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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Witches and Dwarves

I’m glad to hear that the British police are confiscating wands and broomsticks that visitors are trying to smuggle into the Houses of Parliament. There’s no telling what the honourable members might do after being hexed by a politically active witch. They already behave like utter buffoons in the debating chamber, venting amid a chorus of farmyard noises. If a witch managed to put a pagan spell on them, the midget who sits in the Speaker’s chair might not be safe. Uglier creatures than he have been molested by the goatish mob. 

Most of the witches I knew in my circus days were wholly apolitical, which I thought was a very good thing. Politics is a dirty game which would befoul and corrupt the spiritual values of the Spooky Sisterhood. The witches I met were convinced I had supernatural powers, and invited me to their outdoor naked dancing events (as an observer). 

“My dear witchy ladies,” I said to them. “Before I accept your gracious invitation, I must disabuse you of the notion that I am a hairy wizard. I regret to say that I have no magical benediction to bestow upon your sacred coven.” 

“Come along anyway,” they replied. “You can scare off the peeping toms.” 

This was a service I was more than happy to provide. The naked witch is a sublime metaphysical entity that should never be ogled by perverts and degenerates. Her succulent flesh is a sacrament for the forest demigods, not an aid to self-abuse. 

My relationship with the circus dwarves was much less cosy. People thought they disliked me for tossing them in my act, but most of them thoroughly enjoyed sailing through the air with their little limbs akimbo. In truth, they resented me for being the star of the show. Dwarves are jealous by nature and would rather forgo the pleasures of unaided flight than see a rival win acclaim. 

A recent episode of dwarfish rascality has occurred in Argentina, where the farmers of Catamarca are blaming a marauding leprechaun for ruining their harvests. 

“It was short like a dwarf and I’ve seen it and spoken to it,” said Cosimus Behana. “I wasn’t drunk or drugged – we are really cursed.” 

This craven peasant needs a kick in the seat of his pants. A farmer who fatalistically allows a dwarf to commit mischiefs on his land is a disgrace to his profession. One has to wonder what he said to the creature when he spoke to it. It wouldn’t surprise me if he offered to trim its beard and polish its hobnailed boots.

If this bothersome imp is really causing their crops to fail, the farmers could easily make him desist with a bit of old-fashioned bribery. In my experience, a dwarf will suspend any vendetta he is pursuing if you offer him beer and prostitutes. With any luck, the hookers will take him away when he’s drunk and sell him on the open market as a brothel mascot. I’ve yet to meet the dwarf who could outfox a call girl. 

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