Pet care

Did Justin Bieber abandon his monkey? Everyone seems to think so, but the facts look inconclusive to me. The monkey was taken away from him when he arrived in Germany because its papers weren’t in order. You could argue that Bieber should have put his foot down and threatened to leave the country, but the German authorities are responsible for instigating the estrangement. You can’t blame Bieber for not accompanying his monkey to its quarantine cell and living off nuts and berries. A growing boy needs milk and cookies to keep his chest fluff growing.

It was foolish of the Germans to act so high and mighty. They’re unpopular enough in Europe for squeezing the assets of the Greeks and Cypriots. At the very least, they should have found a good foster home for the monkey instead putting it in a cage. I would have given the creature to Lilo Wanders, the celebrity transsexual, whose lavish home is equipped with the latest restraining devices for monkeys and other stray beasts. I doubt such measures would have been necessary, though. The most agitated monkey would be soothed by resting its head on Miss Wanders' hormonally enhanced bosom.

One has to wonder whether things will ever be the same between Bieber and his simian pet. The monkey has no knowledge of German quarantine laws and probably thinks it was sent to boarding school. It may well be happy to return to Bieber, but it’s bound to feel resentment when it reflects on its ordeal. How will it avoid comparing Bieber with Michael Jackson, who treated Bubbles the chimp as an inseparable companion and bedmate until death did them part? Such reflections might incite it to take revenge by secretly scouring its anus with Bieber’s toothbrush. Monkeys have a gift for sly and sneaky sabotage.

In truth, it’s rarely a good idea for a human to have a pet monkey. The species are too similar to avoid unrealistic expectations. Even a confirmed pet lover like Paris Hilton couldn’t make it work. As she explained to her fans:

“My monkey was really cute but used to screech and go crazy whenever he saw me naked. I think he wanted to touch my boobs or something but was too confused to ask. I had to lock him in the closet whenever I wanted to watch TV in the nude. So I put him up for adoption and found him a new home in a zoo.”

The ironic thing is that Justin himself would make a much-loved pet – he seems to inspire the same feelings as a rabbit or a faun. Teenage girls can be very sentimental about shy delicate creatures that like to be stroked. Perhaps Paris Hilton should adopt him as her human pet and teach him how to handle all the negative publicity he’s been getting. One assumes Bieber is man enough to see her naked without freaking out like a monkey. He can always close his eyes if he gets too flustered.

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Paris in Rio

I hear that Paris Hilton is suffering from a bad case of bottom-envy after visiting the Rio Carnival. No surprise there. The sight of all those of pert posteriors wiggling in the sunshine must have left her feeling thoroughly dejected. Her own butt is nothing special, of course, although she probably never realised it before. A floozy of her calibre tends to believe all the flattery she gets from the dandies and gigolos she consorts with. Frustrated at being upstaged, she agreed to appear in a beer commercial in which she grovelled on all fours like a cow in heat. How the Brazilians must have laughed!

I’ve never understood the popularity of these carnival processions. People dress up in funny costumes and prance down a street expecting onlookers to gasp in admiration. I don’t begrudge them their fun, but it’s hardly great theatre. If you tried to fob off a circus audience with that sort of thing they would throw bottles at the ringmaster. I suspect people who attend such events are driven by the herd instinct. When they see a crowd assembling, they assume it must be a good place to go. The great wildebeest migrations in Africa operate on the same principle.

I appreciate a taut pair of buns as much as the next ape, but that doesn’t mean I would stand in a crowd and bake in the hot sun for a fleeting glimpse. If I wanted to ogle booty in Rio, I would go to the beach and watch the women play volleyball while I relaxed beneath a sunshade. The great thing about ladies’ sports is that you can hoot and whistle to your heart’s content without appearing uncouth. When Martina Hingis won points with her overhead smash, no one knew whether I was applauding her skilful play or her jiggling jahoobies. I wasn’t sure myself, to be honest.

