Feel-good story

I’ve been searching the internet for uplifting news stories to cheer up the manager of the safari camp. He’s been feeling despondent after a Chinese fortune-teller told him he would lose his sense of smell. It’s not the worst thing for a human to lose, but the manager is very attached to his olfactory pleasures. Many are the times when I’ve caught him sniffing an empty shampoo bottle, or an item removed from the laundry basket. Chinese fortune-tellers are not infallible, of course, but their poker-faced predictions can puncture the nonchalance of the most hardened sceptic. That’s why I never consult them. 

The best one I’ve found so far is a human-interest tale about a 24-year-old Cornish woman who has found her dream job. Miss Nat Garvey tests sex-toys for a living, ensuring they meet the maker’s specifications and don’t overheat on full power. 

"Rather than being surrounded by office supplies and computers all day, I have piles of kinky toys to play with," she explained. 

As far as feel-good stories go, few could be more satisfying than this one. It gladdens my primate soul to know that Miss Garvey thoroughly enjoys her work. I’m sure she finds it fulfilling as well. 

Perhaps the most encouraging aspect of this story is that Miss Garvey is not ashamed of her occupation and makes no attempt to hide it from her friends. That would never have happened in Freud’s day, when vibrators were a tool used by doctors to calm hysterical women. Thankfully, we now live in a more enlightened age when women don’t have to be batshit insane to enjoy the simple pleasures of life (with moderate mechanical assistance). Orgasmic independence was surely the greatest achievement of the feminist movement. 

My one concern for Miss Garvey is how people react when she spills the beans. The pubs of her native Cornwall are doubtless frequented by assorted yahoos who would think a girl in her line of work must be a slut or nymphomaniac. Perhaps she needs a male guardian with the fencing skills of Zorro, who would challenge any man who slighted her honour to a duel. A boorish yokel would think twice about making an inappropriate remark in her presence if he knew it might result in the letter ‘W’ being carved on the seat of his pants by a few lightning swishes of a sabre. 

Call me an old-fashioned ape, but in my view women will always need protection from ruffians and liberty-takers. Look at the Swedish sports coach who told the boys under his charge to spank her arse, “her” being an imaginary girl used as a metaphor for the opposing team’s defence. He is obviously a vulgar oaf who has never been educated in the social graces and needs to be kept in check with a riding crop. A gentleman knows that a woman’s arse is not to be spanked unless she begs him to spank it. And only then if she has committed deeds of appropriate naughtiness. 

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Rotten tomatoes

My heart goes out to the movie director who had a mental breakdown after critics panned his latest film. The poor fellow was filmed outside his home in San Diego, slapping the ground and making obscene gestures at traffic. The fact that he did it in the nude suggests his behaviour was a cry for help rather than a declaration of aggressive intent. A man who goes on a naked rampage is usually drawing attention to himself rather than calling his enemies to account. 

The police identified him as Jason Russell, aged 33. After concluding that he was harmless, they sent him to a hospital for treatment. I’m glad to say that his wife has remained loyal and steadfast throughout the ordeal: 

“He did some irrational things brought on by extreme exhaustion and dehydration,” she explained. “Many of the attacks against the film were very personal and Jason took them very hard.” 

Let’s hope her sympathy is genuine and she maintains her composure when her husband is discharged from hospital. The last thing Jason needs now is a sardonic spouse who makes satirical remarks while she’s nursing him. A man recovering from a temporary bout of insanity doesn’t want to be reminded that he made a colossal arse of himself whenever he asks for a glass of Lucozade. 

The odd thing about this episode is that the film he made, about a Ugandan warlord, was a huge success. It quickly went viral after being released on the internet, which attracted the attention of occupational trolls who cruise cyberspace looking for victims to harass. Poor Jason must be unusually thin-skinned for a movie director. He should have told them to stick raw chillies up their butt-holes. That's what Alfred Hitchcock would have done.

Perhaps Jason would feel better if his film were screened at the Cannes festival. Although I haven’t seen it, I’d be amazed if it got a negative reaction there. Ugandan warlords are the dog’s bollocks for the arty-farty types who attend that event. The other good thing about Cannes is that no one would mind if Jason responded to criticism by performing a naked war dance. It would barely be perceived as eccentric in that part of the world. 

Being an artist, of course, means having to endure the barbs of envious guttersnipes. I didn’t get too much of it in my circus career, possibly because my detractors were too scared to make rude remarks about a performer who could hang them upside down by their ankles if he felt inclined. 

I have had a couple of blog trolls, though. One, who called himself ‘Anonymous27.5inchcock’, was actually a fellow blogger pretending to be a troll for his own amusement. He soon got bored of his caper and confessed his real identity. I forgave him. The other troll was a monomaniac who left 150 fatuous comments on another blog. Although he subsequently pretended to be a fan of The Japing Ape, I deleted his comments without mercy. 

