Balls of Sheen, Jizz of Becks

 

A tourist at the safari guesthouse speculates about the size of Charlie Sheen’s testicles. 

“I’m guessing they’re bigger than golf balls,” he says. 

The evidence he offers for this conjecture is a news report about a weekend the actor spent in Las Vegas, where he allegedly copulated with prostitutes on a revolving-door basis. I tell the tourist that such feats of debauchery, although impressive in their own terms, do not amount to conclusive proof. 

“The source you cite mentions that Mr Sheen was ‘coked out of his head’,” I point out. “The aphrodisiac effect of that narcotic might enable a man with gonads the size of grapes to spend a weekend skewering whores.” 

“You could be right,” agrees the tourist, “but without big balls he’d be firing blanks pretty soon. I guess you gorillas don’t have to worry about that.” 

“We conserve our ammunition and try to make every shot count,” I reply modestly, resisting the temptation to boast or exaggerate. “The animals with the biggest ones in relation to bodyweight are a species of grasshopper. They enable the male to impregnate scores of females in a frenetic spree of hop-on, hop-off action.” 

“Grasshoppers!” exclaims the tourist. “Who’d have thunk it? I’ll remember not to keep them as pets so I don’t get an inferiority complex!” 

“You could eat them to get a superiority complex,” I suggest. 

I later regret having discussed the issue of ball-size with the tourist. Although one should always be civil to guests, there’s no need to feed their delusions about the importance of a well-packed scrotum. For, as we say in the jungle, the proof of the bollock lies in the potency of its seed. 

One man who has no deficiency in this regard is Mr Becks, having recently impregnated Victoria Spice for the fourth time. This happy news was greeted with joyous celebrations in the African bush – the elephants blew their trumpets; the rhinos swished their horns; the crocodiles thrashed their tails against the rumps of lounging hippos. 

My females did their “squat-and-grunt” dance, offering prayers that the new arrival would emerge from the orifice that Nature intended, rather than being surgically extracted in the manner of its siblings. We gorillas are traditionalists on the question of childbirth, believing that a baby should come out the same way it got in. While it’s true that Victoria’s figure is not ideal for squeezing them through the birth canal, there are ways of preparing her for the required exertions. A tub of Vaseline and a zucchini can achieve great things in the right hands. 

What I admire most about Victoria is the way she always manages to get knocked up when some floozy is claiming to have slept with her husband. It’s as if a sixth sense tells her when her marriage is under threat, prompting her to jump on Mr Becks while he’s doing the junior crossword puzzle. I don’t for one minute believe the scurrilous tales of infidelity in the gutter press, but it’s nice to see a wife who knows how to remind her man where his virile juices belong.

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Dog food

Yesterday, the manager of the safari camp walked up to me with a big grin on his face. 

“I’ve found the perfect woman for your harem,” he declared, handing me a newspaper clipping. “A magnificent specimen with the body and soul of a female gorilla,” he added in a tone of ironic reverence. 

I read the report in his presence. It described the travails of an unfortunate Yorkshireman whose ear was bitten off by a stupendously butch woman. She claimed to be the man’s girlfriend, but such assertions should be taken with a pinch of saltpetre. The marauding she-elephant will often lay claim to stray bucks she has ravished. The slender provocation for her assault was that the man had accepted a drink from a barmaid in celebration of his birthday. 

It goes without saying that a female gorilla would not have behaved in the manner of that appalling ogress. If a generous barmaid bought me a drink, my females would be jealous of the beverage rather than the goodwill or affection it symbolised. I'd have to get some straws so they could share it with me, and then rent a large wheelbarrow to dump them in afterwards. Gorillas have little tolerance for alcohol and get tipsy from the smallest quantities. I was fortunate to acquire some measure of immunity in my circus days. 

The woman’s method of attack also bore scant resemblance to the battlefield tactics of lady gorillas. Although they often use their teeth to pursue their vendettas, they never go for the ear. When our females bite, they like to sink their fangs into something meaty rather than chewing on a meagre sliver of flesh that would barely pass for an hors d’oeuvre in a vulture banquet. Unlike humans, we devise our punishments for the sensual gratification of the avenger rather than the pain of the victim. 

