Third time unlucky?

Call me a finicky ape, but I don’t like the look of Kate Winslet’s new husband. He reminds me of a baboon I once thrashed for making indecent suggestions to my females. Before you accuse me of being a bully, I gave that baboon a good hiding out of kindness. Had I not done so, my females would have taken the law into their own hands and crushed his testicles like almonds.

Now, back to Kate’s husband: he does not particularly resemble a baboon; nor, to my knowledge, are his gonads in danger of being pulverised. But there is something baboonish about the expression on his face. That gawping countenance suggests he’s easily distracted and lacks self-control. It makes me wonder whether he was ogling the bridesmaids when he uttered his marriage vows.

Perhaps Kate considered him a worthy suitor because he’s a nephew of Richard Branson, the British entrepreneur. If so, she ignored some fairly clear warning signs, the most obvious one being that he’d changed his name to Ned RocknRoll. What kind of arsehead would adopt such a name? My guess is that his brain stopped developing at the age of 15 and he still dreams of being the lead singer in a pop group. He no doubt fantasizes about being chased by delirious groupies, eager to make a lollipop of his todger.

But why I should care about the character of Kate’s latest husband? The manager of the safari camp made this point when I brought up the subject with him:

“You’re not her Hairy Godfather!” he jeered.

“We gorillas are avuncular,” I replied. “I don’t have to wait until she’s my bosom buddy before showing concern.”

“If Kate’s bosom and me were buddies, that joker she married would be sleeping on the couch!” quipped the manager.

An idle boast, to be sure, but I can’t fault his appreciation of Kate’s jahoobies. I myself have often expressed admiration for her luscious figure, so ideally suited to the task of making babies. She already has two children sired by different fathers, a clever reproductive strategy of putting each egg in a different soufflé. My worry is that soufflé No.3 will turn out to be a raspberry fool.

Now that she’s married the blighter one must wish her well, of course. Maybe she’ll train him like a dog, taking him for walks and giving him treats when he obeys her commands. Ned is actually the perfect name for a dim-witted mutt who isn’t sure where to bury his bone. Hopefully, he’ll learn that his mistress knows all the best hiding places.

As luck would have it, a new gadget has been invented for humans taking the canine path. It is a tail that wags to the pulse of the wearer when attached to his or her rump. This device could allow Kate to monitor her husband’s moods, and put him on a leash when the neighbourhood bitches were in heat. In this day and age, a happy marriage requires investment in the latest technology.

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Mother's milk

I’ve been studying photos of Alicia Richman, the Texas mother who donated 87 gallons of her breast milk to charity. She is nothing like the buxom matron I imagined her to be. Her figure, indeed, is remarkably svelte. It just goes to show that you can’t judge a dairy by the size of its cows. If the herd is contented, the milk will flow freely.

It all makes sense when you think about it. A woman who copiously secretes a creamy substance from her nipples has a fool-proof method of eliminating surplus body fat. Donating milk could be the next big thing for the health and fitness industry. Feel like having an extra helping of dessert? Go right ahead. Just remember to give your breasts an extra pumping in the morning.

Mrs Richman’s remarkable outflow has been recognised as a Guinness world record. She credits this achievement to her rigorous milking regime:

“I pumped at work, on vacations, in the car. And I never had to buy formula.”

Is it my imagination, or is there something weirdly obsessive about her behaviour? Anyone would think that having a white fluid sucked out of your body was enjoyable. One struggles to think of a precedent.

When I told the manager of the safari camp about Mrs Richman, he frowned and shook his head.

“I pity her husband,” he said. “He must worry about getting squirted in the eye whenever he fondles her boobs.”

This concern seemed exaggerated to me.

“Isn’t it possible to caress a woman’s breasts without squeezing them like udders?” I asked.

“No,” he replied. “You haven’t done them justice unless you grope them firmly and suck them too. What’s he supposed to do if milk starts pouring into his mouth?”

“Drink it?” I suggested.

