Friday, November 04, 2005
Last Mango in Paris
Being in a travelling circus means you get to see the world and so on, but I never much looked forward to visiting France. For one thing, it’s full of people speaking French, which sounds rather affected to a gorilla brought up in the rugged Anglo-Saxon vernacular. But strangely enough, a show we gave in the Gallic capital led to the most memorable events of my circus career.
Everything had been going well when I came on to do my comedy act with the clown, and we seemed to be getting our usual quota of laughs. Then we got to the point in the routine where I take a swipe at the clown’s chin and he ducks, causing much amusement. Unfortunately his timing was a bit off and my fist made solid contact with his forehead. It still got plenty of laughs, of course, but the poor fellow had to be carried off with an ice pack on his head.
This left a gap in the programme, which we decided to fill with a party piece I had been rehearsing with Cécile, the ringmaster’s French wife. It involved me miming to the classic number Tous les visages de l’amour – as sung by Monsieur Charles Aznavour – while making suitably melodramatic facial expressions and hand movements. It was supposed to be funny, but much to my surprise the audience seemed genuinely moved by the performance. I even noticed a few couples holding hands and looking at each other while I was lip-synching. When it was over, I got a thunderous ovation with cries of “Bravo, Le gorille!”, “Quelle singe!” and so on.
After the show had ended, I retired to my trailer with a carton of vanilla ice-cream, as is my custom, and then settled down for a solid snooze. I was more than a little annoyed to be woken up shortly afterwards by a posse of humans led by Cécile, who was chattering away excitedly as if she’d just won the Eifel Tower in a lottery. It transpired that she had received a phone call from a certain Brigitte Bardot, who had been watching the show incognito in headscarf and dark glasses. The iconic movie star had been deeply impressed by le gorille remarquable and had invited him for lunch chez Bardot. Well I wasn’t that keen at first, but everyone said it would be great publicity and Cécile declared that she’d hang herself if I said no. Not wanting to have that on my conscience, I agreed to accept the invitation.
A vehicle from the Bardot residence arrived next morning, and the chauffer was escorted to my trailer by Cécile, who had dressed in the style of a chic art critic. She babbled away relentlessly as they returned with me to the car, where he opened the door for me to enter. But when madame tried to follow he stuck out his arm and told her politely – but firmly – that she was not on the guest list. She expressed her displeasure by subjecting the man to a barrage of French curses which I could not begin to translate. As we pulled away I saw her in the rear-view mirror, still spitting with rage, and gesticulating in a manner which I doubt she learned at the lycée.
When we arrived at the mansion Miss Bardot did her best to put me at ease, giving me a soft, comfortable chair to recline in and a tankard of pineapple juice. She told me that she had loved animals since her Papa gave her “a leetul poopy-dog” for Christmas, and went on to assert that no man had ever loved her like the pony she rode as a teenage girl. I agreed with her that horses could be very affable when approached in the right way, but expressed confidence that she would one day find a man who would love her with the devotion she deserved.
Well we chatted away pleasantly for a while, but I must say I was greatly relieved when the lunch gong sounded because my hairy tummy was beginning to rumble. When we entered the dining room I was delighted to see a fabulous spread of vegetable dishes laid out on the table, and I was soon tucking in without reservation, while my hostess picked away at her cailles grilles au gingembre et ail. I slowed down a bit after the hunger pangs had eased, which allowed Miss Bardot to resume some polite conversation.
“How is it you have such big muscles without eating the meat, Mister Bananas?” she enquired.
I thought a bit about this one before answering. Clearly, she was looking for something more profound than “Because gorillas are built that way”, so I replied:
“When the mind is strong the body will follow.”
Complete twaddle, of course, but I judged it to be the sort of thing a French actress would go for, and she seemed suitably impressed. She then asked me a deep one:
“The Monsignor has told me the animals have no soul, only the humans. Tell me, Mr Bananas, do you have the soul?”
This was a pretty fundamental question which I wanted to answer affirmatively in the strongest possible manner. So I formulated the following reply:
“You humans have a saying that the eyes are the windows of the soul. Look deeply into my eyes, Miss Bardot, and judge for yourself whether I have the soul.”
