Snubbing the wedding

A girl in a gaudy dress and high-heeled shoes hands me a flyer outside Moorgate tube station - it is an invitation to attend a punk rock festival on the day of the royal wedding. The words “Don’t stand on ceremony!” are printed on the card in bold letters, along with a promise that the only mention of the Queen at this event will be “when we play the Sex Pistols”. 

“What is the dress code for this jamboree?” I ask the girl. 

“Bare midriffs are preferable but body piercing is optional,” she replies with a smirk. 

“In that case I will have to excuse myself,” I say, “for I am both overdressed and under-perforated.” 

I nevertheless keep the invitation as a souvenir, as it reflects well on the independent spirit of Londoners. I wholly approve of their refusal to pay homage to the princely nuptials, destined to be one of the most boring spectacles since Dick Whittington put a gold-plated collar on his pussy. 

My lack of interest in the proceedings is not because I harbour a grudge against the House of Windsor. Although I have never met the Queen, we once exchanged meaningful glances in heavy traffic along the A243. In truth, I would turn my hairy back on any ceremony in which one might encounter weeping matrons, befrocked clergymen or overdressed horses. Putting on such a pageant to celebrate a marriage which hasn't even begun is like gift-wrapping an onion.

Prince William, of all people, should know that making solemn oaths in public is tempting fate. Look what happened to his parents. After a few years of unholy wedded angst with Diana, Charles was fantasizing about being a tampon in Lady Camilla’s birth canal. You may say that the prospects for the current pair are more auspicious, given that the bridegroom is not an emotionally-repressed fogey who was bullied into the marriage by his father. Yet who is to say that Kate will wear the glass slippers without getting corns? One person who has his doubts about her is Bernie Anus, my old circus chum. 

“Her face is pretty,” he conceded over a tankard of ale. “But if I were Prince William I would have married a girl with a bigger bosom. It won’t be long before he’s wondering what it feels like to get his face buffed by a decent pair of jugs.” 

“Isn’t that a job for the royal nanny?” I asked. “His cheeks look shiny enough, so maybe he’s already got it out of his system.” 

“No man ever grows out of boob-to-face action,” asserted Bernie. “And there’s also Kate’s image to consider. A future Queen of England doesn’t want pitying looks from well-stacked women.” 

“Have you considered the possibility that Kate’s accession will make small breasts fashionable?” I asked. 

“Not until you just mentioned it,” said Bernie glumly. “I prefer not to dwell on doomsday scenarios.” 

I didn’t pursue the topic further, as bust size is a trivial issue for us gorillas. Kate is undoubtedly a comely lass, but I wouldn’t watch her wedding if her breasts were bigger than Chesty Morgan’s. 

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Baby Gaga

I arrive in London to discover that a new brand of ice cream is the talk of the town. Its unique selling point is the milk it’s made from, freshly extracted from the udders of lactating women. The principal supplier of this essential ingredient is Victoria Hiley, a 35-year-old mother from Leeds, who has been trumpeting the tastiness of her tata juice. 

“There’s nothing more natural than fresh, free-range mother’s milk in an ice cream,” she declared. “My boobs produce far more than my baby needs and I love having them squeezed. If other mothers realised how delicious their milk was, we’d put the cows out of business!” 

I’m glad to hear that the milk is free range. In my ignorance, I had thought that the breast-feeding mothers of England were cooped up in suburban lounges with barely enough room to wiggle their arses on the settee, mooing peevishly while voracious human babies sucked them dry. It’s good to know that they are allowed to roam freely in patios and conservatories as Nature intended. I’m sure the extra cost of providing such facilities is amply repaid in the quality of the milk. 

Nor can I refute the other assertions made by Ms Hiley. The milk from human females is unquestionably natural, and I dare say many women could feed a crèche full of babies, judging by the size of their jahoobies. As for the taste, I will accept Ms Hiley’s assurance that it is excellent in every way. The suckling woman is not a rare sight in Africa, and I have yet to witness a baby spitting out her secretions in disgust. 

Now let’s move on to the question that’s on all of your minds. Will Gorilla Bananas, a noted aficionado and connoisseur of ice-cream, sample a tub of the much-heralded Baby Gaga and appraise it for the benefit of his curious readers? Let me assure you that I have given this question much thought, examining its merits from every conceivable angle. After carefully weighing the pros and cons, I have decided against. 

My reasons are not what you might suspect. I have no time for silly people who think that consuming a woman’s milk is “yucky” or “sick”. It is certainly no more disgusting than drinking the milk of a cud-chewing herbivore that defaces grassy meadows with its dung and farts like thunder with a stupid expression on its face. Drinking human milk is a perfectly wholesome activity provided that the decencies are observed and one doesn’t attempt to take it from the teat like a greedy piglet. 

The reason I won’t be tasting the product is because of all the hype. Call me an old-fashioned ape, but I don’t like having the delectable qualities of a dessert rammed down my throat. In particular, the self-laudatory chirping of the lactatious Ms Hiley has left a sour taste in my mouth. There are few things less ladylike, in my view, than a woman who boasts about the flavour of her bodily fluids. The negative impact of all this hoopla on my taste buds would make it impossible for me to savour the ice cream with an unbiased tongue.

