Fun and ball games

Prince Harry’s escapade in Las Vegas has left me wondering what the rules of “strip billiards” are. You may think it’s an unimportant detail in this celebrated case of royal revelry, but I’m not the sort of ape who leaves loose ends untied. The prince’s own end was completely loose, of course, but tying it up might have incited the royal bodyguards to intervene. One shouldn’t distract servants of the Crown when they’re busy ogling naked girls.

My guess is that the game was a fairly simple one. Harry grabbed the billiard cue and tried to clear the table; every time he potted a ball, the girls removed one of their garments; every time he missed, he took off one of his own. A minute after the game began, everyone was naked apart from the royal bodyguards, who couldn’t play themselves because they had to keep their weapons concealed.

When I explained my highly plausible conjecture to the manager of the safari camp, he shook his head and grinned like a chipmunk:

“You poor innocent gorilla!” he scoffed. “Do you really think the balls in this game were the kind that roll on a table? 'Billiards' is a well-known term for toying with a man’s testicles.”

“You don’t say,” I replied. “And what rulebook were the prince and his lady-friends observing in pursuing this uplifting pastime?”

“They must have improvised their own rules on the spur of the moment,” said the manager. “Maybe the prince faced the wall while the girls took turns to rummage inside his pants and manually examine his nutsack. If he correctly identified the girl doing the groping, she had to take something off.”

“Fascinating!” I exclaimed. “And how did the prince end up naked when the sport was concluded?”

“How should I know?” snapped the manager. “Maybe the girls made him strip at the end. You don’t expect them to play with his balls for nothing, do you?”

I rolled my eyes before replying to this question.

“Frankly, manager, I have no idea what to expect in the enactment of your whimsical scenarios. He could have stripped out of noblesse oblige for all I know.”

All of you, by now, must have seen the infamous picture of Prince Harry cavorting with one of the party girls. Not very impressive, was it? He reminds me of an English actor called Robin Askwith, who starred in a series of lame sex comedies in the 1970s. Most of them had a scene where Askwith was forced to flee, stark naked, from the bedroom of a sexually voracious woman, hands cupped around his groin like the prince. Such incidents provided a passing distraction from the ponderous plot and limp acting.

Hopefully, as he matures, the prince will become more inventive in his activities with naked girls. I would advise him to consider games based on the naked housekeeping theme, where there is plenty of scope for innovation, particularly while the hoovering is being done. If nothing else, it would teach him how to cope during his manservant’s day off.

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A towering achievement

I’m feeling a little sorry for Henrik Rummel, the US Olympic rower who was photographed on the podium with a raging stiffy. Overcome with embarrassment, he foolishly tried to deny the obvious in an interview with a celebrity gossip site. One might say his performance was predictably wooden. I couldn’t resist showing the podium picture to the manager of the safari camp.

“If that isn’t a boner, the sausage I ate for breakfast was a noodle,” he said.

For once, I had to agree with him. What Rummel should have done was brazen it out. Instead of getting his girlfriend to back up his flimsy evasions, he should have used her as an excuse for his unplanned turgidity. Suppose he had responded to the picture with the following statement:

“I guess my brain was thinking about the medal I won, but my Johnson was thinking about Melinda’s hooters.”

He would have come across as a cool dude rather than a dissembling nitwit.

Public relations is an art I mastered in my circus days. The rules I followed were: (i) answer all your fan mail; (ii) ignore all your hate mail; (iii) cultivate your image by disseminating titbits of personal information. The unwashed human masses love hearing quirky snippets of news about the celebrities they revere. Here are a couple of facts about myself I released through carefully chosen media outlets:

Gorilla Bananas has a bust of Lord Nelson in his trailer.

Gorilla Bananas can play ‘A Hard Day’s Night’ on his recorder.

Needless to say, my fans lapped it up like cream from the she-elephant’s udders. As I grew more media savvy, I cashed in on the product placement scam by feeding the press headlines such as:

Gorilla Bananas uses Harmony Hairspray.

Few of the Olympic medal-winners possess such skills, which is why they tend to make a hash of their public pronouncements. Even Usain Bolt, who is used to being in the limelight, sounded like a bit of a dick after winning the 100 metres. If I were Bolt’s manager, I’d tell him to avoid all unscripted interviews and project his persona solely in TV commercials.

“Be realistic, Bolty,” I would say to him. “A professional scriptwriter will feed you far better lines than anything you could say when speaking off the cuff.”

Bolt would probably be too arrogant to follow my advice, but at least I’d have the satisfaction of knowing I’d done my job whenever he yammered away like a jackass.

Some Olympic medal-winners are so jejune in their public statements that it actually makes you like them more. This is what Helen Glover, the 26-year-old British rowing champion, said to the BBC during her victory parade in Cornwall:

"Oh my God, I'm so excited and the rain's stopped, so that's good. I said I wasn't going to cry at all, but I did, once.”

