Gay strife

Gay activists are protesting about a German zoo’s decision to split up a pair of male vultures. The zoo says they were being harassed by other vultures who took exception to their unconventional lifestyle. On balance, I think the zoo acted correctly. There is no defence against queer-bashing vultures – once those rowdy birds gang up with malign intent, the victims may as well fly to New Zealand. The heartbreak suffered by the separated couple could be eased by giving them an extra helping of offal for breakfast. Anyone who’s studied vultures knows that food comes before romance in their list of priorities. 

Humans occasionally ask me whether gay gorillas exist. I tell them the percentages are similar to the human population. The main difference is that no male gorilla, to my knowledge, has ever willingly taken it up the butt. Gorillas in all-male pairings always play the active role in relationships with smaller apes. A gorilla of this disposition lives in our neighbourhood – his name is Passion Fruit and he’s involved with a male chimpanzee. The two are pretty much inseparable, so it was quite a surprise when Passion Fruit turned up unaccompanied to the Annual Simian Convention. 

“Hey, Passion Fruit, where’s your bitch?” cried a cheeky monkey from the tree tops. 

“How dare you call him a bitch?!” shouted Passion Fruit furiously. “You’d better stay where you are, because if I catch you on the ground I’m going to tie a knot in your tail!” 

I later told the monkey that “catamite” was a more polite word than “bitch”, but either word was less prudent than keeping his mouth shut. The monkey who casts aspersions on a gorilla’s private life does so at his own peril. 

Baboons are the most homophobic of all the hairy primates – it’s because of the complex they have about their behinds. Heterosexual male baboons are tormented by the fear that people will think their exposed rump is a sign of gayness. That’s why they are so hard on baboons who are genuinely gay, driving them mercilessly into exile. I took pity on one such refugee as he sat forlornly on a tree stump: 

“You may stay with my females and groom them until you find a permanent home,” I said. 

The baboon accepted my offer with pathetic gratitude. My females were pleased as well – a gay hairdresser is a major status symbol in the jungle. 

The biggest gay-bashers in Africa are neither vultures nor baboons, however. That dubious honour belongs to various outspoken clergymen who accuse homosexuals of improbable practices such as eating each other’s poo poo. I remember the embarrassment caused by Bishop Badongo of Burkina Faso when he stayed at the safari guesthouse: 

“Who is that poofter?” he asked in a loud voice, pointing at a nattily dressed Austrian man. 

“Please sheath your finger and moderate your tone of voice!” I demanded in a firm whisper. 

I later told the bishop that we would be forced to ask him to leave if he assailed us with another of his boorish ejaculations.

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Five fat men and a pole

A correspondent cheekily suggests that I audition for a new show in London. It features five pot-bellied men who cavort on stage while embracing a vertical pole. Rather than shaving and oiling their skin, they proudly display their body hair, a gimmick which inspired them to name their act “Bearlesque”. It has attracted a large following of middle-aged women, thrilled at the spectacle of these human potatoes pawing the pole like bears searching for honey. The performers never remove their underpants – there are some sights which even the raunchiest matrons would prefer to forgo.

As one who has flexed his own limbs expansively in the circus, I am not without empathy for these podgy pole-dancers and wish them every success. I need hardly point out, however, that they are a long way from being bears, let alone gorillas. As any wild creature knows, all the hair in the world is useless if you lack mobility. These fellows would clearly be out of breath if you even mentioned the idea of climbing a tree or chasing marauding baboons. Not that they’d be capable of doing much if they actually caught up with the baboons. In all probability, the baboons would make mincemeat of them.

It’s a far cry from the feats I performed in the circus. I don’t deny that my most enthusiastic fans were women, but I earned their adulation in a manner worthy of a jungle ape. After years in the ring, I found that what the human female admires most about gorillas is our long, strong, hairy arms. All I had to do to induce excited gasps from heaving bosoms was grasp a fleeing dwarf by his ankle and swing him around my head like a shepherd’s sling. It was stunts like this that motivated the ladies to queue for my autograph and other mementoes. There was no need for me to straddle a shiny pole or mince about in a sexually ambiguous fashion.

