End of the bra?

A French scientist is claiming that bras are useless:

"Medically, physiologically, anatomically, the breast does not benefit from being deprived of gravity,” declared Professor Jean-Denis Rouillon. “Instead, it languishes with a bra.”

So he says, but can a Frenchman be trusted on this delicate question? Devising compelling arguments for a woman to take off her bra is a celebrated diversion of French intellectual life. I believe Jean-Paul Satre devoted a chapter to it in his PhD thesis.

The Americans, by contrast, remain as resolutely pro-bra as ever:

“The first lady will not be changing her pectoral apparel in light of this development,” said a White House spokesman.

As a gorilla whose own experience on this subject is lacking, I have little data with which to assess these competing claims. On the one hand, the tribal women of Africa have never worn bras. On the other hand, many of these women have exceptionally droopy titties. Yet wearing bras may have made them even droopier.

If I were to study humans in the same way that Dian Fossey studied gorillas, I would go around the world with an inch tape asking women to let me take their measurements. I have no plans to do so, because subjecting women’s breasts to meticulous scrutiny would be undignified for a gorilla. Such tasks should be left to men, whose reputation on this issue is already in tatters.

One band of intrepid women who should welcome Professor Rouillon’s findings is FEMEN, the Ukrainian feminist group that specialises in bare-bosomed protests. Their latest exploit was to ambush President Putin at the Hanover Trade Fair while Frau Merkel was showing him the latest German equipment. Alexandra Shevchenko is the name of the FEMEN activist who managed to invade Mr Putin’s personal space and scream the slogan “Fuck dictator!” at him (which was inscribed on her breasts for good measure). Putin responded to this affront by puffing out his own chest and raising his eyebrows in an ironic grimace.

“It was a very intimate moment,” said Miss Shevchenko afterwards.

Undoubtedly this protest would have been less effective had Alexandra been wearing a bra, but that doesn’t mean it was particularly effective without one. President Putin seemed too intrigued by the messenger to notice the message, and no doubt laughed the whole thing off as a futile attempt to arouse him sexually. You can’t humiliate an ex-KGB man by showing him your jahoobies. Such displays are dismissed as decadent frippery in the official spy manual.

Sadly, the one dictator who might be cowed by naked breast-power is unlikely ever to face that ordeal. I refer to Kim Jong Un, whose baby cheeks would surely burn with shame if they were smothered between a pair of voluptuous boobies. This explains why the only females allowed in his presence are pubescent pom-pom girls and flat-chested army secretaries. I wonder if anyone could persuade Pamela Anderson to parachute behind enemy lines, so she could tit-slap some sense into the abominable little upstart?

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Political boob in Mexico

A Mexican presidential candidate has blamed his poor performance in a televised debate on a voluptuous pair of breasts. They belonged to Miss Julia Orayen, a former Playboy model, who was hired to help manage the event. She naturally chose to perform her duties in a low cut dress, so her fans would instantly recognise her. You can’t blame a show business performer from using a trademark gimmick – it’s no different from Groucho Marx appearing in public with a cigar in hand.

Gabriel Quadri, the aforementioned candidate, claimed that the proximity of Julia’s jahoobies had made him nervous:

“It’s impossible not to concentrate your attention on a woman so spectacular,” he said.

This looks like an exaggeration to me. Difficult, yes. Impossible, no. Mr Quadri should realise that the mark of a statesman is his ability to focus on the issues when a pert bosom is in his field of view. Let's not forget that President Kennedy formulated many policy initiatives when he was motor-boating his secretary. A politician has got to be able to juggle different problems vying for his attention. You can’t whine about breasts when the voters are protesting about the price of eggs. The price of milk, maybe, but not the price of eggs.

Let’s hope Miss Orayen is hired to officiate the US presidential debates. It might encourage the candidates to loosen up and talk about women’s issues instead of acting like the honcho in a poncho. I suspect it would favour President Obama, who must have got used to white girls flaunting their chests at him in his college days. It would just be part of the scenery for him. Romney, on the other hand, has probably never seen his wife’s breasts in broad daylight. I’m guessing he’d break out in a sweat if Julia walked within groping range.

A politician renowned for ogling the female bosom is Dominique Strauss-Kahn, who is to be played by Gerard Depardieu in a forthcoming biopic:

“I will do it, because I don’t like him,” said the potato-faced actor, adding: “I think he’s a bit like all the French, a bit arrogant. I don’t much like the French in any case.”