Heh, what a sweet little girl! One has an avuncular urge to buy her an ice-cream and take her to the funfair.

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Pussy protest

I fear that Madonna’s show of support for the Pussy Riot girls has contributed to the severity of their sentence. The audacious punk trio were deservedly arrested for breaking into Moscow’s main cathedral and performing on the altar without observing the required dress code. I would have certainly thrashed any baboon who played a prank like that, so I don’t see why their stunt should have gone unpunished. However sending them to prison is absurdly harsh. Locking up humans for irreverent behaviour is like sitting on a parrot for calling you a silly ape, which is something I’ve never done.

I knew Madonna had made a mistake in championing their cause when the Russian deputy prime minister called her a moralising slut. Something in the tone of his voice told me he resented being lobbied by a woman who has engaged in lewd acts with a crucifix. The Russians, of course, expect appeals for clemency to be made on bended knees, which is not a posture Madonna has adopted since she broke up with “Jellybean” Benitez.

A sensible compromise for resolving this acrimonious affair was proposed by Anastasia Volochkova, the nude ballerina. It seems that performing a traditional Russian art-form while stark naked has enabled her to see both sides of the issue. She suggested the girls should atone for their act of sacrilege by polishing public toilets until the enamel surfaces gleam. An appropriate act of penance, to be sure. I would also give them a mild spanking for calling themselves ‘Pussy Riot’, which is a needlessly provocative name. There’s no need to draw attention to your kitty when you’re entertaining the masses.

Now, some of you are probably thinking that I’m a politically naïve ape who isn’t aware that the girls were protesting against President Putin and his lackeys in the Orthodox Church. Yes, yes, I know. I am quite aware that an increasing number of Russians view Pootikins as snake-eyed assassin, even while the majority still revere him as an invincible sex symbol who cradles the Motherland in the pit of his groin. I don’t know which side is correct, but I’m sure that performing cheeky acts in a cathedral won’t settle the matter. The anti-Putin faction should focus their energy on more constructive deeds, like dropping coconuts on the heads of carefully selected Kremlin henchmen. Great causes have been advanced in the jungle by such methods.

Whatever you say about the Pussy Riot girls, far worse offenders are getting off scott-free. I’m thinking particularly of Ryan Lochte, the American Olympic swimmer, who cheerfully confessed to peeing in the pool while warming up before a race. This foul young man has caused his fellow swimmers to participate in water sports for which no medals are awarded. I hope someone pisses on his head the next time he visits a shopping mall. As for the future of US swimming, I should imagine the youngsters who were inspired to take up the sport are already beginning to have second thoughts.

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Dwarf complaint

I got an email accusing me of being prejudiced against dwarves:

Mr Bananas

I have searched your blog for posts mentioning dwarves and found more than 10 of them. In these posts, you have stated or implied that dwarves are nasty, lecherous, perverted, jealous and bow-legged. Shame on you for having such bigoted views! How would you like if I said all gorillas were chest-thumping brutes? In future, please think before you express such offensive opinions!

Mulch Diggums

It’s a very uncomfortable feeling when someone searches the entire output of your blog for evidence that you’ve maligned a disadvantaged group. My regular readers will know that I rarely mention dwarves in any context. When I do bring them up, it’s usually in an anecdote concerning the delightful little gnomes I knew in my circus days. Admittedly they were prone to sulks and tantrums, but this is true of all temperamental performers. When a female acrobat called them “despicable midgets”, I told her to moderate her language. One must never antagonise a dwarf without good reason.

Anyway, I informed Mr Diggums that I had worked with dwarves in the circus and had treated them as respectfully as circumstances allowed (bearing in mind that I had to toss them when we were rehearsing and performing). Outside of the ring, they had no better friend than Gorilla Bananas. The dwarfish community remains dear to my heart, and I would fart in the face of anyone who pursued a vendetta against them.

This misunderstanding about dwarves brings up the question of how sensitive one should be when discussing minorities. To my way of thinking, all humans belong to a minority group of one kind or another. Consider men with big noses. They are often mocked by other humans and sometimes resort to cosmetic surgery. Are they unfairly stigmatised?

The question is not a simple one, because some men are actually proud of their prodigious conkers. My old friend Smacker Ramrod says his long nose was an invaluable tool in sexual foreplay. He claims that women loved it when he nuzzled them in their tender parts. I took his word for it, although I couldn’t quite see why a squidgy facial appendage would work better than a finger.

When I asked the manager of the safari camp whether having a big nose was a handicap, his answer was unequivocal:

“Of course it’s a disadvantage!” he declared. “Look at Barry Manilow. He must be the only millionaire pop star that no woman under the age of 47 ever wanted to sleep with. Compare him with Mick Hucknall. That ginger-haired brute slept with thousands of groupies during the peak of his fame. Swap their noses and it would have been a different story.”

I should mention that Hucknall, rubicund satyr though he may be, has since apologised to the girls he callously used to feed his carnal appetite. But would he have been able to seduce them in the first place if his nose had been like Barry Manilow’s?

