Tiger's latest birdie

So Tiger Woods has announced he is “dating” Lindsey Vonn, the all-American skiing champion. Is it my imagination, or does she resemble every other woman Tiger has charmed with his swishing club shaft? If I were Tiger’s agent, I would have urged him to go out with a transitional brunette just to prove he isn’t colour-prejudiced. I wouldn’t have advised him to date a black woman, of course – a suggestion so outlandish might have caused him to choke on his tongue, which wouldn’t have helped his accuracy with the driver.

As a gorilla, I don’t see why men find blond women so alluring. Admittedly they do look the part in Scandinavia, where they blend into the Nordic landscape like artic foxes. But I always find it damnably difficult to tell their faces apart when they congregate in large numbers. I wonder if Hef has name badges for the playmates in the mansion, so he can keep track of whose turn it is to knead his leathery buttocks. Maybe he doesn’t particularly care and lets the girls draw straws.

Now a few blond women do stand out from the crowd. Scarlett Johannson is one and Angela Merkel is another. They complement their strengths and weaknesses so perfectly that they ought to be a double-act. As the gene for human blondness is a relatively recent mutation, they must have a common prehistoric ancestor who was the Mother of all blondes (Moab). The alpha males of that epoch must have fought for the privilege of mating with her, while the alpha females no doubt pulled her hair and made bitchy remarks about peroxide. Being the first of a new strain is never easy.

Yet in truth, I find red-haired humans more interesting than blondes. The genetic mutation that gave rise to their condition is a very ancient one, shared by our orang-utan cousins. It is said to be associated with extrovert behaviour and a healthy libido, which is why you should always expect the unexpected from a redhead.

Take Cynthia Nixon, the actress who portrayed Miranda in Sex and the City. There she was playing happy families with her husband and two children, when quite out-of-the-blue she ran off with another woman and joined the tuppence-licking sorority. Her conduct reminded me of Clyde, the mercurial orang-utan in Every Which Way But Loose, who would stick out his arm without warning to punch people in the face.

Who is the world’s leading redhead? I would give the title to Julia Gillard, the prime minister of Australia. A lot of people find her accent unbearable, but I think it makes her sound like a school mistress addressing the roughnecks and bushwhackers in their own barbarous dialect. There is no doubt that millions of men have sexual fantasies about her, and are frustratedly searching for pornographic images to indulge their obsession. If she retired from politics today, she could easily earn $500 an hour as an escort, which is a more honourable way of making a living than giving paid speeches to assemblies of toadies.

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Sealed with a kiss

An Italian fashion house has launched an advertising campaign promoting the idea that enemies should kiss and make-up. A huge picture of President Obama and Hugo Chavez pressing lips recently appeared on a billboard outside the Brazzaville YMCA. Everyone knows the photo is a fake, so it generated very little excitement, even among the residents of the YMCA. 

It’s just as well that Obama is secure enough in his sexuality not to blast the poster to kingdom come with a Cruise missile. He’s recently been proving his heterosexual credentials by canoodling with Julia Gillard, the raunchy redhead who rules the roost in Australia. After greeting Ms Gillard with a moist-looking peck on the cheek, he patted her receptive tush right into the White House. I hope Michelle was mature enough not to give him hell afterwards – there’s no such thing as cheating when you’re making political alliances. 

The only person complaining about the poster campaign is Pope Benedict, who was depicted smooching an Egyptian holy man. A Vatican spokesman denounced it as a violation of the Holy Father’s chastity, but I suspect what really upset Benny was the lack of passion in the kiss. No one ever got to be Pope without sticking his tongue down a few throats. The fashion house withdrew the Papal poster under threat of legal action, but there must be a few thousand stashed away in a warehouse. They'll become a collector’s item after Benny has his sex-change operation. 

The most puzzling poster is the one of Sarkozy kissing Frau Merkel. The couple were bosom allies the last time I checked, so why show them kissing? Could Sarko have bribed the fashion house to do it because he wanted to make his wife jealous? A new mother is often so infatuated with her baby that she neglects her husband’s needs. Maybe the poster will prompt Carla to accelerate her programme of coochie exercises so she can wrap her luscious thighs around Sarko the next time he ventures into the marital bed. If he keeps on fantasizing about getting into Frau Merkel's pants it might damage the French national interest. She doesn’t look like the sort of woman who’ll give it away for nothing. 

Now, this advertising campaign is a clever gimmick, but its premise looks flawed to me. There is no evidence from human history that kissing is a reliable indicator of benign intentions. Delilah kissed Sampson; Judas kissed Jesus; J Edgar Hoover kissed Dillinger and a dozen other gangsters. It’s the oldest trick in the book to butter up your victim with a smooch before giving him the big shaft. As Shirley Bassey said, it’s the kiss of death from Mr Goldfinger. 

Instead of kissing, humans who want to make peace should do what we gorillas do: bring about a controlled collision between their rumps. It takes real courage to turn your back on a rival and stick out your behind, trusting that he will do the same rather than kicking your arse or attempting some other unspeakable act. If President Obama started booty-bumping all the hostile characters who show up in the UN building, the Age of Universal Love might finally dawn.