I think we should respect Gerard’s opinion, even though he’s a Frenchman himself. I don’t know whether DSK is guilty of half the things he’s been accused of, but he clearly thinks he’s entitled to sex on demand, which is an odious and self-defeating attitude.

My old friend Smacker Ramrod had more than his fair share of nookie in his bachelor days, but he took pains over each seduction, recognising that the thrill of the chase was as important as the coup de grâce. Being a true gentleman, he always made the girl think that she had dumped him when it was over, which wasn’t as difficult as it sounds, as in many cases she had actually dumped him. His experiences taught him that you don't fully appreciate the good things of life unless you’ve had to work for them.

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Air pressure

Our guests are complaining about the aggravations of air travel, with its tedious security screening and delays. News of an indignity suffered by a woman in Orlando Airport has added fuel to their grumbling. This hapless female was “randomly” selected for a pat-down search, it being pure coincidence that her bosom resembled a dead-heat in a Zeppelin race (see picture). She claims that the two male security guards who engaged in this impropriety had previously been ogling her chest. I find her story entirely credible and hope that the guilty men are tarred and feathered by a feminist lynch mob. 

Big breasts are only a cause for suspicion when the passenger is a male transvestite who might be carrying contraband in his empty bra cups. Even in such cases, it should be possible to detect the subterfuge without squeezing the dubious extrusions. To cop a feel of a woman’s jahoobies on the pretext of a security check is the act of a villain. My friend Smacker Ramrod, the circus vet, said that he never even thought of touching a woman’s breasts until he had (a) bought her dinner, (b) told her she was beautiful, and (c) shown her the scar he got from being bitten by a horse he was examining. I should imagine that Smacker would have refused to give that woman a pat-down search if she had implored him to do so with moist eyes. 

Now I don’t need to tell you that the upsurge in airport security has been prompted by the threat of suicide terrorism. Only last Christmas, a young hooligan from Nigeria attempted to bring down a jet by creating an explosion in his underpants. A consequence of this climate of fear is that airlines have become extremely wary of passengers doing anything out of the ordinary. On a recent internal flight in Russia, a 23-year-old man emerged naked from a toilet and skipped gaily down the aisle. Who knows why he did it. As a former circus ape, I have observed that humans sometimes indulge strange whims on the spur of the moment. Psychologists will no doubt find an explanation linked to abnormal activity in the frontal lobes of the brain. 

Whatever the reason for his peculiar stunt, common sense should have told the cabin crew that he posed no threat. A naked man has limited options for concealing a deadly weapon on his person. No stick of dynamite was protruding from his rectum. Yet the flight attendants pounced on him while passengers cowered in fear, prompting the pilots to make an emergency landing in Vladivostok. 

I am actually surprised that no entrepreneur has set up a nudist airline, whose passengers could be whisked swiftly through security without the usual hoo-hah. It would definitely be the safest form of air travel – I can’t imagine any member of Al Qaeda boarding a flight on which a woman might laugh at his knob or throw a tampon in his face. I must mention this idea to Sir Richard Branson, who in spite of his beard is no fan of bin Laden. He is allegedly rather partial to naked ladies, though.

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Change of identity

People sometimes ask me to imagine that I’ve been changed into a human in my sleep by an evil wizard. I tell them it wouldn’t bother me until I awoke next morning and peered into a looking glass. Oh, what a horrible shock to see a fleshy little face staring back at me! I should imagine I would jump out of my hammock in despair and look for a baboon to kick. But being human, I would be no match for the baboon, who would give me a grievous hiding for my effrontery. This would undoubtedly add to my woes.

Now why do people ask me to contemplate such a disturbing scenario? Basically it’s curiosity. They want to find out what sort of human persona I would adopt if the metamorphosis were forced upon me by black magic. I suspect they want me to say I would prefer to be someone like them. Humans are very vain and love to belong to a favoured group. Yet strangely enough, I have no firm views on the question. With so many varieties of human on Earth, it’s difficult to decide where the soul of a gorilla would be most at home. Obviously not in a hairdresser or frogman, but that still leaves a lot of possibilities.

I used to think Shaolin monks were closest to gorillas in spirit. Like us, they are vegetarian pacifists who enjoy the outdoor life. Their kung fu tactics are pretty similar to how we silverbacks keep the yahoos at bay. Yet shaving one’s head is definitely not a gorilla-compatible custom. They also have an annoying habit of speaking in riddles, which creates a lot of unnecessary pussy-footing. If I want to hear riddles, I’ll buy a box of crackers.

