Monkey magic

A Japanese man who can run on all fours has won recognition from the Guinness Book of World Records. Kenichi Ito started walking on his hands and feet when he got teased at school for looking like a monkey. Being an admirer of monkeys, he took it as a compliment and started imitating their behaviour.

He can now monkey-sprint 100 metres in 18.58 seconds (a world record for humans). Try it yourself before scoffing. He spent years training in rural areas of Japan because the police kept arresting him in the city. Even the countryside wasn’t safe when a hunter took pot shots at him after mistaking him for wild game. It takes a lot of courage to flout the conventions of a conformist society like Japan.

Much as I admire Kenichi’s dedication, I don’t think his monkey impersonation is very realistic. Running in a straight line for no reason is not what monkeys do. They have no interest in exercise for its own sake, and would rather spend their leisure time lying in the sun, scratching their armpits.

If he really wants to test his monkey skills he should do the following: sneak up on a woman eating a snack; pinch her behind; steal the food she drops on the ground; race up the nearest tree. If her boyfriend gives chase and shouts abuse at him from under the tree, he should piss on his head. This type of game captures the true monkey spirit – the daring, the cheek, the greed, the use of the bladder as a weapon.

In actual fact the Japanese are not very monkey-like humans, being refined in their mannerisms and lacking body hair. All their bowing and ritualising would be seen as laughably affected in monkey circles. Admittedly they do make funny faces when they’re angry, but it makes them look like evil goblins rather than monkeys. If they want to win acclaim for their animal impressions, they should advertise their sumo bouts as simulated walrus fights, which is essentially what they are.

Yet whatever the shortcomings of his mimicry, I respect Kenichi for making a genuine attempt to explore the simian condition. The same cannot be said of humans who put on animal costumes to get cheap laughs. I was very pleased when one of these buffoons got arrested in Germany for stalking an elderly couple in an Easter Bunny outfit. Unfortunately, the police released him without charge after laughing the incident off. They should have frisked and cuffed him at the very least.

Gorilla impersonators are the worst, of course. Back in my circus days, I used to sneak up on anyone wearing a gorilla costume and politely ask for a banana. The human inside always interpreted this question as a sexual overture and panicked. Sometimes they ran, sometimes they screamed, sometimes they ran screaming. Their terror was misplaced, for no gorilla would ever lust after a human in a gorilla suit. Personally, I would rather have sex with a banana.

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Ghost story

News arrives of a haunted pub in England, plagued by a ghost who sneaks around pinching people’s bottoms. One who fell prey to the phantom was Paula Wharton, the assistant manager:

“One night three of us were talking and I mentioned that I’d felt this pinch on my bum, and everyone else said that it had happened to them too,” she explained.

That’s a pretty disturbing incident, but one shouldn’t jump to the conclusion that the ghost is an octopus-like creature extruding a plethora of groping arms. Humans (and apes) can be quick with their hands, and the victims could have been goosed in rapid succession rather than simultaneously.

The pub has hired a team of ghost-busters to expel the incubus, but in my view they ought to discover its identity first. It might be the ghost of someone famous like Benny Hill, which would make the pub a major attraction. I dare say the late comedian has millions of fans who would be honoured to have their arse tweaked by his astral being. They could easily find out whether it’s him by hiring a bald midget to sit on a bar stool and listening for the sound of his head being slapped. That was certainly a more definitive Benny Hill trademark than bum-pinching, which innumerable less distinguished men have dabbled in.

Incidentally, when I first saw Benny Hill on TV, many years ago in my circus days, I didn’t realise those head-slapping noises were electronically generated. In my eagerness to try it myself, I persuaded a clown to shave his head clean so I could pat it repeatedly. You can imagine my disappointment on being unable to replicate the TV noises, no matter how much wrist I put into it (and in all modesty, my wrist action is worthy of a table tennis champion). I eventually gave up in frustration and massaged some ointment into the clown’s sore scalp.

It’s quite possible, of course, that the ghost is some common-or-garden pervert who was hanged in the 16th century for groping Anne of Cleves. You don’t become a ghost unless your spirit is restless and unable to find peace, which it would be if your life had been cut short in the prime of your bum-pinching years. If so, they might have to lure it out of the pub by hiring a fat-arsed woman to prance about in the street outside. The ghost could then be tempted to pinch her juicy rump all the way to the nearest castle, where it could safely be disposed of.