“Ugh!” grunted the manager. “I’d rather drink dishwater!”

I thanked the manager for sharing his perspectives and bade him a good day. It’s odd that he had such strong feelings of revulsion for Mrs Richman’s milk. I suppose he holds old-fashioned views about a man’s right to enjoy his wife’s jahoobies without being sabotaged by unwanted lactation.

Interestingly enough, a book has recently been published which claims that men are attracted women’s breasts because of subconscious memories of being suckled in their infancy. The authors argue that baby boys get such a high from the hormones in their mother’s milk that they spend the rest of their lives trying to recreate it. It’s a cute theory, but logic compels me to dismiss it as hogwash. Babies are clueless little critters who just want to be fed and protected. They don’t know the difference between a tit and a teddy bear.

The true explanation of why men find breasts attractive was given by Desmond Morris, the primatologist of Naked Ape fame. It’s because of the uncanny resemblance that a lady’s chest cleavage bears to a pert pair of buttocks. And why are buttocks sexy, I hear you ask? The answer is simple. Because they are buttocks.

 

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Forbidden fruit

The manager of the safari camp is facing a grave moral dilemma:

“I don’t approve of what that photographer did, but I still want to see Kate’s boobs,” he said.

“I suggest you fight your voyeuristic urge,” I advised. “When I was in the circus, there was a clown who had a craving to be pissed on the face by a fat woman. When he finally gave into it, he felt dirty afterwards.”

“Well he would, wouldn’t he?” said the manager. “I’m surprised he found someone who agreed to do it.”

“Every fat woman has her price,” I remarked.

“That’s all very well, but my situation is different. Suppose one of the guests has a magazine with her picture in it. What am I supposed to do? Close my eyes?”

“You could provide the guest with a strip of adhesive tape to mask the duchess’s dumplings. If no one else can see them, you won’t feel so deprived.”

The manager sighed and looked to the heavens for guidance.

The latest news on this scandal is that the man who took the pictures is English. I can well believe it. There is something very un-French about secretly photographing a topless woman. When the Frenchman sees an agreeable pair of titties, he likes to observe them at close range and make the owner aware of his admiration. The obsession with still images of the bosom is a very English fetish.

Kate should be glad that he’s English, because it means he can be charged with treason. I’m sure he’ll get a fair trial before the jury convict him. What would be an appropriate sentence in this day in age? I would recommend squirting lemon juice in his eyes while electrocuting his nipples. A harsh penalty, to be sure, but one has to make an example of such guttersnipes to discourage other traitors in his profession.

A question of more than academic interest is why pictures of Kate’s royal rack are such a hot commodity. Three years ago, she was a middle-class English girl whose bust wouldn’t have turned many heads at a building site. Did marrying a prince automatically perk-up her puppies, causing her nipples to point at a higher angle of elevation?

My old friend Smacker Ramrod is the expert I consult on boob-related issues, so I put this question to him. He assured me that admirers of the female bosom would have been just as eager to see Kate’s jahoobies before she became a royal duchess. The big change, he said, was in the quality of the conversation piece thus acquired. No one is interested in hearing you talk about your neighbour’s norks if that neighbour is a nobody. But if you have have seen a famous pair of jugs, you may discuss their qualities at length, while speculating on the manner of their deployment in the recreational activities for which they were designed.

I think he hit the nail on the head, don’t you? Talking about what you've seen is half the fun for humans.

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Back in the USSR

Paul McCartney phoned me the other day to moan about the injustices of the world. Apparently, some Russian bureaucrat has blamed the Beatles for the boom in recreational drug use.

“It was 45 ruddy years ago when we admitted taking stuff!” snorted Paul. “Why can’t they blame Amy Winehouse or someone? I wish I hadn’t given that concert in Red Square now, the ungrateful cunts!”

“Don’t let it bother you, Paul,” I replied. “He probably would have blamed Amy Winehouse if she were still alive. The Russians are superstitious buggers and wary of provoking the spirits of the departed. In any case, you ought to be glad that the Beatles are still considered so influential. You wouldn’t get a Russian official complaining about Cliff Richard’s effect on the younger generation.”