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Swedish kerb crawling incident

I’m feeling a bit sorry for the un-named Swedish politician who’s been fined for picking up a prostitute. Apparently he’d only been giving her a lift home, but knew the police wouldn’t believe him when they stopped his car. When they started asking embarrassing questions, he made a false confession to put the incident behind him. He now says he couldn’t have been a client of the girl because he suffers from a medical condition that has rendered him impotent. 

Before dismissing his story as far-fetched, picture the following scene: 

An impotent politician driving through a red-light district sees a prostitute trudging wearily to the bus station after a long night shift. She stumbles awkwardly on her high-heeled shoes. He feels a pang of sympathy for the girl – perhaps she reminds him of his daughter at college – and pulls up beside her.

“Sorry, I’ve finished for the night,” she says as the car window opens.

“I know,” replies the man. “I am actually a famous politician whom you would recognise if you were an educated woman rather than an unfortunate whore with no interest in public affairs. Please allow me to drive you home safely. The chill of night is making your thighs cold. You have nothing to fear, for I am impotent.”

“Thank you kindly, Sir,” says the prostitute. “I live in Bjorn Borg Plaza and will give you my number so you can contact me in future. Perhaps you will want to hire me when your cock wakes up from its coma. Haha!” 

Now, none of the above may have actually happened, but how can anyone be sure? Giving tarts a lift home is unquestionably a good deed throughout Scandinavia, where the nights can be rather nippy. Should a goody-goody nation like Sweden run the risk of convicting a man with a dysfunctional todger of a crime he did not commit? I think not.

The next question to consider is whether the politician could get an official pardon from Queen What’s-Her-Face of Sweden. He might if a foolproof method of proving his impotence existed. The manager of the safari camp suggested tying him to a bed and hiring one of Hef’s playmates to see if she could perk it up (a skill she would have practised to proficiency in the Playboy mansion). But such tests are only reliable for teenage boys, whose reproductive organs have a mind of their own. The middle-aged man can always close his eyes and think of Fatima Whitbread. Absence of activity is not evidence of incapacity and it wouldn’t stand up in court. 

Perhaps the best solution would be for the UK to offer him political asylum. The standing of the British ruling class has fallen so low that a politician who claims to have chauffeured a prostitute would be seen a hero in the Don Quixote tradition. The British could then hand over the Wikileaks fellow in return, who allegedly lacks chivalry in his own dealings with the fairer sex. With any luck he’ll be impotent when the Swedes have finished with him. 

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Agonizing work

I thought I’d begin today’s post with a tribute to Marjorie Proops (pictured above). For those who’ve never heard of her, she was the English agony aunt who put agony aunting on the map. In her days as a newspaper columnist, she got sackfuls of mail from desperate (and apparently blameless) women suffering needless aggravations from the men in their lives. I dare say many of her readers petitioned her with imaginary problems in the hope of being featured on her page. 

I once met Marjorie after she watched me perform in the circus, and did not hesitate to confide my own anxieties in her: 

“I feel so guilty, Marje!” I groaned. “My fans love watching me kick the clowns, but I’m the one who sees them afterwards, lying face-down on a table having ointments massaged into their buttocks. Should I refuse to do it and let the slapstick comedy be damned?” 

Marjorie stared at me owlishly through her spectacles. “Have you asked the clowns how they feel about it?” she said. “They might be reconciled to suffering for their art, just as you, as the artiste, must suffer pangs of guilt.” 

What could I do but bow my head and make sucking noises in acclaim of her extraordinary genius? 

“I’ve met some wise old birds in my time,” I declared, “but Marjie baby: you make them all look like giddy spring chickens!” 

Anyway, I was prompted to think about this encounter after reading a news story about an 8-year-old girl who is running a counselling service for adults. She discovered her precocious talent when a frustrated housewife complained about having an annoying husband. 

“It all cancels out,” replied the gifted young lassie. “You might do stuff to him that's also really annoying.” 

The frustrated housewife was amazed by her cunning insight, which you have to admit was pretty shrewd for an 8-year-old girl. She now has a website which solves people’s problems for the price of a gobstopper. She’s too young, of course, to offer any advice on sexual problems. I think I ought to state this, because you never know what indecent twaddle some silly floozy might corrupt her innocent ears with. 

As luck would have it, I have recently acquired information that will reassure silly floozies about a particular bedroom issue that has often dismayed them. Scientists have discovered that there’s nothing wrong with falling asleep immediately after having an orgasm. If a man starts snoring two seconds after squirting his jam into a woman’s donut, it means he’s head-over-heels in love with her. It’s the ones who engage in post-coital cuddling and sweet talk that women have to worry about. They obviously only do it because of their guilty consciences.

If it’s true, this seminal discovery could bring peace and harmony to bedrooms all over the world. If it’s true. The first thing to investigate is who funded the research. If it was sponsored by the Studs with Big Cojones Association, there might be an ideological bias.

