Godiva and Gaga

I am going to instruct our local witch doctor to put a voodoo curse on the taxi driver who drove to a police station after a woman took her clothes off in his cab. Even a taxi driver should be capable of a little more sensitivity. Admittedly, voluptuous 29-year-old Jennifer Gille did also steal the vehicle, but only after the driver had absconded on arriving at the station. A man who is too cowardly to witness an arrest that he himself has instigated deserves what he gets. 

How would you have reacted if Ms Gille had stripped off in a cab you were driving? I take the view that such behaviour is usually a cry for help. Rather than dumping her on the police, I would have attempted to soothe her disquiet and address her legitimate concerns. 

“Madam,” I would have said, “your current state of undress is plainly the consequence of an agitated mind. What say I bring you a cup of coffee from yonder café, that we may discuss your aspirations in a civilised manner? Nudity is far more likely to yield a satisfactory outcome when combined with friendly negotiation. You will forgive me for taking the car keys with me.” 

As it was, the woman was arrested and must now face the humiliation of a courtroom appearance, where she will no doubt be lectured by a supercilious judge, while enduring the indecent smirks of the lackeys who attend such proceedings. Never was a fare-paying passenger so cruelly rewarded for exposing her assets. 

Truth be told, these are stressful times for women of all classes and persuasions. Even mega-stars such as Lady Gaga are feeling emotionally and sartorially vulnerable. The eccentric diva has attracted much comment for wearing a dress made of meat, but it seems that this was merely a ruse to divert attention from deeper insecurities. I say this because a former female assistant of Gaga has revealed that her boss couldn’t bear to spend the night apart from her. The fact that the assistant was married did not deter Gaga in the slightest. She would send text messages to her employee's husband saying: 

“Can your wife stay with me tonight?” 

For some reason, the husband rarely attempted to interpose his veto. Perhaps he was intimidated by Gaga’s status and wealth, or maybe he was flattered by her interest in his spouse. Whatever the whyfores and wherefores, his wife spent more time in her boss’s bed than his own. 

Before anyone gets the wrong idea, I should emphasize that there was no sexual motive in any of this – Gaga was simply frightened of sleeping alone and wanted to snuggle up to a girlfriend. It seems that her bold and brassy image is merely a front for a timid little girl who’s afraid of the Bogeyman. If she ever visits the Congo, I’ll be sure to introduce her to my females so they can soothe her girlish anxieties. There are few safer places to rest your head than the hairy bosom of a female gorilla.

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Revenge of the Norse goddess

Scientists are saying that the volcano in Iceland could carrying on puffing and farting for a couple of years. That’s just the sort of inconsiderate behaviour I’d expect from a volcano near the artic circle. A tropical volcano gives you one massive eruption lasting a few days followed by 500 years of peace. You know where you are with a virile beast like that. This effeminate Icelandic orifice will go on shaking and moaning until the whole neighbourhood are tearing their hair in despair.

One thing this event has proved beyond all doubt is that vulcanologists are as useful as knickers on a baboon. They observe, they measure, they fiddle with their instruments, they mumble into their beards about how unpredictable everything is. What the Earth needs now is not vulcanologists but Vulcans – pointy-eared wizards with infallible logic who could devise a practical solution. The best idea I can think of is drenching Iceland with a massive wave until the volcano fizzles out like a cigarette in a toilet bowl.

In the olden days, humans would have appeased the offended spirit of the beast by throwing one of their number into its fiery interior. Our local witch doctor still believes in such remedies and has offered to send his mother-in-law to Iceland by DHL. I told him not to be an imbecile.

“The volcano is obviously female,” I said. “She needs a man to plunge down her crevice and scratch whatever is itching her. You’re always boasting about your knowledge of these mysteries so why not volunteer yourself?”

He told me he didn’t believe in such superstitious nonsense.

The manager of the safari camp is worried that disrupted airline schedules might affect our visitors from Europe.

“Suppose another ash cloud arrives when they’re due to return home,” he said. “What would we do with them?”

“Why not make any stranded guests work for their board and lodging?” I suggested. “I could teach them how to climb trees and harvest coconuts. They could fish for their supper once they’ve been educated in the basics of crocodile avoidance. We could help them build tree-houses so they could vacate their rooms when new guests arrived.”

The manager sucked his teeth and shook his head. “It wouldn’t work,” he said. “Humans who go on safari are used to being pampered and spoon-fed. If we made them fend for themselves they’d whine like sissies and contact their embassies in Brazzaville. We’d never hear the end of it.”

“Hmm,” I mused. “I’ll have to think of something else.”

My current contingency plan is to charter a ship and offer them a voyage back home care of Captain Bananas and his able sea-chimps. We wouldn’t take them all the way to Europe, of course. I’d make sure I had a good excuse to dump them in the Canary Islands, which is the nearest thing to a clearing house for unwanted tourists. They could pay a local fisherman to transport them to the Spanish coast.

Philanthropy has its limits, as Blackbeard the Pirate once said.

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