His calumny against the female of my species notwithstanding, I decided to humour the manager after reading the article. 

“You’re right,” I said. “She has great potential as a mate. Why don’t you invite her to the safari guesthouse for a few days? She’ll need time to acclimatise before she’s ready for the jungle. You could lick her into shape for me.” 

The manager guffawed at my suggestion. “I’d rather lick a baboon’s anus,” he replied vulgarly before ambling off sideways like a crab. 

The final point of interest in this sorry saga is the fate of the severed ear, which the woman chose to spit out rather than swallow. As it was nowhere to be found when the medics arrived, it was quickly surmised that the man’s pet dog had made a light snack of it during the fracas. I hope this perfidious act of gastronomy will persuade humans to discard their silly notion that a dog is man’s best friend. Not only did the ungrateful pooch offer no help whatever to its tormented master, it hung around like a scavenger for scraps from the carcass. A better quality of friendship would be obtained from an egocentric hyena. 

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Squeezing sex workers

I was surprised to discover, when browsing through my favourite accounting journals, that the Dutch authorities are planning to tax the income of prostitutes. The public finances of the Netherlands must be in a parlous state for its government to resort to such desperate measures. Everyone knows that prostitutes are paid cash for their services, and rarely provide invoices or receipts. Very few clients will inform on them and their evidence never stands up in court. 

Well do I remember the case of Miss Belinda Swallows, the high-class London escort who rented an apartment in Mayfair and owned a Rolls-Royce. When the taxman paid her a visit and asked about the source of her income, she said: 

“Like a Franciscan monk, I subsist on the generosity of my fellow human beings. They take me out for meals, stock my wardrobe with fine clothes and shower me with valuable gifts. If the office in which you toil were a little more benevolent and a little less rapacious, it might be similarly blessed with donations from admirers and well-wishers.” 

The grey-suited minion of Her Majesty was forced to leave empty-handed, to the sullen stares of the maids, valets and nannies employed in that most affluent neighbourhood of London. His experience typifies the fruitless game of hide-and-seek that the British exchequer has been playing with prostitutes for centuries. I doubt the Dutch will be any more successful. 

Of course, there are other ways of making call girls contribute to society. I’m sure these good-hearted ladies would be willing to do some form of community service in lieu of paying taxes. Think of all the college students who need advice on birth control methods; the bored housewives eager for tips on how to spice up their dreary marriages; the impotent old men longing to feel a fresh pair of titties on their faces before the final trip to the nursing home. A nation that demands a share of its prostitutes’ earnings, instead of utilising their unique skills and experience, makes a pimp of all its citizens. 

If the coffers of the Dutch state are truly empty, they should consider something more practical than a tart tax. The Argentine government has recently imposed a creative (and wholly ethical) tax on breast implants. Rather than persecuting people who perform a necessary public service, this sensible method of revenue generation targets cosmetic surgeons and women with fake boobs, groups that might fairly be described as froth on the dipstick of society. 

We gorillas are lucky not to be lumbered with such problems. We have no need of prostitution because our females give it away free when they're in the season and repulse you with savage violence when they're not. We have no need of taxation because (a) we live within our means and (b) our IOU’s are equivalent to hard currency on the rare occasions we need to borrow supplies from baboons and other jungle primates. If you make life too complex, you shouldn’t be surprised to face complications.

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Daddy Elton

I’ve just mailed a card to Elton John, congratulating him on becoming a father at the age of 62. I won’t be sending one to the surrogate mother who bore the child – the fee she received for her trouble should be sufficient reward. One assumes, of course, that Elton is the natural father of baby Zachary. As we say in the jungle, he who rents the beehive supplies the honey. This entirely plausible supposition didn’t stop the manager of the safari camp from propounding his own silly theory about the baby’s conception. 

“Elton and his boyfriend must have mixed equal amounts of their man juice in a test tube before giving it to the mother,” he declared. “That way they can both claim to be the father.” 

“Balderdash!” I exclaimed on hearing this barmy conjecture. “If you put rival sperm together they fight to the death. Elton’s tired old tadpoles wouldn’t have stood a chance against the younger man’s killer plankton.” 

“Gay planktons don’t fight each other,” said the manager, clutching at straws. 

