Sleeping arrangements

Apparently, a lot of British people find that listening to jungle noises puts them to sleep. I suppose the chattering of monkeys reminds them of childhood visits to the zoo, rather than annoying creatures who might piss on their heads. When I want to fall asleep quickly, I listen to an audiotape of a woman nagging her husband. It takes me back to my carefree circus days, when I sniggered at humans queuing for tickets in the hot sun. 

Sadly, Britain no longer produces women like Mary Poppins, who could coax people to Noddyland by a singing a soothing lullaby. Cut-glass English accents are out of fashion in the UK, where the current crop of nannies are burly young women with hoarse voices from places like Woking and Slough. Listening to them warble is not conducive to a restful night of slumber. 

Now, the crucial point about sleep is that quality is more important than quantity. The best bit of the nightly snooze is the first part, when the brain is switched off and the spirit resides in a peaceful void on the dark side of the Moon. Things go downhill when the brain wakes up and finds that nothing is happening. In its boredom, it manufactures the mental poo we call “dreams”. 

There are people who claim to have wonderful dreams in which they fly above the Earth like an eagle, laying eggs on top of the Eiffel Tower and getting their feathers stroked by Carla Bruni. You only have dreams like that if your subconscious mind is trying to lift your spirits because your wakeful existence is incredibly shitty. In other circumstances, dreams are weird little pantomimes that signify nothing and foretell less. This doesn’t stop humans from assuming I’m a hairy soothsayer who can interpret their dreams. Last week, a fresh-faced girl on safari took me into her confidence: 

“I keep on having this horrible nightmare!” she mewed. “A giant python wraps his coils around my body and starts squeezing me ever more tightly. And while he’s squeezing me, he lifts his horrible head and looks right into my eyes: 

‘I’ll stop squeezing if you’ll kiss me on the mouth,’ he says. 

‘A French kiss?’ I ask. 

‘Is there any other kind?’ he replies, making his tongue dart in and out. 

‘I won’t do it, you beastly serpent!’ I cry. ‘I’d rather be squeezed like a lemon than kiss you!’ 

But in my heart, I know the real reason I won’t kiss him is because I want him to carry on squeezing me! Oh what does it mean, GB?!” 

The dream was total nonsense, of course. No self-respecting python would give up its supper for a bit of tongue action with a human female. Yet I sensed it would be unkind to denigrate something which she clearly believed was a highly significant piece of theatre. 

“It means you are a virtuous young lady who will not kiss a snake however good it makes her feel.” I declared. 

She thanked me profusely and skipped away contentedly. I just hope my interpretation doesn’t end up ruining someone’s life.

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Hello Dolly!

 

My females have been shaking their hairy haunches to the music of Dolly Parton and I’m not ashamed to admit I joined them. The feisty diva’s latest CD is a must buy for anyone with an ear for cheerful ditties, sung in the chirpy-yet-defiant voice of a busty-yet-diminutive southern belle. 

Miss Parton is now wealthy enough to produce her own albums, having previously been frustrated by shallow and avaricious record companies that will shun a female artist whose nipples are lower than her rib-cage. In a recent interview, she was quick to point out that being her own boss had its advantages: 

“I don’t have to listen to anybody,” she explained. “I’m the only person that I have to tell to kiss my ass.” 

She was speaking figuratively, of course. There are very few humans whose spines are flexible enough to kiss their own behinds, and I’d be very surprised if Dolly could get within 12 inches at her age. Thankfully, a singer of her rare and extraordinary genius will never have to attempt this inelegant feat to entertain her adoring fans. 

“It ain’t really about the money, it’s about the art.” she declared when pressed on the matter. 

I couldn’t agree more. There’s nothing remotely artistic about smooching your own rear end, even if the perverts and ghouls would pay top-dollar to witness it. A lady of style does not sully her image by performing unnatural stunts. 

On the subject of ladies’ bottoms, a woman of infinitely lower pedigree than Dolly Parton has displayed a photo of her naked posterior in an English law court. Accused of the heinous crime of punching a lesbian, she claimed the rainbow-coloured flower tattooed on her backside proved she harboured no prejudice against the Sapphic sisterhood. This dubious “evidence” immediately sowed seeds of dissension among the jury, who were subsequently unable to agree a verdict. The authorities decided against a retrial, so the woman walked free with a triumphant smirk on her face. 

It disappoints me that 12 honest citizens could so easily be distracted by a wholly irrelevant arse snap. How could they be sure it belonged to the defendant in any case? There was no question of exposing her rump in open court, which might have given the judge a stroke, and you can’t accept the word of a queer-basher. As a result of their pusillanimity, a truculent hussy will be free to inflict further aggravations on innocent lesbians and their collaborators. 

Had I been a member of the jury, I would have pointed out that law-abiding women do not deface their buttocks with rainbow-coloured tattoos. The fact that she shamelessly displayed a photo of the alleged tattoo was proof enough of her brazen and disruptive character. And if the derriere in question did not belong to the accused, she was guilty of perjury to boot. 

