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 Beijing thing

Everyone at the safari camp is following the Olympics on TV, but the whole thing leaves me cold. In the few events I’ve watched I couldn’t recognise a single face. How am I supposed to get excited about a bunch of nobodies competing against each other? It’s a bit like going to see an art-house movie with no big stars – you appreciate the skill of the director, but don’t really care what happens to the characters. Flags and national pride mean nothing to me.

If I were in charge of the Olympics, I‘d invite Mr Becks to participate in a delegation of one. He could represent Toontown so all the kiddies would cheer him on. After the recent ego-massage he got from Eva Mendes, he ought to be on top form in the high jump. The pouting sex kitten admitted in a newspaper interview that she would fancy Becks if he smelled of “old socks and bad cheese”. I would have thought the aroma would suit him rather better than aftershave or cologne, but apparently many women have delicate olfactory organs. I can’t help wondering what Victoria Spice will make of this brazen attempt to seduce her husband. Gorilla Bananas is no agitator, but even he can sniff a catfight in the air. Perhaps the ladies should go to Beijing and settle their differences in the wrestling competition.

One group of athletes I will be watching closely is the female sprinters. In truth, their bodies fascinate me – tight bottoms, flat bellies and small breasts. Although these features are quite admirable from a certain angle, they’re not the ideal combination for producing children, and therein lies the quandary. Why would such traits have survived in the female stock if they were unsuitable for breeding? On first sight, it’s not something that chimes with the ideas of Charles Darwin, the great father of ape brotherhood.

The first thing I do, when faced with a puzzle like this, is send an e-mail to Professor Dawkins. If you’re wondering why he’d bother to answer my queries, please note that Dicky has been in my debt ever since I saved his life as he dangled precariously above the rapids of the Congo. He also knows that I visit England from time to time and might accost him in Oxford if he displeased me. I certainly wouldn’t rule out interrupting one of his lectures, if he started getting sniffy, and giving his head a good rub in front of his students.

So I fired off an e-mail and got a long reply from Dicky, which I won’t reproduce in full. The gist of his argument is that women haven’t evolved solely as baby machines – in order to reproduce successfully, they had to live long enough to bear a goodly brood and nurture them to adolescence. In the context of mankind’s ancestors in the African plains, this required skills like running away from predators at high speed, hence the advantage of the sprinter’s build. There’s no point trying to have babies if a lion has chewed your head off.

Had Dicky stopped there, I would have accepted the logic of his point and held my peace. But he then went on to create a second line of defence, arguing that even if having a small arse makes no sense in biological terms, humans can brainwash themselves with “memes”. These things are like computer viruses, he asserted, infecting the human brain and making people disobey their selfish genes. Thus a woman might come to believe that having a tight little tush was desirable for its own sake.

I don’t know about you, but this sounds suspiciously like a “get-out-of-gaol” card to me. He seems to be saying that even if natural selection doesn’t work, it’s all the fault of those wretched “memes” rather than the theory itself. I’m in two minds whether to send him a scornful e-mail or give his head a good rubbing the next time I’m in England. What do you think?

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A visit to the other side

A man at the safari camp recounts his near-death experience. As doctors work frantically to resuscitate him, he floats out of his body, hovering like a butterfly, watching them pound his chest. He re-enters through his navel and travels down a dark tunnel towards a bright light. It feels good, like the release of tension from a bowel movement. On arriving at his destination, he is welcomed by George Burns in a tuxedo, who introduces him to his deceased relatives and the Marx Brothers. They all sit down to a tea party in the balmy sunshine of a summer afternoon. The conversation sparkles and no one argues or is boring. Groucho is warm and sincere; Zeppo is funny; Harpo is not annoying.

A page boy then rushes to the table with a message for Mr Burns, who reads the note while puffing on his cigar.

“There’s been a mistake in the diary, kiddo.” says George. “You’re not due yet, so you’ll have to go back.”

Mr Burns blows a smoke ring and the man finds himself hurtling back down the tunnel. It feels bad, like the build up of tension from a suppository. He is re-united with his body at the very moment the doctors restore his pulse. He emerges from his coma a day later, with the memory of his experience intact.

The other guests are enthralled by his account.

“I wish I could have a near-death experience!” sighs a dewy-eyed woman.

The man smiles at her benignly. “After my trip to the other side I lost all fear of death,” he says. “It totally changed my life and made me a better person.”

I purse my lips and frown. There’s no harm in enjoying these mystical events, but I draw the line at encouraging others to flirt with the Grim Reaper. That often leads to an actual death experience, from which the possibilities of leading a better life on Earth are remote. I judge that a dose of scepticism would be in order.

“I’m sure it’s almost worth dying to experience such a thing,” I remark. “Many have done so, of course. Scientists say that the last flickerings of an expiring brain produce these effects. If so, it sounds like a most pleasant finale to one’s mortal existence.”

“Are you saying it was all a hallucination, Mr Bananas?” asks the man.

“Indeed not!” I reply. “We gorillas avoid metaphysical speculation. I’m just telling you what fellows like Dicky Dawkins think.”

“I wonder what Mr Dawkins would do if he were having a near-death experience,” muses the man with a chuckle.

“Knowing Dicky as I do, I expect he would stubbornly refuse to play along,” I answer. “They’d have to drag him along the tunnel and when he got to the tea party he’d make his excuses and leave before the whole thing vanished into oblivion.”

“It sounds as if I escaped from that heavenly place in the nick of time,” quips the man. “How long do you suppose one has before the afterlife is revealed as a hoax and the sky falls in?”

“That’s a very good question,” I remark, stroking my neck in reflection. “I’ll put it to Dicky the next time I see him.”

I return to the jungle next day, musing on the tea-party question. It does seem a bit odd that one minute you’d be happily chatting to the Marx brothers and the next minute everything disappears into nothingness. And how do we know that tea-party time moves at the same rate as Earth time? What if the final moment of Earthly life is experienced as an infinitely long tea party of bliss, if such a thing were possible? Dicky Dawkins must deal with these legitimate questions before fobbing people off with his half-baked theories.

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