Well she gazed away while I clenched my jaw to avoid smirking and looked right back into her hazel eyes, which began to moisten with emotion.
“Oh Mister Bananas!” she said. “How could I think you have not the soul? Please forgive me.”
Well I forgave her all right and we spent the rest of my time there discussing how she could use her fame to do something for the animal cause. I suggested she consider becoming a vegetarian and set up an animal welfare foundation. She promised to act on my advice, and I’m pleased to say that Miss Brigitte Bardot is one human who’s been as good as her word. When it was time to leave she got her maid to bring me a box of slightly over-ripe mangoes as a parting gift, which pleased me so much that I toyed with the idea of kissing her before getting into the car. On balance, I decided against – I wouldn’t have wanted her to get the wrong idea.
When I got back to the circus, Cécile insisted on a thorough debriefing in which I was made to divulge everything single thing that La Bardot had said to me. She was highly displeased that we had not discussed any of the circus acts and chuckled scornfully at the gift of mangoes.
“Formidable! Cette putain de machine sait le fruit!”
Everything had been going well when I came on to do my comedy act with the clown, and we seemed to be getting our usual quota of laughs. Then we got to the point in the routine where I take a swipe at the clown’s chin and he ducks, causing much amusement. Unfortunately his timing was a bit off and my fist made solid contact with his forehead. It still got plenty of laughs, of course, but the poor fellow had to be carried off with an ice pack on his head.
This left a gap in the programme, which we decided to fill with a party piece I had been rehearsing with Cécile, the ringmaster’s French wife. It involved me miming to the classic number Tous les visages de l’amour – as sung by Monsieur Charles Aznavour – while making suitably melodramatic facial expressions and hand movements. It was supposed to be funny, but much to my surprise the audience seemed genuinely moved by the performance. I even noticed a few couples holding hands and looking at each other while I was lip-synching. When it was over, I got a thunderous ovation with cries of “Bravo, Le gorille!”, “Quelle singe!” and so on.
After the show had ended, I retired to my trailer with a carton of vanilla ice-cream, as is my custom, and then settled down for a solid snooze. I was more than a little annoyed to be woken up shortly afterwards by a posse of humans led by Cécile, who was chattering away excitedly as if she’d just won the Eifel Tower in a lottery. It transpired that she had received a phone call from a certain Brigitte Bardot, who had been watching the show incognito in headscarf and dark glasses. The iconic movie star had been deeply impressed by le gorille remarquable and had invited him for lunch chez Bardot. Well I wasn’t that keen at first, but everyone said it would be great publicity and Cécile declared that she’d hang herself if I said no. Not wanting to have that on my conscience, I agreed to accept the invitation.
A vehicle from the Bardot residence arrived next morning, and the chauffer was escorted to my trailer by Cécile, who had dressed in the style of a chic art critic. She babbled away relentlessly as they returned with me to the car, where he opened the door for me to enter. But when madame tried to follow he stuck out his arm and told her politely – but firmly – that she was not on the guest list. She expressed her displeasure by subjecting the man to a barrage of French curses which I could not begin to translate. As we pulled away I saw her in the rear-view mirror, still spitting with rage, and gesticulating in a manner which I doubt she learned at the lycée.
When we arrived at the mansion Miss Bardot did her best to put me at ease, giving me a soft, comfortable chair to recline in and a tankard of pineapple juice. She told me that she had loved animals since her Papa gave her “a leetul poopy-dog” for Christmas, and went on to assert that no man had ever loved her like the pony she rode as a teenage girl. I agreed with her that horses could be very affable when approached in the right way, but expressed confidence that she would one day find a man who would love her with the devotion she deserved.
Well we chatted away pleasantly for a while, but I must say I was greatly relieved when the lunch gong sounded because my hairy tummy was beginning to rumble. When we entered the dining room I was delighted to see a fabulous spread of vegetable dishes laid out on the table, and I was soon tucking in without reservation, while my hostess picked away at her cailles grilles au gingembre et ail. I slowed down a bit after the hunger pangs had eased, which allowed Miss Bardot to resume some polite conversation.