There are times when it doesn’t need much deliberation to determine a person’s guilt – you could say it was written on their butt cheeks. 

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Serbian love supper

A Serbian mayor has invited single women from across the country to a love supper with the town’s resident bachelors. In his eagerness to nurture romance, he has offered budding couples free holidays in Greece, there being no better place to excite the amorous passions. Let’s hope the girls won’t dump their new boyfriends for the first bushy-eyebrowed Stavros who ogles them on the beach. 

Much as I approve of a mayor playing the pander, I can’t think of a species less suitable for group pair-bonding exercises than homo sapiens. Everyone knows that humans vary enormously in their attractiveness to the opposite sex, often for utterly trivial reasons such as the shape of the chin or the size of the nose. If you put single humans together in groups, the ugly ones get shunned because they’re ugly and the beautiful ones get shunned because no one will risk getting rejected by them. 

My preferred method of pairing humans off would be to draw lots. That way everyone has an equal chance of getting a sugarplum or a lemon. The unlucky ones would obviously be disappointed, but at least they’d begin their married life with low expectations. Humans are mysterious creatures, and what initially appears to be the booby prize may turn out to be a serviceable household appliance. There might also be fewer recriminations about adultery, given that cheaters could use the line “I didn’t ask to be married to you” to mitigate their infidelities. 

When I mentioned this item of news to the manager of the safari camp, he grinned like an alligator:

“That mayor is a crafty old vulture!” he chortled. “I bet he’ll be offering consolation prizes to the girls who don’t find their dream-boy at the love supper!” 

Much as I abhor his cynicism, it’s possible that he’s right. The mayor looks like a burly ex-wrestler who could knock out a grizzly bear’s teeth with his bald head. Men like that are renowned for their prodigious sexual appetites. Maybe he'll go to the love supper himself, making toasts and acting like the star of the show, while his aides invite the best-looking fillies to a slumber party at the mayoral mansion. There’s no shortage of women who’d rather be the concubine of the bulldog than the wife of the poodle. 

Even if the mayor is entirely on the level, there’s something not quite right about bribing nubile women to come to a dinner party. Men who want to get hitched should do the chasing themselves rather than being spoon-fed with bussed-in totty. If I saw one of those lovelorn bachelors moping around, I would give him a stern lecture: 

“Young man,” I would say, “if you want to find a bride, saddle up your horse and ride out of town with a lasso in hand. A worthy suitor takes what he wants rather than waiting for the world to come to him.” 

As a fan of the western, I’m assuming that being carried off on horseback would quicken the pulse of any eligible spinster. Am I wrong?

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Chinese dress code

 

The Chinese government is cracking down on “vulgarity” in public places. The nation’s biggest on-line gaming fair has been told that the models who appear in the event should not display advertising logos in “sensitive positions”. That sounds like the deliberately vague catch-all prohibition of a Communist regime scared of counter-revolutionary nipple slogans. Some might think Chinese girls were insufficiently endowed to carry seditious material on their bosoms, but apparently much can be said with a couple of well-chosen characters. During the Cultural Revolution, the red guards checked whether suspects had shaved insults to Mao on their pubic hair. 

A more specific restriction on the models’ attire is that no more than two-thirds of their backs should be uncovered. One has to respect the mathematical precision of the ruling. A professor on safari told me that at least six measurements would be required to work out the bare-back ratio. I suppose an eager little fellow with an inch tape will be taking the girls’ dimensions from behind and feeding the data into his programmable calculator. It’s the sort of job any self-respecting geek would pay for the privilege of doing. 

I’ve only ever encountered one man who was besotted with the female back. He was a quarter Chinese but one-half Welsh, so we can’t draw any conclusions from that. The circus I worked for had hired him as a human cannonball, which meant that his own back was subject to considerable compression. Maybe that’s why he yearned to rub his face against the unspoiled vertebrae of a well-postured woman. 

He evaded capture for some time by preying on female spectators, who assumed their molester was another member of the audience. His luck ran out when I caught him sneaking behind a lady in an open-backed frock and licking her between the shoulder blades. He was wearing clown’s make-up as a disguise, but I saw through the subterfuge immediately. 

“Cheong-Jones!” I exclaimed, as he strove to escape my long-armed grip. “There’s no point struggling, my hand is like a vice on your collar! Never again will your lizard-like tongue moisten the innocent flesh of a ticket-paying customer!” 

After realising there was no hope of escape, he tried to mollify his bemused victim, who had turned round to face us. He began with flattery, telling her what an irresistible back she had, which had tasted even better than it looked. He then made the fatal error of offering to cleanse the defiled flesh with a damp sponge, which made the woman shudder and flinch. 

Cheong-Jones was later given his marching orders with a decent severance package. Before he left, I asked him why he was drawn to women’s backs. 

“They remind me of the marble columns in my uncle’s mansion,” he explained. “I used to rub against them when I was a boy. Nothing has ever come close.” 

The ingenuity of humans in finding sexual surrogates has never failed to impress me. I suppose you can’t beat marble if you like it smooth and hard. A bit too cool for my liking, I should fancy. 

