Christmas tree

The manager of the safari camp was terribly disappointed when the Australian Jesus declined his offer of a free holiday in the Congo. I heard the fellow make his excuses on the speakerphone in the manager’s office:

“Screw you, mate!” he snapped. “I’ve cut my hair and shaved my beard so that bastards like you will leave me alone!”

I naturally did what I could to console the manager, who looked rather crestfallen after this ungrateful outburst.

“I don’t think the guests would have liked him,” I said. “Jesus was a baby at Christmas, so it wouldn’t have suited the nativity theme. Why not get your wife to play Mary instead? She’s always telling me how much she misses being a virgin.”

“I’ve got a better idea: why don’t you play King Herod?” retorted the manager. “He obviously modelled himself on a gorilla.”

“You’re only saying that because he had hair growing out of nostrils” I replied. “This is not, in fact, a gorilla trait. Look at my nose.”

It goes without saying that we gorillas have nothing in common with King Herod, a man so evil that he died of a disease called Herod’s Evil. It is said that he suffered an agonising death, with maggots breeding in his todger. Serves him right for being such a blackguard, I suppose.

I’ve always liked the nativity story, mainly because of the prominent role played by animals. There were cows and goats in the stable, sheep in the pastures outside, and three wise apes to provide post-natal care. The species of each ape can be deduced from the gifts they brought. The bearer of gold must have been a vulgar orang-utan who thought bling was a suitable present for a baby. Myrrh was used as an aphrodisiac by the ancients, which suggests the involvement of a randy chimp. And a thoughtful gorilla must have brought the frankincense, which being an air-freshener would have been sorely needed in the stable.

The person I feel sorry for is Joseph, who got a pretty raw deal when you consider the facts:

1. Marries a virgin but isn’t allowed to have sex with her.

2. Gets cuckolded by God, whose child he is forced to bring up.

3. Busts his hump making tables and chairs while his adopted son plays hooky doing miracles and stuff.

On the plus side, he doesn’t get crucified and acquires a nifty collection of oil lamps.

This being the season of goodwill, I should end by offering words of heartfelt sympathy to the broken-hearted. One who might appreciate them is the Indian man now living in a tree after catching his wife fornicating with a local lover-boy. He won’t come down until his wife apologises, which she has stubbornly refused to do.

“If this is how humans behave, I’m going to live like a monkey,” he told the police when they asked him what he was up to.

I feel your pain, my friend. If you wish to continue your simian pilgrimage in the Congo, I’ll reserve a sturdy tree for you.

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Reaching Nirvana

So Nirvana have asked Paul McCartney to be their lead singer. A shrewd move. Whatever you say about Paul, he’s not going to kill himself like that drug addict who used to be their front man. He might die of natural causes, of course, but such is the fate of all mortal men. I hope they tape a device to his chest to monitor his vital signs when he’s performing. For a Beatle to die on stage would be more than the world could bear. Even to contemplate such a tragedy makes me howl with anguish.

I have a bet with the manager of the safari camp that Paul will outlive Mick Jagger. He thinks Mick is healthier because of the way he prances about on stage, but I know better. No man ever lived to the age of 100 by having ants in his pants. The secret of longevity is a serene mental outlook combined with the avoidance of physical jerks. Jagger falls short in both departments, which is why he’s as wrinkly as a prune. He won’t be able to keep it up for much longer. (Behaving like a hyperactive rooster, I mean.)

It’s an interesting fact of human biology that women live longer than men. That’s why old women greatly outnumber old men. People sometimes ask me whether evil old witches like Rider Haggard’s Gagool are common in Africa. The answer is no. Any woman half as wicked as Gagool would be thrown to the crocodiles before she got to middle age. Old ladies in Africa are wonderfully benign and sometimes have the power of prophesy. One such ancient seeress held me in her arms when I was a baby gorilla.

“Thine eyes are bright, my little hairy one!” she crooned in an obscure Congolese dialect. “I foretell thou shall migrate to a northern land and acquire human language and learning; whereupon thou shall join a great carnival and entertain the multitude in many ways, including the kicketh of clowns in the arse; after which thou shall return to the jungle with a tidy fortune to invest in the safari business; and thenceforth shall thou enjoy a life of much leisure, japing and whimsical banter.”

Needless to say, her prophesy was 100% accurate in every particular. I often visit her grave, which I decorate with scented African violets and banana peel.

Now, why do women live longer than men? The answer is testosterone, by which I mean the lack of it. In addition to making men frisky, this naughty hormone has various deleterious effects on health, which shortens the average male lifespan. This has been verified by a study showing that eunuchs live longer than men with their goolies intact.

I don’t suppose Paul McCartney will be interested in using this knowledge to prolong his own life. His attractive new wife has plenty of mileage in her for one thing. But wouldn’t the sacrifice of an ageing nutsack be a price worth paying to delay the death of another Beatle? I’m not saying anyone should force him, but he ought to consider it seriously.