Then I thought I might enjoy being the captain of a cruise ship. The job has numerous perks, including fresh sea air, a smart hat and a crew that says “Ay Skipper”. But then I found out that much of the captain’s time is spent listening to passengers’ complaints and humouring middle-aged women with wobbly bottoms. It might be tolerable if I could give the bottoms a slap or two, but apparently such salutations are no longer part of marine protocol.

My current choice would be an attractive blonde waitress with big breasts. Before you gape in astonishment, please note that this preference is based on solid scientific research. It is a proven fact that bosomy blonde waitresses get bigger tips than their darker-haired, flatter-chested sisters. In the dog-eat-dog world of homo sapiens, an edge over your rivals is an incalculable advantage. Having to check my breasts for lumps would be a chore, but I reckon I could get used to it.

Let me add, for the record, that I have never been influenced by bust size in the tipping of waitresses. The biases of the human male are not shared by us gorillas. The most generous gratuity I ever gave was to a ginger-haired girl with delightfully petite sugar plums. To protect her anonymity, I will call her “Miss Cherry Tomatoes”.

“Miss Tomatoes,” I said, “this is the last breakfast I shall eat at this café, for tomorrow the circus leaves town. To show my appreciation, I will leave you a tip equal to a full day’s pay.”

“Oh thank you, Mr Bananas!” she mewed. “It will help me save up for a boob job.”

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Miss Plastic 2010

I’ve received an invitation to be a judge at beauty contest. No sniggers please. The event is taking place in Hungary, a nation I’ve always admired for its fruity soups. An unusual feature of the pageant is that all the contestants will be women who have had cosmetic surgery. The subtext is that this surgery should have resulted in enhancement or reshaping of the bust.

It’s not all about titties though. There are also points for personality, which is where I come in. They’re looking for a judge who can evaluate a woman’s inner beauty without being distracted by the shallow attractions of her physical form (a task far beyond the grinning old lechers who customarily adjudicate such tournaments).

Appreciating inner beauty, you see, is one of my greatest talents. My penetrating eyes can see beyond the pouting and posing (to say nothing of the titting and bumming) and examine the soul within. In my circus days, no woman could hide her true character from the Bananas gaze. I recall the case of the knife-thrower’s assistant, whose blond hair and unusually large breasts caused everyone to judge her harshly.

“Doris is a stupid tart!” they cried.

I was the only one who dissented from this hasty indictment.

“You are all wrong,” I said. “When I look into her eyes I see a woman of intelligence and sensitivity.”

It later transpired that she was taking a correspondence course in cosmology and had a crush on Professor Stephen Hawking, the wheelchair-bound genius with a voice like a friendly Dalek. A bit kinky, perhaps, but not the kind of infatuation one would expect of a promiscuous airhead. Doris was enormously grateful when she heard how I had championed her cause.

“Think nothing of it, Doris,” I said, as she approached me in tears of gratitude. “A gorilla needs no courage to stand against the baying mob. You may scratch my back if you wish.”

But let’s get back to the beauty contest. I asked my friend Laszlo Paszlo, the Hungarian journalist, for his opinion on my participation.

“They’re using you as window dressing, Bananas,” he said. “The feminists are saying the whole thing is just an excuse for men to stare at the girls’ breasts. The organisers want to reply: ‘This is not true because one of the judges is a gorilla who has no interest in breasts.’”

I found this very surprising, as I never realised there were feminists in Hungary. It seems they found their voice after the Iron Curtain collapsed. There was no need for feminism under the Communist system because all citizens were equal by official decree of the State, and any woman who dared to deny it had her boobs tweaked by the secret police. Then came democracy, and women had to get organised to prevent men from looking at pornography and enjoying the new freedoms in other unfair ways.

Frankly, I don’t blame the organisers for wanting to placate the feminists. Never was a group of females more sorely in need of placation. I myself placated several of them in my circus days. Although telling them I have no interest in breasts would be a slight exaggeration, I do not object to the use of this argument to keep them at bay. Consider my flight to Budapest booked.

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Squeezing the rich

Clare Irby, heiress to the Guinness fortune, has been cleared of allowing a strange man to fondle her breasts. I never realised it was illegal, but then I’m no expert on human law. Maybe she was charged under a new statute designed to prevent the spread of nipple rash. I’m glad she didn’t claim she was groped against her will, which would have got her off the hook at the expense of sending an innocent man to the chokey. Is it now possible for a man to touch a woman’s breasts without someone getting arrested? I think this legal point needs to be resolved before a lot of bemused couples outside nightclubs are hauled away by the police.

An English tourist at the safari guesthouse has an interesting take on the story. He says the authorities prosecuted Ms Irby because they are taking a hard line against the rich in the current economic downturn.