“Not unless the younger generation had taken a vow of celibacy after dating a butch tennis player!” quipped Paul.

“He-he-hoo!” I hooted. “What cheeky Liverpudlian waggery!”

In truth, I can’t assess the validity of this Russian fellow’s argument. He seems to be saying that the Beatles’ brief sojourn in the Maharishi’s ashram convinced many young Russians that psychedelic drugs were the answer. It seems idiotic to me, but who am I to say what Russians would believe? They believed in Communism a few years ago.

Whatever their issues with narcotics, the Beatles did set a good example in other aspects of their conduct. Unlike many other millionaire pop stars, they were never obsessed with busty women, which is something they deserve credit for. I can’t think of a single Beatle girlfriend or wife who possessed an enormous pair of hooters. The better known ones were medium at most.

I think this explains why silicone implants didn’t take off until the Fab Four split up. The modern generation of nymphettes simply has no idea that the Beatles were nuzzling small bosoms in the heyday of their fame and fortune. Nowadays, it takes something akin to a Damascene conversion to persuade a woman desirous of a bigger bust to be satisfied with what she’s got.

Such miracles do occur, though. I was heartened hear of Olivia Landin, a waifish English girl who was persuaded to enter a beauty contest before a planned boob job. She won the first prize a mere 48 hours before her appointment with the cosmetic surgeon.

“I never expected to win; it was unbelievable,” said Olivia, aged 20. “As soon as I got off stage I had second thoughts about changing anything about me.”

I’ve never had much regard for beauty contests, but the cancellation of Olivia’s breast enlargement operation proves they can be a force for good. Before drawing any firm conclusions, I would like to know how the judges came to their decision. If they noticed Olivia’s pert little jahoobies and gave them high marks, she is a worthy champion. But if they disregarded her bosom in a politically correct way, her victory would be a hollow one. A beauty pageant in which the boobs are ignored is not an authentic competition.

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Lingerie or bust

As a gorilla with a strong sense of fair play, it pains me when my human cousins victimise one of their own for no good reason. My females tell me that I should observe the behaviour of another species with scientific detachment, as if I were Davy Attenborough making a film about baboons. They may have a point, but an ape who has hobnobbed with humans as much as I have becomes emotionally involved in their tragedies and triumphs. I could never be like Davy Attenborough if I tried – he is a phlegmatic, blue-blooded Englishman, whereas I am a soft-hearted gorilla, compassionate to the needy and merciful to the naughty.

The latest example of human iniquity that caused me to tweak my nipples in despair occurred in New York City, where a 29-year-old woman was persecuted because of a physical peculiarity. Miss Lauren Odes was dismissed from her job in a boutique for no better reason that the size of her bosom. Her female supervisor (whom one presumes was a small-titted woman) had instructed Lauren to tape down her breasts or wear a billowy robe to disguise her voluptuous figure. When she declined to follow these demeaning instructions, the blameless girl was sacked.

“It was very shocking and humiliating,” said Lauren. “A crazy experience unlike anything I’ve been through.”

Let’s hope that Lauren’s self-esteem has not been irreparably damaged by her callous treatment. Perhaps the chivalrous men of New Jersey (where she lives) will assure her that her extravagant bosom is nothing to be ashamed of.

The ironic thing about this deplorable affair is that the shop concerned sells “intimate apparel”, which is a sanitised term for sexy underwear. Lauren rightly emphasised this point in a press conference she gave, deliberately mentioning the words “buttocks” and “genital area” to remind journalists that breasts are not the only distracting things on a woman’s body.

The question that intrigues me is what kind of legal defence the shop will make. Is it possible that Lauren’s big boobs would have dissuaded customers from making a purchase? They might argue, I suppose, that modestly endowed women would have felt disheartened at the sight of her chest, concluding that no amount of erotic lingerie could compensate for their lack of bust. It would sadden me if there were any truth to this claim. Some of the most attractive women in history had small bosoms, including Catherine of Aragon and Jane Birkin. There is no shortage of men, moreover, who prefer a ripe little pair of jahoobies.