One thing I’m glad about is that no one can accuse Silvio Berlusconi of being the ghost, for the obvious reason that he’s still alive. The latest allegation against him is that he invited strippers dressed as nuns to a “bunga-bunga” party. So what if he did? Everyone knows that nuns are passionate women who are only able to abstain from sex because their minds are so imaginative. Making them sex symbols is obviously an act of homage in a Catholic county.

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Sound effects

The manager of the safari camp is pestering me to enter the farting competition announced by the De Wolfe Music Company.

“You can record them on my MP3 player!” he exclaimed. “I’ll do the editing myself and send them your finest 21-gun salute! How could anyone match a gorilla’s heavy artillery? The competition would be blown away!”

I knew better than to fall for such bogus flattery. He obviously wanted to use my bowel sounds for his own nefarious ends.

“I’m afraid that’s out of the question,” I replied. “Recording the rumblings from my stormy interior would violate our sacred jungle taboos. A gorilla does not give away the sacred music of his intestines. I thank you, nevertheless, for praising my wind-making abilities. It’s always nice to have one’s talents recognised.”

The competition is sure to have many worthy entrants without my participation, but I do not give it my unqualified blessing. Although recording lavatory noises for posterity is obviously a worthwhile endeavour and a source of wonder for future generations, the rules of the competition permit simulated farts to be entered. I don’t know about you, but I have no respect for people who manufacture phoney flatulence by squelching their underarms or blowing raspberries. Allowing such fake noises to compete with authentic anal blasts will make a mockery of the whole thing as far as I’m concerned.

It also troubles me that De Wolfe are planning to sell the winning farts to the entertainment industry. I deplore their connivance in such acoustic deception. When I hear a fart in a movie or pop video, I want it to be a real one rather than a noise dubbed in from a sounds-effects library. Would Humphrey Bogart or Dame Vera Lynn have used a fart double? Of course not! Those old-school pros performed from the gut.

So what should be done with the winning farts? In my view, the welfare of the common folk should take precedence over the commercial interests of the show-business community. I would make them freely available for public use. Imagine the delight they would bring to birthday parties, weddings and christenings! People listening to a pompous speech or boring sermon could register their lack of interest with a crisp “parp”, rather than by yawning or picking their noses. What better way to release the pent-up frustrations of the masses and unburden their downtrodden souls?

When all is said and done, I disapprove of fart noises being traded like commodities or sold to the highest bidder. Farts are part of Nature’s bounty, like the rivers and mountains and herds of roaming buffalo. One can no more claim ownership of them than the geysers in Yellowstone Park, which spurt freely and proudly in front of admiring spectators. The next time you hear good one, treat it as a natural wonder to rival ‘Old Faithful’ and give it a hearty round of applause. If you don’t savour the good things in life, you may as well watch frogs mate.

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The Love Butt

A story from Miami is making me happy and sad at the same time, which is quite an achievement for an everyday human tale of yearning and fulfilment. I don’t usually experience such a complex mix of emotions unless mating elephants are involved. 

It concerns a 43-year-old divorcee called Jenny Fizgerald, who in spite of her name is a sultry, olive-skinned Latina (see picture). Believing that her flat backside was discouraging potential suitors, Jenny forked out 10,000 dollars for buttock-reshaping surgery, which gave her a delectably peachy rump, very ripe for the plucking (see picture). Shortly afterwards, she got engaged to a 42-year-old hombre called Carlos, who has the face of a compulsive booty-ogler. 

“I know my new bum made this happen!” said Jenny delightedly. “And I know Carlos loves it too – he’s always staring.” 

Is that all he does? Perhaps Jenny’s ladylike modesty prevented her from mentioning more tactile forms of appreciation.

"Her bottom is why I noticed her in the first place,” agreed Carlos. “Without it we might never have spoken." 

He's got a point. A fabulous arse is a great ice-breaker. Whenever my old friend Smacker Ramrod saw an attractive woman at a party, he used to circumnavigate her discreetly before attempting to make conversation. A clear mental picture of her posterior helped him find the right words and focus on the task at hand. Some may call such behaviour sexist, but let us acknowledge a simple truth: most women would rather have their bottom admired than listen to a lot of guff about the price of oil or the G-12 summit. I’m sure that’s even true of female politicians like Hilldog and Frau Merkel. 