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Powerful women

 

A study has revealed that powerful women are just as likely to cheat on their spouses as their male counterparts. Someone should tell Angela Merkel. She’s been chancellor of Germany for over five years and still hasn’t put out. Could she be a dark horse who’s been quietly playing the field? I doubt it. A woman who’s getting laid frequently doesn’t look as tense and uneasy as Frau Merkel. The only kind of horse she is is a riderless one. 

When I mentioned this disappointing lack of Merkelian action to the manager of the safari camp, he grinned with a knowing look in his eyes. 

“She’s obviously not used to making the first move,” he said. “If I were one of Merkel’s aides, I would pay some young Wolfgang to bang her and let her take it from there. It only takes one polar bear to make a hole in the ice.” 

Beneath the vulgar language, I detected a valid point. It’s quite likely that successful women are too intimidating for men to proposition, so they have to do the chasing themselves. Such forward behaviour may not be in Frau Merkel’s repertoire of political skills. I’m tempted to invite her to the Congo for some tuition from my females, who have never been shy of grabbing what they want with both hands. My only worry is that the aromas and rhythms of the jungle might turn her into a sex maniac before she’d returned to human civilisation. A randy woman in a community of apes might provoke gross and unnatural acts. 

A powerful woman who shouldn’t need any assistance from her hairy cousins is Julia Gillard, the prime minister of Australia. The first thing to note about her is her flame red hair – clear evidence of the orang-utan gene, which implies a high sex drive. I don’t know anything about her private life, but I’d bet you a hundred coconuts that she’s a tiger in the sack. Living in Australia should also help her extramarital ambitions. The country is full of larrikin men who wouldn’t think twice about cornering Ms Gillard in an official function and offering her the use of their didgeridoo. It’s true that her voice isn’t very sexy – she sounds like a frigid schoolmistress, in fact – but that may be part of her political act. There’s no point giving the leader of the opposition an erection when debating changes to the superannuation laws. 

I’ve deliberately left Mrs Clinton until last. She’s obviously entitled to cheat on her husband, given the brazen debauchery that he has got away with in his long and distinguished career. My suspicion is that she’s one of those women who is only interested in very clever men, which narrows the pool considerably. She needs to go somewhere with a high egghead density to improve the odds of finding a suitable paramour. 

Perhaps I'll contact the Oxford Union to suggest they debate the motion “This house believes that Osama had bigger balls than Obama”. Honour would demand that Hilldog accepted an invitation to participate, obviously speaking against motion. Although most of the boffins in Oxford are untouchable with a barge pole, there’s always the chance that she’ll bump into a smooth-talking hustler like my friend Dicky Dawkins, who could teach her a thing or two about genetic recombination. It’s a match made in heaven. 

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The art of flirting

A professor from the University of Kansas has published a paper about flirting. He identifies five main methods, ranging from “traditional” (man makes first move and behaves with impeccable manners) to “physical” (woman brushes buttocks against man’s thigh, causing him to gnash teeth and grab her jahoobies). 

The learned professor appears not to be aware of the latest on-line techniques. According to my friend Ms Tiny Temper, who is vainly searching for her Prince Charming on dating sites, a good many men have sent her photos of their todger. Fed up with being a magnet for flashers, she has taken measures to dissuade stray cocks from entering her hen house. I believe that most women share her distaste for men who expose themselves. It’s the sort of thing that might give a lady the vapours. 

Every rule has an exception, however. A woman in a position of power is generally perfectly at ease in the company of naked men, confident that no male organ would dare raise its head in the presence of an alpha female. Consider the example of Angela Merkel, chancellor of Germany, who had no qualms about entering the changing room of the German football team after another blitzkrieg performance. Most of the towelling players cheerfully accepted her congratulations, although a few bashful types placed their hands over their nipples. 

Frau Merkel’s political opponents have accused her of flirting for political gain. They claim she was soliciting the votes of Germany’s sportsmen by pretending to be the kind of woman who would jump into a communal bath with them and sing bawdy songs. The obvious question for her accusers is this: How do you know she was pretending? There is nothing wrong with a female politician joining the nation’s finest in their celebrations. I believe Mrs Thatcher did something very similar after the Iranian embassy siege. 

As a gorilla who is instinctively chivalrous to the human female, I have often wrongly been accused of flirting. I recall an incident from my circus days, when we hired a “glamour model” called Tracey to help us with our promotions. The female acrobats were given the job of looking after her, and seemed less than impressed with her airs and poses. Things came to a head when Tracey strutted before me in a pair of shiny hot-pants. 

“Does my bum look big in this, GB?” she asked coyly. 

“Not big enough for a gorilla,” I replied wistfully, “but it does look agreeably firm. A manual examination would allow me to give a more definitive opinion.” 

She giggled delightedly before blowing me a kiss and sauntering off. The acrobats had witnessed this exchange with stony faces. 

“You great big hairy flirt!” snorted one of them when Tracey was out of earshot. 

“Flirt?” I replied in a quizzical tone of voice. “That’s a strange epithet for one who honestly appraises a woman’s hindquarters.” 

My relations with the acrobats were strained for a while, but I eventually managed to sweeten them up with a dollop of jungle honey. 

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