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Blessed are the peacemakers

Earlier this year, I rebuked a chimpanzee for wearing a Manchester United football shirt. 

“You silly chimp!” I exclaimed. “Have you ever been to Manchester? The place is cold and grey and full of sour-faced humans.” 

“But I’ve seen them play on the satellite sports channel!” he protested. “Their best player is the spitting image of our band’s alpha male.” 

“Looks aren’t everything,” I replied. “I assure you he’d be useless in a fight with marauding baboons.” 

I was reminded of this exchange on hearing news of a 19-year-old Mancunian who is patrolling the mean streets of his city in a costume that might have been designed for Spiderman’s bumbling sidekick. His aim is to dissuade rowdy men from brawling and encourage them to settle their differences amicably. 

“All I want to do is try and get people to like each other," he explained to a journalist. 

Remarkably, none of the ruffians he has attempted to mollify has responded to his message of goodwill by using his masked head as a football. Perhaps that’s because he judiciously calls the police if he senses his intervention will provoke antagonism rather than reconciliation. Even Batman and Robin used to bring in the fuzz to sort things out in the final stages. 

Before you get the wrong idea, let me emphasize that I have no scorn for this idealistic young simpleton. When I was a young gorilla, living among humans, I also tried to pacify men engaged in fisticuffs. I then discovered a remarkable paradox – the only effective method of putting an end to their violence was to threaten (and often deliver) more brutal violence. This led me to revise my tactics. When I see men fighting nowadays, I pull up a chair, order a tub of popcorn and watch the action like a film buff at the cinema. If this alone doesn’t bring about a truce, shouting “I’ll fight the winner” usually has a calming effect. 

A very different approach is required when I encounter an affray between women. Obviously I can’t just watch them, which would be the behaviour of a roguish voyeur. Fortunately, my years of experience with female circus acrobats taught me what to do in these situations. Rather than intervening to settle the dispute, one must impose oneself as the referee. 

The main rules to enforce in a catfight are as follows – no scratching, hair-pulling or pinching of the bosom flesh. Blows must be delivered cleanly to the fleshy parts of the body and biting is only acceptable if the face is being pummelled. Wrestling and slapping of the posterior are encouraged as forms of aggression less likely to cause injury or disfigurement. Coarse swearing or mean remarks are strongly censured. 

A danger of refereeing such bouts, of course, is getting caught up in the melee yourself. Enraged women don’t like being chided by a gorilla and are apt to question his neutrality. My immediate response to such an impropriety is to hoist the combatants off the ground, holding one under each arm. I have always found that women are much calmer when their feet are airborne. 

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Dreaming of Obama

A correspondent has sent me a blog post written by a strange young man who dreamt he had been raped by President Obama. If you read the post, you'll discover that the Obama of his dreams drugged his drink, raped him violently and then pinched his cheeks for good measure. What I find odd is that the fellow seems to think his dream is something to be proud of, and his readers, judging by their comments, appear to concur. Anyone would think that he’d been invited to the White House for a game of checkers and a hot dog. 

My own view is that dreaming you've been raped by the President of the United States is nothing to boast about. Men have suffered greater calamities in their sleep, and in their waking hours too. I should imagine that most people could easily replicate the dream by gazing at pictures of Obama during the day and inserting a butt plug before turning in for the night. I'm not suggesting anyone should do that, of course. Any US citizen who intentionally generates a nightmare of being buggered by the president is arguably guilty of sedition. I believe there's a legal precedent involving President Ulysses Grant and the owner of the Fancy Britches Saloon in Tennessee. 

I dare say this fellow's confession is the tip of the iceberg - millions of men all over the world are probably having similar rape fantasies. If Village People were re-forming today, one of the band members would certainly be an Obama lookalike. When a good-looking black man gets his finger on the nuclear button, men of ambiguous tendencies discover their inner catamite. 

Anyway, I mentioned this blog post to an American man staying at the safari guesthouse in the hope of making light conversation during the rainy season. His eyebrows didn't move a millimetre. 

“There's a guy in Washington DC who claims Obama raped him in real life,” he said. “He sits under a sign with the words “OBAMA RAPED ME” on it, and below the headline is a story about how Obama drugged his drink and crept into his bed on a dark and stormy night. He says he told Obama's bodyguards what happened, but they didn’t do anything.” 

“What a fool!” I exclaimed. “As if it’s the job of Obama's bodyguards to console his rape victims. Alleged rape victims, I should say. He sounds like another bi-curious white boy, fantasizing about being ravished by the black commander-in-chief.” 

“Actually, the man was black,” corrected the guest. 

“Was he indeed?” I remarked. “The plot thickens.” 

Whatever the colour of his complexion, the behaviour of this fellow annoys me. America may be the land of free speech, but you shouldn’t be allowed to accuse the president of rape without substantiating the accusation. Where is the proctologist's report? Where are the cotton swabs? 

If you happen to encounter this lamentable guttersnipe on a visit to Washington DC, please pass on the following message: 

Gorilla Bananas says “Put up or shut up!”

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