It is all very well to sympathise, of course, but what can one do to show solidarity? The manager of the safari camp advised me to wear a pair of fake breasts for a week, but his suggestions are not to be trusted. I think what I’ll do is send Lauren a t-shirt with the slogan “BIG OR SMALL WE LOVE ‘EM ALL” printed on it. If she went into court wearing that, the shop owners and their legal cronies would surely die of shame.

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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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Strip for Putin

It seems the Russians still have a long way to go before they understand how the free market works. A bevy of the nation’s most beautiful women are supporting Mr Putin’s bid to regain the presidency in 2012 by taking off their clothes. I dare say ogling their naked bodies is as good a reason as any to vote for Pootikins, but you don’t bribe the voters by giving them the goodies in advance. They should have offered to strip off after their hero got elected Czar again. 

Putin has been an explosive sex symbol for Russian women ever since he promised to wipe out terrorists when they were sitting on the toilet. It takes a special kind of ruthlessness to blow a man away when he’s taking a dump. Most assassins wait until their victim has emptied his bowels and scoured with paper or douche. We gorillas would never attack an adversary who was answering a call of nature. Shitting animals are civilians in the jungle, and confronting them runs the risk of stepping in their poop. 

Now, Putin has been keeping very quiet about his stripper fan club and I don’t blame him. If he publicly disowns them he’ll look like an ungrateful KGB apparachnik, but if he thanks them too warmly people might think he put them up to it. In the heyday of my circus career, I attracted a large following of nubile young women, who sometimes deigned to show their devotion by disrobing. I never encouraged them. A busty young lady once told me she was going to dance topless through the streets of her home town with “GORILLA” printed on one breast and “BANANAS” printed on the other. Believe me, they were big enough for the words to fit. 

“Your adulation touches me greatly,” I said, “but I cannot publicly acknowledge your gesture or thank you for it.” 

“Don’t you want me to do it?” she asked. 

“It is not for me to forbid you,” I replied. “Do what you must do, but don’t expect me to attend the event or cheer you on. A family entertainer must maintain a discreet silence when a woman jiggles her jahoobies in his honour.” 

As you can see, my answer occupied the narrow middle ground between incitement and disapproval. She nevertheless interpreted it as a green light to proceed. When my circus colleagues rushed excitedly to tell me that she’d exhibited her assets to great hoopla, I maintained a poker face. 

“She was courteous enough to inform me of her plans in advance,” I remarked dryly. “I am glad she found an appreciative audience.” 

Her performance attracted the interest of various media outlets, and the graffiti on her bosom did not go unnoticed. This resulted in excellent publicity for my act, and our shows were sold out for the rest of the summer. As a token of my gratitude, I sent her a gift from the lingerie department of Selfridges, signing the card “Your hairy idol”. There’s no point displaying false modesty to a fan. 

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A treat for film buffs?

The manager of the safari camp is thrilled at the news that Jennifer Aniston will appear topless in her next movie. 

“She wouldn’t be doing it unless her melons were in great shape!” he exclaimed. “I bet they’re ripe and ready for plucking!” 

“That would be quite an achievement for a 42-year-old woman,” I remarked. “Could they really be so different from the many melons you’ve ogled on the internet?” 

“That’s not the point!” he insisted. “You never forget a famous pair of titties. I can still picture Jamie-Lee Curtis pulling off her sweater in that movie where she pulled off her sweater.” 

“Miss Curtis would surely be delighted that her acting made such an impression on you,” I replied sardonically. “It’s a pity there isn’t a titty Oscar.” 

“Damn right!” agreed the manager. “They’d have to share it, though. You couldn’t give it to one boob and make the other one jealous.” 

“Why not give each boob its own one?” I suggested. 