So why did this story make me feel happy? I should hope it’s obvious. Gorilla Bananas cares about his human cousins and wants them to achieve their dreams. It tickles the cockles of my heart that Jenny has transformed her life by acquiring a pert behind. 

“I finally feel great and sexy about myself,” she said. 

I bet she does. Full marks to Jenny for realising that it’s never too late to boost your self-esteem by improving the texture of your tush. It thrills me that her delectable derrière solicited a marriage proposal from a man she deemed worthy of the honour. And although I’m not 100% certain about Carlos, I can’t fault his taste in tail, or deny the happiness his regard for the rear has brought. In the words of the Indian chief whose name I forget, my heart soars like a hawk! 

And yet there is also sadness. 

As a gorilla who lives in the wild, nestling snugly in the bosom of Mother Nature, I can’t condone artificially enhancing the bottom by cutting and sucking and pumping it. If Jenny had told me about her plans for cosmetic surgery, I would have invited her to stay with my tribe for a couple of months. There is no better way of getting your butt in shape than living like a gorilla – our tree-climbing, kick-dancing, flesh-massaging lifestyle goes hand-in-hand with a rock-solid rump. Some of us had buns of steel before steel was invented.

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Gorillas in the fog

I’m getting emails from people asking me if I know Angelique Todd, the English girl who’s hanging out with a tribe of gorillas in the Central African Republic. Obviously not. Her base camp is 300 miles away, and I’m not going to travel all that distance to say hello to a woman with a face like Squirrel Nutkin. She'd be most welcome to visit us, of course, and we'd extend her every courtesy short of milking the suckling hippo. English women may love their dairy products, but we gorillas don’t grope animals that outweigh us by half a ton. 

Ms Todd has been getting a very good press for learning to speak the gorilla tongue and befriending Makumba, the resident silverback. It seems that his mean and moody mannerisms have made a profound impression on her: 

“Hearing Makumba’s grunt of hello in the mornings makes every sacrifice worthwhile,” she chirped. 

That’s what I call a low-maintenance female! I have to be honest here and admit that I’ve never induced a state of euphoria in a woman merely by grunting. I usually have to swing them by their ankles in a circular motion until they get dizzy, which is much harder work. 

One thing I’m glad about is that Angelique has got hitched to a local fellow and borne him a daughter. This should discourage the gossip that bedevilled poor Dian Fossey regarding her intimate friendship with her favourite silverback. In truth, no male gorilla could safely mate with a woman. He’d first have to undergo the pussification procedure that Superman subjected himself to before he could pork Lois Lane (see Superman II). Any gorilla that much in love with a woman would deserve to have a coconut dropped on his head from a great height. 

Anyway, I’m sure Angelique will have nothing to fear from Makumbo as long as she shaves her legs and doesn’t wiggle her bottom at him. He already owes her a debt of gratitude for all the favourable publicity. The gorilla nation (by which I mean me) thanks Ms Todd for her good PR work on our behalf, and looks forward to reading her jungle memoirs. When she does put pen to paper, I hope she writes in a measured factual way rather than telling the world what magnificent sexy beasts we are. Nobody likes an arse-licker and praise is rarely taken seriously when it’s over-the-top. 

Another species currently getting a lot of attention from humans are dolphins. An international panel of scientists has announced that these slippery sea-mammals should be classified as non-human persons. While I’m all in favour of giving them greater legal protection, I worry that uplifting their status might give them ideas. Dolphins are insatiable sex maniacs, and no tourist beach would be safe if they acquired a taste for human tail. 

Maybe someone should carry out background checks on these scientists to make sure they don’t have ulterior motives. I’ve heard stories of marine biologists gate-crashing dolphin orgies and rimming blowholes in their free time. Spending half your life in the ocean can do funny things to you.

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An enterprising man

Nobody seems to have a good word for Patrick Stewart these days. The disapproving tongues began to wag when he started consorting with women several decades his junior. The latest one is a jazz singer called Sunny Ozell, who reminds me of the Brazilian beauty queen who turned out to be a transsexual. (I cast no aspersions on her femininity by saying this – Brazil is famous for its authentic-looking shemales, and Patrick Stewart isn’t the kind of man who wants more than one dick in his bed.) 