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Revenge of the lipstick lesbians

Some good-looking lesbians have made a video threatening to marry the boyfriends of women who oppose gay marriage. They are supremely confident of their ability to carry out this insidious threat, believing they have qualities that men dream of in a wife. I don’t know whether their bravado is justified, but they certainly made some very persuasive arguments in the video. Women with eligible boyfriends would be well advised to keep their opposition to gay marriage between them and their shrinks.

When the manager of the safari camp saw the video his eyes lit up.

“Do you think they’d have an affair with a man whose wife was against gay marriage?” he asked eagerly. “I don’t know my wife’s position on the issue, but I might be able to convince her it’s not a good idea.”

“Cuckolding married women who would deny them their rights is entirely consistent with their strategic outlook,” I replied. “But it might not be advisable for you to encourage them, given your wife’s propensity for sadistic revenge.”

“Good point,” said the manager glumly.

Whether or not one approves of punishing a woman for her reactionary views on gay marriage, I don’t think the lesbians have thought this one through. Their proposed plan of action is a classic example of cutting one’s nose to spite one’s face. A woman whose boyfriend jilts her for a lesbian would certainly be humiliated and quite possibly heartbroken. But in time she would get over it and find another suitor. There aren’t enough lesbians in the world to steal the boyfriend of every heterosexual woman who lacks sympathy for their cause.

The fate of the avenger, by comparison, is far more intractable. She would be lumbered with an unwanted husband who would insist on sleeping with her. Switching off the lights, as the girls in the video suggest, would not be an effective remedy if the fellow made obscene and triumphalist remarks while exercising his conjugal rights. I fear that such conduct is far from unlikely in a man who would impose himself on a lesbian.

For all their feisty eloquence, these lesbian ladies have yet to master the art of delivering a credible ultimatum. There’s no point threatening to do something contrary to your own nature and ambitions. You don’t make your enemies back down by promising to blow your brains out on their carpet. What they should have said was “If you continue to vote against our right to marry, we will put on our strap-ons and chase you into the nearest cathouse.” The prospect of being pursued by a swarm of agitated lesbians intent on ravishment should persuade most women to reconsider their views.

As a gorilla, I am all in favour of giving lesbians everything they want. The appropriate response to a lesbian insurrection is unconditional surrender. Let them marry, wear trousers and wrestle with crocodiles if they want to. The lesbians of the Earth should roam free and wild as Nature intended. Preserving such wonders enriches the ecosystem.

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Nanny goose

I have tremendous sympathy for Gavin Rossdale, the rock musician who was photographed patting a woman’s behind. He was following the young lady as she carried his son through the brush, a task which she performed in her capacity as the nanny. Perhaps he should have carried the child himself, in his capacity as the father, but the nanny seemed quite happy to do the job. If you hire a tall, blond Nordic woman to look after your children, you may as well get your money’s worth.

Nasty internet gossips have been sniggering at him for getting caught in the act, and gleefully speculating about his wife’s reaction to the incident. I sincerely hope she takes it in her stride. Having studied the picture carefully, it’s obvious to me that he was nudging the nanny along rather than caressing her shapely posterior. No husband should be sent to the doghouse for doing something equivalent to saying “giddy up, horsey!” – not even if the horse is an attractive filly with a first-class rump.

I’m not ashamed to admit having a soft spot for nannies. (This soft spot, I should stress, is not located in an erogenous zone. We silverbacks do not hanker for human females.) What I like about nannies is the job they do. I have nothing but admiration for a woman who nurtures someone else’s children – it projects an image that is warm, maternal and potentially bosomy. I don’t know whether this is true of the Nordic nanny, but her relaxed attitude to butt-patting suggests she’s a tactile woman who’s comfortable with physical contact. I am optimistic about her career prospects.

On the subject of tactile women, I was fascinated to hear about a 29-year-old single mother who cuddles men for a living. It makes her $260 a day, which she is using to put herself through college. Her clients are permitted to snuggle up in bed with her, provided that they put aside any thoughts of hanky panky. A lot of men are capable of doing this, particularly when they reach the age of 100.

What this shows is that the human male still yearns for a nanny when he is supposedly an adult. One might conjecture, with great plausibility, that a lot of wives are effectively their husbands’ nannies. My old circus buddy, Smacker Ramrod, is married to a woman who cooks for him, cleans for him, and gives him a bath when he’s good. It’s a wonderful arrangement, providing all the comforts of childhood with the conjugal perks thrown in. 

Happy is the man whose wife is his nanny.

I hope you like this proverb, which belongs in a book of wise sayings. Does it imply that men who don’t have nanny-wives must be miserable? Not at all. I would never make such a categorical assertion. A man can surely attain the heights of bliss by marrying his housekeeper, chiropodist or masseuse. There are many worthy occupations a woman can follow to bring succour to her husband.

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