“That’s just crazy talk!” he sneered. “They obviously work as a team.” 

I told the manager he had no equal in the etiquette of bosom appreciation and left him to his daydreams. 

I wonder what prompted Miss Aniston to let her puppies pose for the camera. Could she be worried that her image is too goody-goody, like Julie Andrews? On the whole, I think it’s a sign of desperation when a famous actress bares her breasts in anything other than a French film. The French, being French, know how to integrate the female bosom with dialogue and plot in an entirely naturalistic way – you never feel like a peeping tom when a pert pair of dumplings appears in their movies. In a Hollywood flick, by contrast, the boob shot is obviously a scrap of meat thrown to the hounds. 

I will now make a controversial statement that most men will find ludicrous to the point of absurdity: there are more interesting things on a woman than her breasts. I’m thinking particularly of her nose. Smalls ones are supposed to be cute and feminine, yet long pointy ones are far more intriguing. Miss Aniston should reflect on the fact that Meryl Streep has never once exposed her bust in a movie. People are too interested in her face to wonder what her jahoobies look like. 

I am glad to note that some humans share my peculiar fascination. The organisers of the Long Nose World Championship, to be held next month in Germany, are still looking for promising candidates to compete in their “snoot out”. Unfortunately, women from really long-nosed nations, like Armenia and Moldova, are reluctant to participate for fear of damaging their marital prospects. This is a great shame. I’m sure there are many single men who would love to have their nerve-endings nuzzled by a long-nosed wife. "If you've got it, poke it!" would be an apt slogan for such ladies.

Maybe they need an organisation based on the gay rights movement which encourages them to take pride in their noses. I would volunteer to help with the publicity if they allowed me to tweak a few beaky ones. 

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Holy Land Hooters

I overheard the manager of the safari camp telling his wife that he’d be making a business trip to Israel. 

“It’s the perfect country to market safari holidays,” he said. “All those arid deserts full of locusts and wild honey. The people there must be dying to visit a place teaming with wild animals and lush vegetation.” 

I knew at once that this was dung from the hippo’s rectum – a shower of manure to cover his tracks and delude his spouse. Being an ape who likes to get to the bottom of things, I resolved to determine the real reason for the trip. So I sneaked into the manager’s office and perused the recently viewed websites on his computer. It didn’t take me long to discover what was pulling him towards the holy land like a moth to a lamp. I found a news report about a men-only hairdressing salon in Tel-Aviv, where the cropping is done by women who wear nothing but thongs. 

One might laugh at the idea that a man would travel thousands of miles to see bare-breasted women, but don’t underestimate the novelty appeal of a topless barber-girl, whose gently-swaying globes brush against her customers as she carefully snips their locks. The enticement of such prolonged proximity to a fresh pair of jahoobies might be difficult for a tit-obsessed man to resist. 

It does surprise me, however, that the most vocal opponents of the Red Puma salon seem to be Israeli feminists. They have every right to disapprove, of course, but I would have expected the most vehement strictures to come from the ultra-orthodox rabbis. Shouldn’t they be invoking ancient Hebrew curses against this abomination? Or are they too busy queuing up to have their beards trimmed? Perhaps a scholar of Jewish law might enlighten us. 

Anyway, I agree with the feminists that the concept behind this salon is horribly sexist. Men who want to be groomed by naked women should get the ball rolling by stripping off themselves. Equality means reciprocity, and a man has no right to ogle a woman’s cupcakes unless he gives her a fair opportunity to examine his dangly bits. 

Now some of you might be thinking that I ought to get a haircut myself before pontificating about barber shops. Your premise would be wrong, because I used to have my fur trimmed in the circus. One of the female acrobats would kindly visit my trailer in the summer months to prune my coat with great delicacy. She once made an unusual request: 

“Do you mind if I take my clothes off, GB, it’s boiling in here. I don’t mind you seeing me naked because being a gorilla you’d look at my body with a doctor’s eyes.” 