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American Pie

I hear that little Jimmy Oliver has been making waves in the USA. Schools in California have banned him from their kitchens for fear of being shamed into feeding their children his “pukka” recipes. Someone should tell them that celebrity chefs like Jimmy are basically entertainers. You can watch them sprinkle and toss over a hot stove without the slightest intention of attempting to emulate their culinary feats. Jimmy is a sprinkler and a tosser par excellence, but British fans who want to taste his food just go to his restaurant. 

The nature of Jimmy’s true calling should have been obvious when he appeared on the Letterman show and beguiled the audience with his cheeky cockney banter. His most memorable quip was that vanilla ice-cream contains an ingredient found in a beaver’s anal gland. Full marks to Jimmy for doing his homework and knowing that “beaver” is a rude word in America. There are no beavers in England, of course, only otters and ferrets, which are not particularly rude unless you put them down a man’s trousers. 

I’m sure Jimmy means well in promoting healthy eating across the USA, but the premise of his transatlantic odyssey seems flawed to me. The problem with food in America is not its quality but its quantity. On my first visit to the country, I was surprised to discover that the restaurants served portions large enough for my appetite. While this was excellent news for me and other 500-pound gorillas, watching humans gorge themselves on this abundance made me feel queasy. When I noticed the overfed diners trying to squeeze their wobbly behinds into their capacious motor vehicles, my queasiness turned to revulsion. The USA, it seemed, was the Land of the Fat and the Home of the Bulbous. 

Not everyone in America is overweight, of course. President Obama cuts a particularly pantherine figure as he prowls across the prairies, announcing his intention to run for re-election. I can’t help wondering whether the lardish folk of middle America resent being governed by such a svelte figure. Maybe Barry could win them over by promising to give them the secret of his slim waistline, which I suspect has something to do with sleeping with a black woman. His new campaign slogan might be “Vote Obama if you want to see your genitals without the aid of a mirror”. 

Before anyone gets the wrong idea, let me emphasize that I will be strictly neutral in next year’s presidential election. A gorilla does not meddle in human politics or hand-out endorsements willy-nilly. I have no idea who the Republican candidate will be, but I’m sure he’ll measure up to Barry in his vital-statistics – or her vital-statistics, for that matter. Let’s not forget Sarah Palin, still wowing her supporters and keeping in shape with her dumbbell exercises. If she wins the nomination, she’d be a much stronger candidate if she divorced her husband and persuaded Hilldog to be her running mate. The thought of two ladies cohabiting in the White House might be just the kind of gimmick that voters find irresistible.

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Facial cues

Have you noticed that a lot of internet sites are displaying the faces of women supposedly having orgasms? A totally pointless exercise, in my view. You’d find similar expressions on the faces of women suffering from muscle cramps or trapped wind. Some of the more extreme portraits remind me of a slave girl having her toe amputated in the tent of a Mongol warlord. These faces provide no reliable data about a woman’s drives and juices. 

A picture gallery showing the faces of ovulating women would be far more useful. Biologists have recently discovered that female rhesus monkeys have special “ovum faces” which only their steady boyfriends can discern. The same is true of gorillas. The eyes of my females flash like police sirens when they’re ovulating – if I gave them the chance they would handcuff me to a tree and read me my rights. Fortunately, it’s the ape who’s packing the biggest pistol that lays down the law in the jungle, so I generally manage to keep on top of the situation. 

The manager of the safari camp once told me that he knew when his wife was fertile. 

“The point of her nose changes colour and her eyes moisten,” he explained. “We’ve never needed to use contraception since I learned how to read her cycle.” 

“But doesn’t she want you to service her when she’s fertile?” I asked. “I’ve heard that women can be very horny at that time of the month.” 

“Of course she does,” he said. “I get some lube from the drawer and tell her I’m using the tradesman’s entrance this time.” 

“And is she happy to receive you through the back door?” I inquired. 

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” he replied. 

A man who would currently benefit from such perspicacity is David “The Hoff” Hasselhoff, who has been energetically squiring a 31-year-old Welsh nymphette by the name of Hayley Roberts. Rumour has it that The Hoff is considering making an honest floozy of the blond part-time factory worker and aspiring model. Further rumour has it that she is eager to produce a brood of Hofflings for the great man, which might be more than he can handle at the age of 58. If he knew when she was ovulating he could thwart her cunning reproductive schemes. 

Yet there are more important things in life than helping The Hoff with his family planning. Take road safety, for example. It’s an issue we take very seriously in the safari business, even though there are no actual roads to travel on. Our bus drivers always give animals the right of way and never break the speed limit unless being chased by an elephant. I was therefore shocked to hear of a Polish truck-driving instructor who gave his pupils the following advice: 

“If a car gets in your way, fucking hit it!” 

If the Polish authorities want to send Mr Krzystof Bojemski to the Congo for retraining, there’s a herd of elephants I’d like to introduce him to. If a truck drives into them, they fucking squash it. 