“People don’t like seeing a posh society bird getting her tits rubbed when they are struggling to make ends meet,” he explains.

Should a woman who’s never done a stroke of honest work in her life be permitted to allow a stranger to caress her cupcakes at a time when ordinary folk are losing their jobs? Put like that, the case against her seems very strong. Yet on reflection, I feel that the rich should enjoy themselves whatever the economic climate. If they stop having fun, what hope is there for the rest of society? As long as they temper their hedonism with charity for those less fortunate, they should be allowed to stimulate their bosoms in peace.

We should examine the circumstances of the Irby case in more detail. She was on an aeroplane when the incident occurred, presumably sitting in first class. Hence the man who stroked her boobs must have also been a first class traveller. This would have made the economy passengers feel particularly resentful. It’s bad enough knowing that people in first class get better food and more leg-room – giving them a fresh pair of titties to fondle is really rubbing the budget traveller’s nose in it.

I would advise Ms Irby to spread her favours more widely out of noblesse oblige. She could invite an unemployed man to paw her chest on a regular basis – maybe even let a tramp do it once in a while (after washing his hands). Rich people are not disliked for their wealth, per se, but for their arrogance and snobbery, manifested in the presumption that their tits are too good for the common man. If Clare projects herself in the right way, making her bosom a plaything for deserving men of all classes, the masses will surely idolise her in the manner of the late Princess Diana.

It seems that one of the aggravations of being a young woman of note is that your titties become a topic of public debate. A victim of such ignoble chatter is Jennifer Aniston, who was forced to deny having implants. I certainly believe her, even though her dumplings do look more succulent than in her Friends days. Perhaps the best way for Jennifer to scotch the rumour would be to come clean about the natural methods she has presumably been using. Humans should never be ashamed of applying creams, gels or suction cups to their bodies. As a former circus ape, I can assure you it was common practice among the grandi artisti.

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Animal lovers

Got a call from little Charlotte Uhlenbroek the other day. She’s recently appeared in a series of wildlife documentaries on British TV, visiting the great apes and trying to sort out their problems. The problems, it must be said, remained largely unsolved. On the plus side she did manage to goad a few chimpanzees into tickling her, which made her giggle like an excited schoolgirl. On strength of this performance she asked me to nominate her for Animal Lover of the Year.

“I’ll put your name forward, Charlotte, but I can’t say your chances are good,” I said. “Last year it was won by a fellow who sucked a cow’s udders. This year we’ve had reports of a man who wanked off a dolphin. That’ll be stiff competition, as you can imagine.”

“They’re so fucking sexist, GB!” squeaked Charlotte angrily. “They’ve never given it to a woman, have they? Do I have to suck off a chimp or something?”

“I wouldn’t recommend it, Charlotte, they’d be queuing outside your tent once the word got out. Why don’t you try something with the hoofed animals instead? The judges are always impressed by women who can ride the herbivore bareback.”

“Not bloody likely, GB, my arse is sore enough as it is!"

I said I would do my best to make her case from her work with the apes.

I have to admit that I lied about the man who wanked off a dolphin. That incident occurred a long time ago, so the perpetrator wouldn't be eligible for this year’s award. I wanted to lower Charlotte’s expectations without telling her about the real favourite: an Ohio woman who allows a squirrel to reside between her breasts. One shouldn’t put such ideas into the head of an impressionable TV naturalist.

So what about this woman from Ohio? Apparently, the first person to find out about her furry tenant was a police detective. He was interviewing her about an unrelated felony when the bushy-tailed rodent popped out of its hiding place and tried to escape. Less nervous creatures than a squirrel have cracked under the strain of a dogged interrogation. The woman promptly reassured the animal and put it back into its cosy refuge. They obviously had a relationship based on mutual trust and affection – bosom buddies, so to speak.

Now on the face of it, this woman showed great hospitality in allowing Little Nutkin to nestle between her norks. It has all the appearance of a selfless act carried out by a true lover of furry creatures. However, a breast boffin called Cathinka Chandler claims that parting the chest cleavage is actually good for the boobs, preventing them from wrinkling and sagging. She has invented a device called The Kush which is essentially a glorified titty-separator. She claims that women who sleep with one lodged between their baps will wake up in the morning with a bust to be proud of.

All of which suggests that the woman from Ohio had a selfish motive for her squirrel-friendly behaviour. That’s typically human, isn’t it? You think they’re doing something out of generosity of spirit, when in reality they have an ulterior motive. Let’s hope the judges can see through her wiles.

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