I responded to her wish with great sympathy: 

“I quite understand your desire to snip me in the buff, and you are absolutely correct about my clinical detachment. But there is no blind on my window, and a pair of straying eyes might injure your modesty, to say nothing of our reputations.” 

After further negotiation, I agreed to let her strip down to her underwear. We gorillas are generous apes who will compromise on most issues for the comfort of our friends.

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War and Peace

A young fellow at the safari guesthouse asks me whether gorillas are fond of jungle warfare. I smile benignly at the boy before answering. 

“We make every effort to resolve our disputes peacefully, son,” I explain. “Raiding, pillaging and the scorching of enemy private parts are activities we leave to chimpanzees and humans.” 

The boy looks disappointed, so I give him a stick of liquorice and send him on his way with an avuncular pat on the head. In time, he will realise that life is not a video game where you can survive being blasted to smithereens by a bazooka and return to the fray with your pectoral muscles glistening like Rambo. 

Humans, of course, are quite capable of behaving like gorillas when they want to. Consider the recent case of a small town in Ohio, where a long-running and bitter feud between the local church and the local strip club has ended in a great big love-in. After weeks of name-calling and face-pulling, the churchgoers realised the strippers were just fellow human beings who happened to make a living by wiggling their jahoobies in front of salivating men. Much credit must go to their pastor, who softened their hearts with a moving sermon: 

“Were not Adam and Eve naked in the Garden of Eden before Satan laughed at their private parts and made them ashamed?” he declared. “Who are we to cast the first stone at our fallen sisters, some of whom have breasts like two young roes which feed among the lilies?” 

Brimming with compassion, members of the congregation then approached the strippers with opened arms to hug them and give them succour. Two of the strippers were immediately touched by the Spirit of the Lord, while affirming they wouldn’t be quitting their jobs anytime soon. 

"Our hearts are with Jesus, but our bodies are at the Foxhole," said one of them. 

Meanwhile, the owner of the strip club and the pastor are discussing how to settle the dispute amicably. If I were mediating, I would propose the following four-point plan: 

(1) Find the strippers rich husbands so they don’t have to work anymore. America is full of dirty old billionaires like J Howard Marshall who are looking for trophy wives whose breasts can be stroked with their nose hairs. 

(2) To avoid depriving the owner of the strip club of his income, the ladies of the congregation should work for him on a no-fee basis. This would allow the strip club to make the necessary reduction its entry charge while still making a profit for its proprietor. 

(3) The strip club’s customers would themselves be required to disrobe before watching the volunteer strippers. This would avoid the degrading spectacle of fully-clothed men leering at naked Christian ladies. 

(4) A chaperone would be hired to prevent the whole thing degenerating into an orgy. Most gorillas would be well-qualified for the job, but I wouldn’t do it myself. Too much human nudity gives me the willies. 

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Brainy Spice?

My eyes lit up when a man on safari described Victoria Spice as an “airhead”. Having just read a fascinating article about her lineage, I was well-placed to refute his ignoble assertion.

“I think not, my good man!” I declared. “A genealogist has discovered that her great-great-great grandfather was a radical artist who hung out with Karl Marx. Whatever you think of Marx, he didn’t waste time hobnobbing with airheads.”

“What does that prove?” retorted the man. “The total number of great-great-great grandparents is 32. Her other 31 must have been straw-chewing yokels and buxom wenches. Any brain-juice from Marx’s pal would have been diluted with a gallon of doofus syrup.”

“What shocking bigotry!” I protested. “Are buxom wenches necessarily dim-bulbs?”

“Name one that isn’t,” he challenged.

”Kate Winslet,” I replied instantly.

“Decent pair of jugs but no Einstein,” he remarked coarsely.

I parted company with the fellow, shaking my head and tut-tutting. Had I wished to continue the debate, I would have pointed out that buxom wenches were not likely in Victoria’s family tree, given that her own figure is somewhere between slender and cadaverous.