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Sermon on the hump

A German pastor has attracted a lot of publicity by holding services which celebrate “the divine element of physical love” (as he puts it).

“There is no life without eroticism and no life without God,” he announced in a rapturous sermon. “My backside, my hands, my tongue, my penis, my earlobes are the landing spots of love.”

The man clearly has a gift for language, but his obsession about his landing spots seems unhealthy to me. A pastor who only has eyes for his own erogenous zones will inevitably neglect the needs of his flock. There seem to be a lot of elderly women in his congregation, so maybe he expects them to oblige him without asking for anything in return. That would be sinful – a man of the cloth should give as well as receive.

The German press were disappointed by the absence of practical demonstrations in his service, and his failure to use dirty words like “bumsen”. There’s no pleasing some people. They should have realised what a breakthrough it was for the word “penis” to be uttered in a church without molten lead being poured into the mouth of the utterer. This will surely open the door for words like “nipple” and “labia” to be used in sermons glorifying the divine aspects of foreplay.

When I mentioned this story to the manager of the safari camp, he scratched his chin pensively.

“All credit to the man for trying something different, but I don’t think it will gain him new followers,” he said. “People who want to combine sex with religion worship gods who encourage them to run around naked and have orgies. Christianity is for the guilty; paganism is for the horny.”

He had a point. I doubt this pastor would impress my friend Kola Boof, high priestess of the Nubian bare-titty movement. She remained true to her “womanist” beliefs even after bin Laden kidnapped her and forced her to wear a burkha (so he could rip it off every night). She is now a published writer and poet, with thousands of Facebook followers who hang on her every word.

Kola’s latest pearl of wisdom is that men who have sex with black women find their penises grow longer. Could this be true? I suppose it might be if black women have coochies like vacuum pumps, which stretch whatever’s inside them. But wouldn’t that make sex with them rather painful?

The problem with Kola is that she’s awfully racist, always going on about the finer qualities of black skin, and calling white men who criticise her “jealous bitches”. She ought to realise that racial differences between humans are barely perceptible to a gorilla. We judge our hairless cousins by qualities that really matter, like the shape of their rumps. You don’t get to have a firm and meaty tush unless you’ve been doing exercises that prepare you for jungle living.

I’ll explain this to Kola the next time I see her. She won't like hearing it, but that’s what friends are for.

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Travelling light

I’m back in the Congo after a somewhat disturbing flight home. I don’t mean, by this, that there were any apprehensions of an aeronautic complexion. No aircraft I’ve ever flown in has dared to misbehave when I was on board. Before the plane took off, I had my customary chat with the captain:

“Rest assured that we gorillas have very sensitive ears,” I said. “I can hear what’s going on in the cockpit from first class, and will be ready to assist if anything untoward happens. I won’t hesitate to pin down your co-pilot if he has a fit or explodes in a mutinous rage. Never forget what happened to Captain Bligh!”

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” replied the captain with a nervous grin. “Why not just put on the headphones and enjoy the in-flight entertainment. You get a great choice of films in first class.”

“Maybe I’ll watch the screen without wearing headphones,” I mused. “I’m a fairly good lip-reader as it happens.”

Now, some of you might have guessed that I couldn’t really hear inside the cockpit. I told the captain this white lie to discourage him from playing hookey while the plane was on autopilot. Most aviation accidents are caused by “human error”, which is a polite way of saying that the captain and first officer were looking at girlie magazines or playing tiddlywinks when the warning lights began to flash. That sort of arsing about is not acceptable when I am a passenger.

Anyway, the captain was right about the great choice of movies in first class. As I rarely read film reviews, I asked the stewardess for her recommendation.

“How about The Reader?” she said. “Kate Winslet got an Oscar in that one.”

“Kate Winslet is my favourite actress!” I exclaimed. “A hundred thanks for your excellent suggestion!”

Long-standing readers of this blog will remember the eulogies I have penned for Miss Winslet. As well as being an accomplished thespian, her body is of a shape that we gorillas can appreciate (in a wholly non-sexual way). Curvaceous hips; luscious thighs; breasts that look as if they’re ready for milking. The human female doesn’t get better than that.

So I settled down to watch the film and was pleased to see Kate rolling around naked in the early scenes, albeit partially obscured by the annoying whelp who was trying to mate with her. When I eventually got a good view of Kate’s body in its entirely, I bit my lip in disappointment. The succulence of her flesh was much diminished, obviously because of some accursed diet she’d been following.

On the way home from the airport, the manager of the safari camp attempted to explain this anomaly:

“She was playing a war criminal, so her normal full figure wouldn’t have worked,” he said. “Evil women are supposed to look bony-arsed.”

“Fiddlesticks!” I exclaimed. “Fans of Kate have certain expectations of a movie in which she stars. If they wanted a bony-arsed woman, they should have given the part to Gwyneth Paltrow!”

The manager sucked his teeth and nodded.

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