Feel-good story

I’ve been searching the internet for uplifting news stories to cheer up the manager of the safari camp. He’s been feeling despondent after a Chinese fortune-teller told him he would lose his sense of smell. It’s not the worst thing for a human to lose, but the manager is very attached to his olfactory pleasures. Many are the times when I’ve caught him sniffing an empty shampoo bottle, or an item removed from the laundry basket. Chinese fortune-tellers are not infallible, of course, but their poker-faced predictions can puncture the nonchalance of the most hardened sceptic. That’s why I never consult them. 

The best one I’ve found so far is a human-interest tale about a 24-year-old Cornish woman who has found her dream job. Miss Nat Garvey tests sex-toys for a living, ensuring they meet the maker’s specifications and don’t overheat on full power. 

"Rather than being surrounded by office supplies and computers all day, I have piles of kinky toys to play with," she explained. 

As far as feel-good stories go, few could be more satisfying than this one. It gladdens my primate soul to know that Miss Garvey thoroughly enjoys her work. I’m sure she finds it fulfilling as well. 

Perhaps the most encouraging aspect of this story is that Miss Garvey is not ashamed of her occupation and makes no attempt to hide it from her friends. That would never have happened in Freud’s day, when vibrators were a tool used by doctors to calm hysterical women. Thankfully, we now live in a more enlightened age when women don’t have to be batshit insane to enjoy the simple pleasures of life (with moderate mechanical assistance). Orgasmic independence was surely the greatest achievement of the feminist movement. 

My one concern for Miss Garvey is how people react when she spills the beans. The pubs of her native Cornwall are doubtless frequented by assorted yahoos who would think a girl in her line of work must be a slut or nymphomaniac. Perhaps she needs a male guardian with the fencing skills of Zorro, who would challenge any man who slighted her honour to a duel. A boorish yokel would think twice about making an inappropriate remark in her presence if he knew it might result in the letter ‘W’ being carved on the seat of his pants by a few lightning swishes of a sabre. 

Call me an old-fashioned ape, but in my view women will always need protection from ruffians and liberty-takers. Look at the Swedish sports coach who told the boys under his charge to spank her arse, “her” being an imaginary girl used as a metaphor for the opposing team’s defence. He is obviously a vulgar oaf who has never been educated in the social graces and needs to be kept in check with a riding crop. A gentleman knows that a woman’s arse is not to be spanked unless she begs him to spank it. And only then if she has committed deeds of appropriate naughtiness. 

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Sex tourism

A pharmaceutical company has published a report indicating that women are far more likely to indulge in reckless fornication when on holiday. I could have told them that for free. In this part of Africa, the unaccompanied female tourist is colloquially referred to as “a chicken in need of stuffing”. Not by me, of course – we gorillas shun coarse metaphors in our descriptions of the human female. The expression is common parlance among gigolos who frequent the beaches in search of clients. 

I recently observed one of these young bucks, flexing his limbs and girding his loins before approaching a mature-looking fowl with plenty of white meat on her. 

“Hello, lady, can you help me unpack my lunchbox?” he asked with a smirk. 

I didn’t catch her reply, but judging from the expression on her face it wasn’t entirely dismissive. 

We uphold a very strong safe-sex ethos at the safari camp. We simply can’t take the risk that a human will infect the wildlife, threatening the survival of a species already teetering on the brink. The rooms at the guesthouse are stocked with condoms, ointments, rubber gloves and stimulators. A party of nuns from Ireland, who stayed with us last year, were perplexed by this cornucopia of sex wares. Too embarrassed to mention it to the manager, they tapped me discreetly on the shoulder. 

“Could I trouble you remove those items, Mr Bananas?” asked Sister Bridget. “I’m sure we won’t be needing them.” 

“I would be most surprised if you did, Sister,” I replied. “Yet rules are rules and the ways of the Lord are mysterious, even for those who have taken the holy vows. Is it not written in the gospels that the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak?” 

So the sex goods stayed put, and after the nuns had vacated their rooms we noticed that a few of them were missing. The pious sisters must have appropriated them as more interesting souvenirs than soap or towels. Good thinking on their part. 

But let’s get back to the topic of women who visit Africa for carnal gratification. Why do they come over here to do something they could do at home? Consider the case of Ms Carol Bone, a 62-year-old English grandmother, who suffers from arthritis and back pain. After her 21-year marriage ended two years ago, she embarked on a frenetic bonking spree in which 200 gallants were ridden relentlessly to exhaustion. 

“My age means nothing,” declared Ms Bone. “I have a really high sex drive. Why shouldn’t I enjoy myself?” 

Why not indeed, although one has to wonder how her ex-husband managed to stay the course for 21 years. I’d like to hear his side of the story, assuming he’s not in an intensive care unit with his scrotum attached to a life support machine. 

In truth, I am insulted that women should visit Africa, with its stunning scenery and gorgeous wildlife, merely to behave like cows in search of a bull. The next time I see a European woman consorting with a gigolo, I’m going to give her a piece of my mind. 

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The Easter Binny

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