Human genealogy is a fascinating subject though. The further you go back in time, the more likely it is you’ll find some phenomenal breeder with millions of modern-day descendants. Half the human race has either King Solomon or Genghis Khan as an ancestor. The lucky ones are related to both. If you see an angry fellow who likes horses, swords and concubines, you know where he gets it from.

Geneticists have proved that the entire human species is descended from a woman who lived in Africa about 200,000 years ago. This mysterious über-mother, whom scientists have named Eve, eclipsed all her rivals in the mating and child-rearing stakes. What was so special about her? The scientists have no idea and assume she just got lucky – maybe she was having a dirty weekend on Mount Kilimanjaro when a massive tsunami struck.

Another possibility is that Eve had some kind of biological advantage. The manager of the safari camp is convinced that her breasts were exceptionally large. As well as providing a plentiful supply of milk for her considerable brood, they would have made her irresistible to potential suitors. The men of that epoch were not very subtle and tended to focus entirely on a woman’s jahoobies. It wasn’t until the great cultural awakening of the Cro-Magnon period that more diverse tastes developed and men began to notice a lady’s thighs and buttocks.

Yet such theories have little relevance to Victoria Spice, who was not put on Earth to be gawked at for her fleshy adornments. I remain convinced that the woman has hidden intellectual depths, invisible to the naked eye, but perceptible to the de-waxed ear. No wonder the odious Simon Cowell has refused to employ her as a judge on his tawdry talent show. He is just the sort of the conceited TV pundit that Victoria would upstage with her shrewd little comments.

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Peeping Yeti

A 19-year-old woman is claiming that she was stalked by a yeti who watched her as she bathed in a river. She should be so lucky. I don't know whether yetis exist, but I’m certain they wouldn't waste time spying on women if they did. Life in the wild is tough. You've got to forage for food, keep predators at bay and find a mate to breed with. Watching women splash about in rivers is a frivolous diversion from these essential activities. Nor would the yeti have got any pleasure from the spectacle. There’s no point getting excited about females you can’t impregnate.

It’s the old story. An arrogant human intrudes into a wild habitat and behaves as if the resident creatures were trespassers. Perhaps the woman got some sort of satisfaction from imagining that a big hairy monster was ogling her with lustful eyes. The whole thing sounds like pure fantasy on her part. Instead of making spurious allegations about yetis, she should join a dating site and find some unshaven roughneck who’ll sweep her off her feet.

Even if a yeti did happen to be in the vicinity, his only interest in the woman would have been to make sure she didn’t foul his drinking water. Had I been there, I would have offered him some friendly advice:

“Mr Yeti,” I would have said, “humans are big-headed creatures. If you observe them intently they inevitably think you want to have sex with them. Nubile women who paddle in rivers are particularly susceptible to this delusion. Give them a casual glance and they automatically assume you want to put your head between their jahoobies and make gurgling noises.”

Let no one forget that the Peeping Tom is an exclusively human archetype. Back in my circus days, the female acrobats always made me check their changing room for strategically placed holes drilled by villainous schoolboys. I soon became adept at sniffing out such apertures and filling them with cement. I once offered to stay in the room with the girls in the hope of catching one of the rascals in the act and giving him a poke in the eye. They thanked me for my concern but decided, on reflection, that prevention was more important than punishment. I shrugged my shoulders philosophically. It made no difference to me, of course.

This suggests another possible explanation for the alleged yeti incident: that the creature stalking the woman was a man in disguise. A cowardly human voyeur would think nothing of framing an innocent yeti for his own depraved acts. I’ve a good mind to organise an expedition to trap the impostor. We would need porters, a medic, a guide and a woman in a bathing suit to act as bait. I’m sure there would be no shortage of volunteers for this noble venture.

A plague on all the stalkers, peepers and flashers who make life uncomfortable for their victims. Small wonder that women are skittish about yetis when they have to put up with such vexations in their everyday lives. Why are men so hung-up on visual stimulation? It’s a mystery to us silverbacks. We’ll pamper any female who smells good, feels good and makes good noises.

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