I well remember the chorus of reproof that greeted the news of their budding romance. Most of the hostile reaction was obviously jealousy and sour grapes, but a few sober heads wondered what a couple so disparate in years would have to talk about. My own gut feeling is that conversation plays a minor part in these May-to-December relationships. One thing I learned in my circus days is that nubile young women are prone to flights of fancy. Having grown up watching Star Trek: The Next Generation, Sunny must imagine she is hurtling through space at warp speed whenever Patrick takes her for a spin on his moped. I dare say he repeats all the famous catch phrases to reinforce the illusion of boldly going where no jazz singer has allowed him to go before. 

It disappoints me that people have accused Sunny of being a gold-digger. There is absolutely no evidence that she intends to marry Captain Picard or otherwise milk his considerable assets. Why can’t people just accept she might have a fetish for older men? Aren’t women allowed to be eccentric? 

The case of 21-year-old Kerry Trebilcock is a good illustration of how quirky the human female can be. She has confessed to eating about 4000 dish sponges seasoned with a variety of condiments. Kerry remembers the first sponge she ate: 

"I took out a new sponge from a packet and had an overwhelming desire to eat it. I sat down with a glass of water and chewed the sponge until it was gone. It tasted of nothing but I found eating it enjoyable." 

It isn’t every day you find a woman with such a powerful natural urge. Let’s hope she finds an eligible bachelor who can see her potential. 

Getting back to Patrick Stewart, what can he do to improve his image? If I were his publicist, I would advise him to befriend an animal species and sing its praises. John Cleese got into everyone’s good books by making a documentary about lemurs, which drew attention away from his own turbulent private life. If the public associated Patrick with a charismatic creature, they might give him more leeway to sleep with women less than half his age. 

What species would be suitable for him? Obviously not gorillas, who are far too hairy to be courted by a follicly-challenged human. The ostrich looks like the ideal candidate to me, being an entertaining bird without a famous human champion. The resemblance of Patrick’s bald head to an ostrich egg would be a fitting point of convergence. 

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Alien adoption

Yet another human is claiming to be on speaking terms with extra-terrestrials. Mr Simon Parkes, an English town councillor, says his real mother is a green life-form, 9 feet tall with a stick-like figure, big eyes and tiny nostrils. Not a bad-looking female by the sound of it. Big eyes and tiny nostrils are better than tiny eyes and big nostrils, as any visitor to Impfondo “horsey-face” menagerie will confirm. 

Before you mock Mr Parkes as a half-wit and a fantasist, please note that he does not believe the alien is his biological mother. The creature visited him when he was a baby and sent the following telepathic message to his infant brain: 

“I am your real mother, I am your more important mother.” 

In doing so, she formed an emotional bond with Simon and became his surrogate parent. This is no more far-fetched than the story of Tarzan being adopted by a female ape, which is not far-fetched at all, judging by the number of people who wept liked sissies while watching Greystoke in the cinema. 

What I find most convincing about this tale is the absence of any physical contact between Simon and the aliens (who in addition to his mother comprised sundry characters in supporting roles). As Councillor Parkes explained: 

“The reason why the extra-terrestrials are interested in me is not because of my physical body but what’s inside – my soul.” 

How refreshing to hear a human admit that members of a different species have no interest in his body. Most humans who’ve had such encounters accuse the aliens of probing their bodily orifices or milking their gonads. I’ve always believed such abduction stories to be vain human fantasies. Extra-terrestrials have no irresistible urge to toy with the human body, any more than we gorillas do. As a fellow victim of such lampoons, I must defend their honour. 

I do hope Victoria Spice has seen the recent TV interview of Mr Parkes. I feel sure she would empathise with his experiences and possibly invite him to a support group. Although she hasn’t been visited by aliens (as far as I know), she did recently have an out-of-body experience during a fashion show. The manager of the safari camp laughed like a drain when I mentioned this to him:

 “If I had a body like hers I’d want to get out of it!” he quipped.

I’m not sure I agree with his ungallant remark. Victoria may appear horribly undernourished for a woman who can afford to keep her larder well-stocked, but she has done her duty as a wife and mother, producing a healthy brood of four. The proof of the oven is whether it has room for the pudding.

Perhaps Councillor Parkes should introduce Victoria to his alien mother, who is also as thin as a street lamp. She probably thinks women are squat, bulbous creatures, and might enjoy meeting one with a similar figure to herself. It takes all sorts to make a universe.

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