“How is it you have such big muscles without eating the meat, Mister Bananas?” she enquired.
I thought a bit about this one before answering. Clearly, she was looking for something more profound than “Because gorillas are built that way”, so I replied:
“When the mind is strong the body will follow.”
Complete twaddle, of course, but I judged it to be the sort of thing a French actress would go for, and she seemed suitably impressed. She then asked me a deep one:
“The Monsignor has told me the animals have no soul, only the humans. Tell me, Mr Bananas, do you have the soul?”
This was a pretty fundamental question which I wanted to answer affirmatively in the strongest possible manner. So I formulated the following reply:
“You humans have a saying that the eyes are the windows of the soul. Look deeply into my eyes, Miss Bardot, and judge for yourself whether I have the soul.”
Well she gazed away while I clenched my jaw to avoid smirking and looked right back into her hazel eyes, which began to moisten with emotion.
“Oh Mister Bananas!” she said. “How could I think you have not the soul? Please forgive me.”
Well I forgave her all right and we spent the rest of my time there discussing how she could use her fame to do something for the animal cause. I suggested she consider becoming a vegetarian and set up an animal welfare foundation. She promised to act on my advice, and I’m pleased to say that Miss Brigitte Bardot is one human who’s been as good as her word. When it was time to leave she got her maid to bring me a box of slightly over-ripe mangoes as a parting gift, which pleased me so much that I toyed with the idea of kissing her before getting into the car. On balance, I decided against – I wouldn’t have wanted her to get the wrong idea.
When I got back to the circus, Cécile insisted on a thorough debriefing in which I was made to divulge everything single thing that La Bardot had said to me. She was highly displeased that we had not discussed any of the circus acts and chuckled scornfully at the gift of mangoes.
“Formidable! Cette putain de machine sait le fruit!”
French women can speak with great bitterness when they’ve been wronged.
Comments:
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Bravo,Mr.Bananas,it must have been
a wonderful experience,to be in the company of one so humane yet so
cultured.I hope Mz. Bardot was
grateful.
a wonderful experience,to be in the company of one so humane yet so
cultured.I hope Mz. Bardot was
grateful.
"I agreed with her that horses could be very affable when approached in the right way"
GB - LOL! the mind boggles. What a scrummy delicious blog. An affable horse, no less!
GB - LOL! the mind boggles. What a scrummy delicious blog. An affable horse, no less!
# posted by 
: Friday, November 04, 2005
: Friday, November 04, 2005
Great story and everything, GB, but why in God's name didn't you kiss the woman? If Brigitte Bardot's eyes had moistened when I was looking into them, my tongue would have been in her mouth one second later.
I'd always wondered why La Bardot was so keen on animal welfare, Bananas. Thank you for solving this mystery for me. I rather like the ringmaster's wife. She was clearly a woman of spirit who cared deeply about the circus and could swear like a trooper. According to my sources, the translation of her last remark is:
"Great! That fucking-machine knows her fruit!"
I hope we hear more about her.
Tarzan: calling you an oaf would be an insult to oaves.
"Great! That fucking-machine knows her fruit!"
I hope we hear more about her.
Tarzan: calling you an oaf would be an insult to oaves.
Hey GB, accrding to Andraste's latest post, (http://horsesasspub.blogspot.com/2005/11/its-larff-innit.html protests in Argentina might have lost you some relatives. I'm trying to rally some support
I'd like to know what my relatives were doing there in the first place, El B. If they were in a zoo, it's a scandal. If they were auditioning for a film, why wasn't I asked first?
Anyway, thanks to those who liked the story of my encounter with Brigitte - a good-hearted woman, in my view.
Anyway, thanks to those who liked the story of my encounter with Brigitte - a good-hearted woman, in my view.
As one of the great observers of humanity, Mr Bananas, I'm sure you must wonder sometimes where young men get their sex educaton.
All is revealed at today's Joke Mail entry:
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All is revealed at today's Joke Mail entry:
http://jokemail.blogspot.com/
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