self-love. Their cuisine, their fashion and even their affected language are presented to the world as the apogee of human culture and achievement. In the jungle, this kind of boasting would immediately be seen the defensive posturing of a beta male. You don’t make big noises in front of your rivals unless you’re scared they might rub your face into their armpits. 

I shouldn’t end this French-themed post without offering my warm congratulations to Carla Bruni, who has given birth to a healthy baby girl at the age of 43. May little Giulia have the looks of her mother and the stature of her father. I was disappointed that some newspapers described the new-born infant as “President Sarkozy’s daughter”, as if there was any need to emphasise the point. Ms Bruni may be whimsical and impulsive, but she wouldn't allow any oily-arsed non-entity to plant his sprouts in her allotment. 

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Oxford blue

The Oxford Union keeps on inviting me to give them a speech, but I’m not the least bit interested. You can’t flatter a gorilla into performing on a sinking ship. Their desperation for celebrity speakers became evident when they hosted a lecture from Miss Katie Price, a 33-year-old English “glamour model” best known for the buoyancy of her bosom. 

After eight minutes of stellar oratory, Katie ran out of things to say, prompting the organiser of the event to call for questions from the floor. A beefy rugby-playing student asked Katie who her best lover had been. 

“It could be you, you look really fit up there – buff!” she answered. “I bet you’re too young for me,” she added ruefully. 

Full marks to Katie for disqualifying a potential stud on account of his tender age – I give her credit for her principled approach to brazen whoring. Someone then asked her what she looked for in a man. 

“If you wanna get ten men to stand up here naked, I’ll show you!” she declared. 

Sadly, none of the lads in the hall accepted her generous offer of a free knob inspection. Some audiences are just too shy to participate. The conference ended amid raucous hooting and cheering, to which Katie responded with raunchy pouting and blowing. 

The next logical step would be to make her an Oxford don, so she could oversee new degree programmes in Bawdy Repartee and Artistic Disrobing. A woman with her contacts could easily recruit qualified staff to give lectures in arse-wiggling and chest exposure. As the gifted students began to graduate, Oxford University could offer PhDs in groping and dogging. 

The main downside of such an exciting development would be its effect on the traditional subjects. Young humans already need tremendous self-discipline to study the arts and sciences when they’re far more interested in rampant fornication. My old friend Dickie Dawkins would find the ranks of his followers severely depleted, as all but his most devoted groupies went off to learn about hoochie-mama-ism and the like. Although he earns plenty of money from books and TV appearances, having to cancel his lectures would be a crushing blow to his pride. You can’t salvage the ego of an intellectual by telling him to count the cash in his bank account. 

Dickie could always hang out with his hairy cousins, of course. I’ve told him on many occasions that he’d be welcomed with open arms if he wanted to join my band. He could pontificate in the jungle to his heart’s content while we pretended to listen in rapt attention. A man who promotes the idea of primate consanguinity ought to be entirely at home in a community of apes. 

Katie could hang out with us too if she wanted. It's quite possible she might find life in academia too dry and oppressive. Although we could never make her an honorary gorilla because of her artificial bust, we wouldn’t mind at all if she ran around naked and sexually harassed the local witch doctor. There’s no point having guests if you won’t let them do their own thing. 

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Another girl

I don’t feel snubbed because Paul McCartney didn’t invite me to his wedding. Paul knows full well that we gorillas find such occasions arse-scratchingly tedious, and didn’t want to put me in the awkward position of having to decline. The only wedding I’ve ever attended was that of my circus comrade, Smacker Ramrod, who needed a minder to stop his old school chums from de-bagging him at the reception. After the ceremony, his blushing bride combed the confetti out of my fur. A male gorilla will agree to most things after he’s been groomed by a female. 

Now that Paul is happily hitched, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind me telling you about the counselling I gave him after his divorce from Heather “Moneybags” Mills. 

“I dunno, GB,” he mused. “If only we could do things as simply as you gorillas.” 

“Don’t be an ass, Paul, you belong to a different species,” I replied. “Just make sure the next one you marry has plenty of cash, so if it doesn’t work out you’ll agree to call it quits. And pick a woman who’s above child-bearing age. You’ve already sired a decent brood, and don’t want another baby selfishly hogging your wife’s udders.” 

The new Lady McCartney could not have fulfilled my specifications more perfectly if I had picked her myself. Ms Nancy Shevell, aged 51, is the heiress of a road haulage empire. She is attractive; she is demure; her eyes do not have daggers in them. In short, she is the kind of woman who wouldn’t throw her hairdryer at you for saying her new hairstyle made her look like a yeti. 

When I discussed Paul’s nuptials with the manager of the safari camp, he affected a sceptical tone:

“This Nancy woman sounds a bit bland to me,” he said. “Some men prefer a hot-headed wife who curses and bites before you pin her to the bed.” 

“You’re confusing humans with apes,” I replied. “A man married to a dragon-lady can only fantasize about bed-pinning scenarios. Attempting such a manoeuvre in real life would most likely provoke a stiletto in the groin.” 

Is it possible for a man to find happiness in the arms of a bad-tempered woman? Count Dracula’s wives were obviously crazy bitches from hell, yet they seemed quite devoted to their sinister and remorseless husband. They also got on tolerably well with each other, which doesn’t always happen in polygamous situations. 