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French nickers

A pat on the back for Yann M’Vila, the French football player who paid two prostitutes to spend the night with him. He doesn’t deserve a pat on the back for that, of course. Although spending money on call girls does stimulate the economy in times of austerity, it’s not the most effective method of pump priming. A Frenchman with a sound grasp of Keynesian economics would have hired a team of chorus girls to collect snails and frogs from his garden and prepare them for his supper with garlic and onions.

The praiseworthy aspect of Yann’s conduct was the resolute action he took on discovering that the whores had stolen goods worth 13,000 euros from his apartment. A lesser man would not have reported the crime to avoid revealing that he had consorted with harlots; but Monsieur M’Vila put the rule of law above his own feelings of shame. He promptly called the police, who arrested the thieving hussies and returned their loot to its rightful owner. Such public-spirited behaviour certainly merits an official commendation of some sort. If not the Légion d'honneur, then certainly the Coq des justes. 

There are important lessons for Yann to learn from this experience, nonetheless. If you are paying strange women to have sex with you, it is prudent to call a taxi after they have rendered their service, rather than falling asleep and trusting them to make an honourable exit. Hopefully, he’ll take such precautions habitually when he’s an experienced whoremonger. It is possible, of course, that he wanted the girls to lie beside him for company’s sake. Sleeping alone in a kingsize bed might be a lonely experience for a footballer who’s just been fellated. If so, he should have handcuffed the girls to the bed until daybreak. Enjoying a life of wanton debauchery means taking appropriate safeguards. 

As for the guilty women, I hope l’association des putains issues a strong statement condemning their behaviour. As for any other profession, prostitutes should uphold basic standards of honesty and integrity. Those French tarts would do well to heed the example of Miss Belinda Swallows, the Mayfair courtesan. Far from stealing her clients’ valuables, she occasionally gave them rebates if she considered the circumstances merited it. In her memoirs, she writes of a punter called ‘Edgar’ who burst into tears when she removed her bra. 

“I’m so sorry!” sobbed Edgar. “It’s just that you remind me of my mother. She had the most beautiful breasts!” 

“There, there,” said Belinda, giving him a tissue to dry his eyes. “There’s no need to apologise. Many men before you have wept on seeing my naked bosom for the first time. It affects people like a divine revelation if they are not accustomed to seeing human flesh moulded into adornments of perfect globular symmetry.” 

She then refunded 50% of Edgar’s fee and allowed him to suck on her left nipple for 5 minutes, which he did without making slurping noises. Class, I tell you. Pure class.

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Ape genius

I hear that a captive chimpanzee has been solving computer puzzles at breakneck speed. Let’s hope he learns to tie his shoelaces before he’s offered a chair at MIT. If I were his agent, I’d negotiate a sponsorship deal with Apple. He could appear in their commercials with the slogan: 

You don’t have to be a chimp to use our products, but it helps. 

Being a stellar new talent in the world of homo sapiens is never plain sailing. Look what happened to The Beatles. Their fans behaved like hysterical baboons, screeching their heads off and going on the rampage whenever they flew into town. I don’t blame the Fab Four for taking medication to prevent the adulation going to their heads. It’s a wonder they could think straight at the end of it. 

As a former circus ape, I know what it’s like to be on the receiving end of hero-worship. Most of my fan letters were from flighty young maidens who wanted me to rescue them from the evils of man. “Carry me off to your tree-house” was a common request. I got this type of attention because I’m a gorilla. Celebrity chimpanzees attract busty ladies who want to mother them with cuddles and fresh fruit. We apes cater for all the human fetishes. 

It’s important to answer such fan mail politely, of course. I normally included the sentence “Sadly, my contract doesn’t permit me to keep pets” in my reply. I also sent them a piece of latex with my teeth marks on it as a memento of our courtship. 

Now, some entertainers go to extremes in their quest for stardom. Have you heard of a man called Felix Baumgartner? One would have thought a fellow with a name like that would appear in kinky German porn films, having his buttocks thrashed by a busty dominatrix. In reality, he’s a crackpot daredevil who’s planning to jump out of an aircraft at an altitude of 23 miles, which is apparently the edge of space. 

I have a number of serious reservations about this stunt. To begin with, where are the audience going to be seated? If they’re waiting for him below, they’ll miss the most exciting part of the dive, when his beard is covered in icicles. But if they’re up in the plane they won’t see the finale, when he’s babbling deliriously on the ground as the medics put an oxygen mask over his face. The other worrying issue is what he might hit on the way down. Birds could probably take evasion action, but blimps and hot-air balloons would be sitting ducks. If I owned a dirigible, I would sue any skydiver who landed on my canopy without permission. 

The big unanswered question is whether performing this feat will make him a hit with the babes. Will he be feted like an astronaut and acquire a harem of starry-eyed groupies? Or will nubile women view him as an awesome nincompoop who jumped out of a plane? I will observe his fate dispassionately, like a biologist watching a moose during the rutting season. 

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