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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Artistic exposure

A fad seems to be emerging in the art world for daubing paint on the skin of naked women. The artists who are doing it (most of them men) say a woman’s body makes a far more interesting canvas than paper or board. Maybe so, but it’s rather less easy to frame a woman and hang her up on your wall. The most an enthusiastic collector could hope for is a good long inspection followed by some snaps for the photo album. 

The latest exponent of this technique is a fellow called Andy Golub, who spent last summer painting volunteers on the streets of New York City. After being charged with “public lewdness”, he was allowed to continue with his work on condition that his models kept their G-strings on until nightfall. A fair compromise, I would say. For all its brash in-your-faceness, the Big Apple isn’t ready for beavers in broad daylight. Even I sometimes get a peculiar taste in my mouth after seeing them in humid conditions. 

As with all art forms, there are radical pioneers pushing at the boundaries. A performance artist called Marni Kotak recently gave birth in a New York art gallery, claiming her delivery was “the highest form of art”. The critics were suitably impressed: 

“I feel the entire audience accomplished this together with Marni using their commonly created positive energy,” declared Katherine Hybenova, editor of the Bushwick Daily. 

I wonder what they did to make her feel their positive energy. I would have sung a gentle yet uplifting tune, like She’ll Be Coming Round the Mountain. On second thoughts, I would have hummed it – a woman in labour shouldn’t be distracted with fatuous lyrics. 

Araceli Cruz of the Village Voice arrived shortly after the birth to find Marni “calmly eating a banana”. You have to admire the devotion of an artist who continues to perform for her public after the exhibition is over. When I left the ring in my circus career, I scratched my armpits and buggered off quickly. Any bananas were eaten in the privacy of my trailer.

I have to admit I’m in two minds about Marni’s nativity performance. A human infant squeezing out of its mother’s birth canal is certainly an amazing spectacle that rivals the special effects in Alien or similar movies. But shouldn’t the baby have a say on whether it’s displayed covered in yucky goo, bawling its head off with a horrible tube sticking out of its navel? I wouldn’t want to be gawked at by New York avant-gardistes in such an undignified condition.

A photograph of Marni in the final days of her gestation is displayed below for my curious readers. Rarely have I seen such a prime specimen of luscious womanhood. I printed out a copy for my females, who immediately pestered me to invite her to the Congo in their eagerness to massage her thighs and buttocks. There was nothing remotely sexual about their request. We gorillas are broad-minded apes who appreciate firm flesh from whatever quarter, particular the hindquarters.

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