An English tennis instructor on safari once said that lesbians should be banned from the sport.

“Do you think they have an unfair advantage?" I asked, mindful of Navratilova’s bulging forearms.

“It’s not that,” he said. “The problem is corruption. What’s to stop them from throwing matches in return for sexual favours?”

I considered his argument with pursed lips and found it wanting.

“Are you suggesting that non-Sapphic women would offer their bodies to a fanny-fister merely to progress to the next round?” I asked. “Surely women are not so ready to act contrarily to their nature.”

“Women have a different attitude to men about same-sex activities,” he asserted. “They don’t find it disgusting however straight they are. To them, it’s no worse than putting your trousers on back-to-front.”

I tried to picture Mrs Clinton with her trousers on back-to-front, but the image failed to gel in my mind.

“As I do not wear trousers, I find it difficult to comment on your analogy,” I said. “I nevertheless maintain that banning lesbians from tennis would be a retrograde step.”

“Please yourself,” he replied laconically. “I never knew gorillas were so PC.”

I think of this conversation whenever humans associate gorillas with reactionary tendencies. In truth, we are a progressive force in the jungle.

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Madonna and child

A man on safari tells me that Madonna is going to visit the parents of her 22-year-old companion, Jesus Luz.

“Perhaps she wants to adopt him,” I suggest.

The man seems doubtful, but agrees it would be a fitting way of formalising their relationship. The boy’s natural parents surely love him dearly, but they can’t give him the start in life that Madonna can. In her delicate embrace, young Jesus would be nurtured with the most fragrant oils and lotions, rubbed tenderly on his chest, thighs and buttocks. Living in a well-heated mansion, there would be no need for him to wear clothes as he swung on the indoor climbing frame, his adoptive mother watching his movements with burgeoning pride and excitement. Let us hope that the paperwork can be finalised quickly without legal challenge.

The religious significance of the adoption would be enormous. The sight of Madonna mothering her own baby Jesus would surely strengthen the faith of Roman Catholics everywhere. It might even attract new converts. Anglicans fed up with the namby-pamby nonsense from the Church of England and its bearded archdruid might be tempted to migrate to Rome on seeing this miraculous re-enactment. I hope Pope Benny makes the most of the opportunity by granting an audience to Madge and Jezz and having his picture taken with them. Giving them his blessing might technically be blasphemous, so perhaps he ought to let them bless him.

I shouldn’t really be nagging the Pope because he has a lot on his plate at the moment. A great row has erupted among the faithful in Spain after a group of mothers who call themselves “Daughters of the Generalissimo” sent an open letter to the Vatican. They have inquired whether a devout Catholic wife should ever permit herself to attain a physical climax during marital relations, adducing their own opinion that any child conceived in such debauchery would be the Spawn of Satan. The Pope has deferred judgement pending consultation with Cardinals experienced in such matters. Spanish feminists, meanwhile, have expressed their fury by burning their knickers in the Plaza de España in Madrid.

If I had the Pope’s ear, I would advise him that it was perfectly lawful for a woman to experience elation during the physical act of love. There are many precedents in Holy Scripture – Bathsheba was never punished by the Lord for enjoying a jiggy with Mr Biggy and Delilah was obviously an insatiable minx who liked it mean and dirty. The only stipulation for the pious wife is that she should remain silent while in the throes of ecstasy. The purpose of marital congress is procreation, and no righteous husband should have to listen to his wife making a hullabaloo when he’s trying to impregnate her. It’s the sort of thing that might put a man off his stroke and make him forget what he was doing. A few soft little moans and sighs should be all that is permissible.

Speaking of procreation, I was disappointed to hear that Paris Hilton has failed to make good on her promise to produce a brood of little Parisites. Her latest beefcake suitor was callously dumped after she discovered he was “boring”. She should stop being so picky if you ask me. Does she want to be impregnated or entertained? Men who can do both generally prefer not to breed with vacuous floozies.

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