Yet I’m not the sort of ape who fails to give credit where it is due. Let no one belittle the fact that Bearlesque has put bums on seats, albeit rather large ones. The reason for the show’s success seems to be that its female fans enjoy ogling men who look like their husbands. It’s really a very clever piece of psychology on their part. Men who see their wives hooting at fellows no better than them will naturally feel more confident about their own sexual allure. And this restored confidence will lead to a general rising of the sap, prompting them to give the missus a thorough seeing to when she gets back home. Anything an honest wife can do to enhance her husband’s self-esteem will be re-paid with interest when her furrow needs ploughing.

The importance of flattery in human fornication reminds me of the finale of a film called Carnal Knowledge, which starred the redoubtable Jack Nicholson. By the end of the movie, Jack is a middle-aged man with a string of failed relationships behind him. He is contemptuous of women and utterly cynical of the idea that male and female can co-exist in healthy symbiosis. Yet he is not celibate. In the final scene of the movie, he enters the abode of an attractive lady who stimulates his waning sexual appetite by sweet-talking him in the most exaggerated manner. But then she fluffs a line, and we discover that she is actually a prostitute speaking from a script that Jack had written for her! Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear! I leave you to draw your own conclusions from that sorry denouement – there are surely profound lessons there for humans of all classes, genders and persuasions.

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The men on top

Garry Kasparov, the former chess world champion, was at the safari camp last week. What a bore he was! Couldn’t stop talking about how President Pootikins was destroying democracy in Russia. Eventually, a guest from the north of England said:

“If he’s that sodding bad, how come you’re not in Siberia with a chessboard wedged between your arse cheeks?”

That shut Kasparov up, the big-nosed upstart.

One thing I’ve noticed about human politicians is that the worst ones are adored by the masses. German maidens fainted in the presence of Hunky Hitler, who drove the goose-stepping hordes into a frenzy of hero-worship. Comrade Stalin’s death was mourned by toiling peasants, browbeaten workers and quite a few he sent to the gulag. Chairman Mao was a living god who inspired nubile young women to fight for the privilege of squirming beneath his sweaty blubber. Humans love a ruthless strongman who doesn’t take crap and makes the trains run on time.

I instinctively sympathise with leaders who have to endure the endless moaning of their people. I’m used to getting nagged by my females so I know how they feel. It’s lonely at the top. You rack your brains for new ways of keeping the mob entertained. You hire chimpanzees to teach the infants how to crack nuts. You organise raiding parties to chase marauding baboons up the trees. And what thanks do you get? The ungrateful swine complain about wasting resources and needlessly antagonising baboons – the same baboons who would shit all over them if they ever got the chance.

At least we gorillas don’t have to worry about sex scandals though. The last one I remember involved that blind British minister who managed to find his way into the knickers of an American journalist, possibly without the aid of his guide dog. His comeuppance arrived when the woman fell pregnant and he arrogantly claimed to be the father. It turned out that he wasn’t. Far from paddling up a private channel in the Americas Cup, his sperm had been swimming in a crowded field in the US Open. What an extraordinary ass the poor fellow made of himself!

A leader who fools around in office should behave like Matti Vanhanen, the prime minister of Finland, who dated a single mother after his divorce. Not content with having her kebabs skewered by the head chef, this shameless hussy wrote a kiss-and-tell memoir after the affair had ended. She spared no detail, describing the prime minister’s preferred mating positions along with the yodels he emitted at the finale. Yet Mr Vanhanen didn’t deny a single word or attempt to discredit the woman. A dignified silence was his only reaction when the snivelling dogs of the media tried to embarrass him. As a result of his manly discretion, 9596 Finnish women have volunteered to bear his child with no strings attached. In my view he should oblige at least 1542 of them.

Politics is unfortunately a dirty game. The sad fact is that we primates behave badly in a crowd, snarling and grimacing and yelling offensive chants. Anyone with the job of pleasing the multitude is bound to dirty his hands. The good leader is one who realises that he is engaged in a form of crowd control. Provide them with decent facilities and let them have their fun – but if they start getting rowdy, don’t hesitate to send in the riot squad to hit them where it hurts.

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