I would guess that the cornerstone of their relationship was the total absence of jealously. The Count was perfectly free to pursue any virgins her fancied, even if it meant going on extended vacations with limited opportunities for correspondence. And his feral spouses didn’t hesitate to sink their fangs into any stray man-flesh that wandered into the castle grounds. The Count, indeed, often played the pander to their grisly debaucheries. 

Clearly there’s a lot wrong with vampires and their lifestyle wouldn’t be to everyone’s taste. But you have to admire the mature way they dealt with their relationship issues. 

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Her master's voice

Boffins from Scotland have made an interesting discovery about human speech. It seems that a man with a deep voice is more likely to imprint his words in a woman’s mind. This gives the huskier dude a huge advantage in the mating game, enabling him to mesmerise women with his guttural utterances, and persuade them to bear his babies. 

I suspect the scientists may be on to something. Back in my circus days, I remember a horse trainer who had a low rumbling voice. He rarely used it, though, being what humans call “the strong, silent type”. Now it came to pass that one of the female acrobats borrowed a corkscrew from him, which she kept forgetting to return. He eventually lost patience with the absent-minded bint and accosted her while she was limbering up for a practice session. 

“Bring it back before sundown or I’ll smack your rump like a stubborn filly!” he boomed. 

So awed was she by this announcement that she ransacked her trailer to find the misplaced item, which was returned to its owner while the sun was still high in the sky. 

Readers of this blog have inquired about the nature of my own voice. It is not particularly low in pitch for a gorilla. To give you a rough idea, I sound deeper and richer than Tom Jones, but shriller than Lurch of the Addams family. It goes without saying that I have never used my voice to gain an unfair advantage over women. My preferred method of getting them to pay attention is to make eye contact when delivering the key words of my address. 

“I like my nuts roasted and unsalted,” I once said to a girl serving snacks from an open air stall, staring deeply into her eyes as I enunciated the last three words. She blushed nervously, but complied with my instructions to the letter. 

It is an interesting coincidence that another bunch of eggheads have been investigating the features of a woman’s voice. Apparently it varies during her monthly cycle, becoming highest in pitch when she is most fertile. This is supposedly a cue for the man in her life to flex his loins for the conjugal endeavour. 

Their theory seems to assume that a woman becomes more alluring to her mate when her voice is shriller. I can’t say I know of a case study which supports this premise. It seems more likely, in my view, that a man would give his missus a good seeing to in the hope of silencing her aggravating screeching. Such a measure would be counterproductive in many cases, of course. 

All in all, it doesn’t seem like something a woman should rely on to get herself knocked up. Far better that she should follow example of her primate sisters. When a female gorilla is in oestrus, she informs the snoozing silverback that she’s ready to mate by curtsying on his face. There’s no point beating around the bush when you’re trying to reproduce. 

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Pamela's new position

My friend Pamela Anderson is begging me to help her become a UN goodwill ambassador. I got a call from her yesterday: 

“I want to do it so much!” she mewed. “Couldn’t you pull a few strings behind the scenes, GB?”. 

“I’ll try my best, Pammy, but don’t expect miracles,” I replied. “There is only so much a gorilla can do to influence the big-wigs of international diplomacy. Throwing my weight around recklessly would be counterproductive.” 

She gave me her loving thanks and expressed full confidence in my lobbying abilities. 

To be perfectly honest, I‘m not sure what a UN goodwill ambassador does. The only one I know anything about is Ginger Spice, who promoted the cause of sex education for the world’s rampant teenagers. Pamela would certainly be overqualified for that task, but her instruction videos have already been widely disseminated. Touring the world to give the same lessons in person would be a pointless exercise. On the other hand, it’s quite possible that she’s made new breakthroughs in the field. Never underestimate the creativity of a woman who named her breasts Pancho and Lefty. 

Perhaps I’ll write a letter to Banky-Moon, informing him of Pamela’s affectionate nature and well-rounded interpersonal skills. He seems like an earnest little fellow who wears his heart on his sleeve. I’m sure he’ll warm to the qualities of a philanthropic actress whose bosom is brimming with compassion. Even if Pamela doesn’t win the goodwill job, he ought to give her another position in his office. No prominent man wants people to think he’s biased against blondes. I can honestly say that Pammy is smarter than most of the elephants of the Congo Basin. 

Not all blond women are intelligent, of course. Hitler’s squeeze Eva Braun was a pitiful airhead. The Fuehrer, it seems, was attracted to women who wouldn’t give him backchat or point out the flaws in his bogus racial theories. Eva had the good sense, nevertheless, not to remove her knickers in public and keep schtum about her boyfriend’s peculiar bedroom tastes. 

Heaven knows what Adolf and Eva would have made of the German couple who had sex in a football stadium. Their lurid exhibitionism was an abject failure, because the crowd were too engrossed in the game to pay them any heed. They only got the attention they craved when an eagle-eyed steward told them that bonking each other wasn’t an acceptable substitute for the Mexican wave. They were later expelled from the ground after another insidious attempt at scoring in an offside position. 

What this episode proves is that sex will never rival football as a spectator sport. People who roar ecstatically when a goal is scored just don’t feel the same elation when they watch strangers copulate. A ball thudding into the back of a net is a far more powerful image than all the cum-shots, cum-faces and cream-pies one could muster in craziest orgy known to pornographic science. Don’t ask me whether that’s a good thing – my job is to observe, not judge.

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