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Wearing the trousers

My females cackled their heads off on hearing that Elton John described himself as a modern woman in a radio interview. They took this to mean that he was trying to suckle baby Zachary, an idea which they found hilarious. I suppose it might be possible with the aid of a baby-formula breast implant, but I found their banter distasteful. 

“You silly flea-bags!” I exclaimed. “A man can’t allow a baby to suck his nipples! That would be unlawful abuse of a minor!” 

They snorted and broke wind at my assertion. Female gorillas don’t hide their emotions when they’re confounded or disgruntled. 

“How can he be abusing the baby if he’s having his nipples sucked?” they asked. “The passive one can’t be the abuser!” 

“Technicalities like that aren’t important,” I explained. “You can only give a human baby a nipple to suck if it’s attached to a woman or made of an authorised rubbery substance.” 

They grunted irritably before wandering off to look for a baboon to molest. 

Elton’s statement had nothing to do with breast-feeding, of course. When a man in a gay relationship admits to being the woman, it’s pretty obvious what he’s getting at. Frankly, I don’t see why Elton felt the urge to disclose this information on air. Do fans of his music really need to know that he’s the one biting the pillow? And aren’t gay men supposed to take turns in a healthy relationship? Perhaps he made the statement to suck up to his partner David Furnish, who was sitting right next to him in the radio studio. Mr Furnish was quick to back Elton up (so to speak). 

“I am the one who wears the trousers!” he declared, putting the matter beyond all doubt or ambiguity. 

It’s strange that a gay man should take pride in wearing such a conventional garment. Maybe he thinks he has a macho image to protect. I just hope he doesn’t expect Elton to iron and press them, like a good little housewife. There are limits to what a world-famous pop star should do to massage the ego of his other half.

Yet the psychological importance of trousers to the human male should never be underestimated. Long gone are the days of the bare-legged hero, flaunting his waxed limbs in the Roman amphitheatre. There are few places left on Earth where a trouserless man can walk with his head held high. 

This vulnerability was recently exploited by the German police, who frogmarched a suspect to the station with his trousers around his ankles. Having threatened to kill five hostages in a bungled bank robbery, he is now suing the police for humiliating him. The police pointed out that they had pulled his sweater over his head to preserve his anonymity. Few men are recognisable from their bare legs alone. 

Although the man deserves to win his civil suit, I hope he isn’t awarded monetary damages. Were I the presiding judge, I would knock a week off his prison term as compensation. 

“You will now have cause to be grateful to the police for an extra week of liberty,” I would say to him. “I hope you have the good manners to write them a thank-you note.” 

A moderate dose of humiliation can be good for the soul of a scoundrel.

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Motherhood and velcro

Another evening tending bar at the safari guesthouse, and I witness our guests discussing the thorny topic of how lesbians should procreate. The women favour the use of sperm banks and mechanical squirting devices, but the men reject this method as unreliable and mean-spirited. The broody lesbian, they argue, should interview potential fathers face-to-face and allow the successful candidate to impregnate her, not necessarily face-to-face. 

“Having sex with a man is the only sure way of knowing who the father is,” says one of the men. “You can’t trust a sperm bank. They may say the donor is a Nobel laureate, but he might be some snotty-nosed teenager who walks around with his butt cleavage showing. Letting a man do the business is safer and more natural.” 

“You just like the idea of sleeping with a woman who won’t expect anything from you afterwards,” declares one of the women in a somewhat accusatory tone. “What you don’t understand is that being penetrated by a man is unnatural for lesbians. Why would they willingly go through such an ordeal?” 

The men seem offended by this question. “If lesbians hate penises so much how come they use strap-ons?” asks one of them. 

“Because they’re permanently hard and easier to clean,” replies one of the women tartly. “Lesbians don’t hate penises anyway. They just don’t find them exciting when they’re attached to the body of a man.” 

The debate fizzles out without consensus or conclusion. I breathe a sigh of relief that I have avoided involvement, either as mediator, adjudicator or advocate. I know little about lesbians and their mysterious ways and might have exposed myself to derision by making a schoolboy howler. On the reproductive question, I would say that a woman is entitled to put whatever she wants up her cha-cha (within reason). How lesbians reproduce is nobody’s business. 

Yet like most things which are nobody’s business, one is very curious to know. 

My readers will have heard of Jodie Foster, the Oscar-winning actress. I always thought she had a singularly pretty face for a woman who found the male of her species unappealing. I believe she has given birth to several babies of indeterminate male parentage. The manner of their conception was kept a closely guarded secret. 

Now suppose we bribed some random fellow to publicly claim fatherhood of Ms Foster’s children. She would only issue an immediate denial if she were certain of the real father’s identity, and had presumably allowed him to mount her, which is something even a lesbian might endure in a good cause. But a delayed response would imply that she was making frantic enquiries with her sperm bank, which would have to check that our stooge wasn’t a disgruntled former employee who substituted his own man-goo for that of Ms Foster’s preferred donor. These things can happen in the best of sperm banks. 

I admit such a ruse would be roguish and unethical, but can anyone think of a better way of winkling it out of her? 

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