I dismissed this outlandish assertion with a contemptuous snort. He who speculates about the behaviour of seafood is not worthy of serious debate. 

How the baby was conceived is moot in any case. Now is the time to consider more practical questions, such as who Zachary’s wet nurse should be. I hope Elton doesn’t think that the most nutritious milk comes from the biggest breasts. That would be a fundamental error. I’ve seen African mothers with gigantic hooters whose milk was thinner than rice water. Yet female gorillas, whose udders look like deflated tyres, can squirt out stuff that resembles a McDonald’s shake. Finding a good suckler isn’t a beauty contest. There’s no point hiring a woman with perfect round dumplings whose milk is 90% water and 10% silicone juice. 

What baby Zachary really needs is a “wet nanny” who could combine the roles of milk-cow and governess. Could Elton persuade a talented woman from the world of show business to raise the boy in a manner worthy of his illustrious paternity? I’ve thought of several candidates for the job, whom I shortlist below along with reservations about their suitability. 

* Heather Mills – good milk supply, but possibly a little sour?

* Tilda Swinton – excellent governess, but milk too cold for a baby?

* Madonna – plenty of nannying experience, but udders too dry?

* Lady Gaga – very good at baby talk, but nipples too hard? 

If none of the above is willing and able, Elton should consider the radical option of hiring one of my females. Any of them would do a grand job of nursing baby Zachary into a fine little Tarzan. The only problem I foresee is that never having lived amongst humans they are entirely lacking in social graces. Could the genteel residents of Windsor get used to a female gorilla prowling through their public spaces, groping any taut behinds that took her fancy? For the sake of Elton’s family, I hope they can learn to put up with it. 

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London gossip

I’m back in the Congo, where my females pester me for news from London. I attempt to satisfy their hunger for gossip with details of Elizabeth Hurley’s latest affair. 

Having announced her separation from her husband on Twitter, it didn’t take long for Liz to find a suitable paramour. The bloom on the rose may be fading, but there’s still enough nectar on the petals to attract a variety of pollinating insects. The lucky bug, on this occasion, was a tubby Australian sportsman called Shane Warne. More about him later. 

One particular detail of the dalliance makes my females hoot with derision. It is the involvement of Hugh Grant, Ms Hurley’s ex-boyfriend. Apparently he acted as the facilitator, driving the couple to parties and booking their hotel rooms. In the eyes of my females, this makes him the most laughable wimp and cuckold north of the Kalahari. Although I am no fan of Hugh, considering him to be meretricious dandy, I feel honour bound to defend him on this occasion. 

“An alpha male feels no jealousy when a former mate bestows her favours on another,” I declare. “It is no different, in principle, from a pride male permitting a vulture to eat his leftovers. If and when your partnership in the Bananas consortium is dissolved, you can rest assured that I will whistle in amusement if I see another silverback squatting over your hairy haunches.” 

My females respond to this statement by charging at me like enraged bulls. Fortunately, I anticipate their reaction and flee before they can mob me. I’ll probably spend a few days in the safari guesthouse until they cool down. 

I should clarify my position on Hugh Grant. My approval of his conduct is based on the assumption that he did no more than provide logistical support. If he actually encouraged the affair, possibly in the hope of comparing notes with Mr Warne afterwards, I withdraw my blessing. I would never play the pander for a former mate, no matter how lonely or lovelorn she was. Some charitable deeds demand too high a price of one’s dignity. 

The final issue to consider is whether Mr Warne was a worthy gallant for Liz. His claim to fame is as a celebrated exponent of the game of cricket, a peculiar English sport where men in white costumes hurl a hard leather ball at each other. The object of the game is to avoid being hit in the testicles, something that “Warnie” clearly achieved in his illustrious career, given the amount of post-match shagging he did. 

It’s too early to say whether Liz has demeaned herself by consorting with Warnie. He has since returned to Australia, where he was acclaimed as a national hero for nailing the posh Pommy princess. “I saw, I conquered, I came,” he wrote in the autograph book of one of his larrikin fans. Whether this is humiliating for Liz will depend on Warnie’s subsequent behaviour. If he invites her to Melbourne for another spell of leg-breaks and flippers, I think she can claim an honourable draw.

Update: The Warnie balloon has burst!

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