Monday, January 29, 2007
The unbendable cop
I only found out last month that Jack Lord, the saturnine star of Hawaii-Five-0, passed away in 1998. I suppose it’s too late send flowers and a condolence card. Who could ever forget that moment in the opening credits when the camera zooms in on the resolute face of Steve McGarrett, standing tall on the uppermost balcony of the Ilikai Hotel? It was a sight to give any watching crooks the willies – and possibly a touch of vertigo as well.Those dynamic opening shots – the big wave, the high-speed zoom, the wiggling hips – were perfectly synchronised to perhaps the most thrilling theme music in television history. Quite rightly, the tune was reprised in the closing sequence featuring burly Polynesian oarsmen heaving away in their canoe. When tourists ask me what to do if a crocodile approaches their rowboat, I tell them to paddle like the blazes while dah-dahing the Hawaii-Five-0 theme. It never fails to add a couple of knots to your speed, which can make the difference between a lightning flight and a frightening bite. The Eton Boating Song is a nursery rhyme for lethargic sea slugs by comparison.
The show itself was good clean entertainment. Everyone has their own favourite episode – I’ll never forget the one in which the ‘Five-0’ team snare an obnoxious neo-Nazi plotter. When the would-be Reichsprotektor of Honolulu is finally spreadeagled, McGarrett solemnly declares:
“Leave him to me Danno, I’ll read him his rights myself.”
They don’t write lines like that anymore. Nabbing the bad guy was never enough for McGarrett – he always had to make an apt final remark to reinforce the moral of the story. “How many rights would a suspect have under a Nazi regime?” is the entirely valid point he was making. I bet any watching neo-Nazis must have felt like utter chumps.
The secret of McGarrett’s success was his total dedication to the cause of law-enforcement. Leading the ascetic life of the brahmacharya, all his virile energy went into ridding Hawaii of the mobsters and villains who infested her beaches and boulevards like multiplying head-lice. There was an episode in which McGarrett did have a love affair (with a woman), but this was obviously a clumsy attempt to prove he wasn’t gay. The stupid producers didn’t realise that: (a) no genuine fans of the show gave a hoot that McGarrett was celibate and (b) it is literally impossible to prove that anyone is not gay. Forcing him to kiss a woman simply undermined his dignity while making everyone wonder if he’d rather be kissing Danno.
Although McGarrett was undoubtedly the alpha male of Five-0, I personally identified with Chin Ho, whose thickset physique was closest to that of a gorilla. You could always rely on Chin to do the sensible thing, unlike pretty-boy Danno who was constantly getting into trouble. When I was a young circus ape, I used to take a starting pistol in both hands and aim it at the nearest mirror, shouting “CHIN! FIVE-0!”. Believe me, I was such a fearsome sight that I scared myself.
The deeper message of Hawaii-Five-0 is that even the most affluent and idyllic of human commonwealths will have its fair share of malefactors who prey on the innocent. Paradise on Earth is not for homo sapiens, hence the need for incorruptible lawmen who devote their lives to putting the rogues behind bars. Sneer not at Steve McGarrett, O featherbrained human sheep! He gave up sex that you might live.
Labels: Bramacharya, Danno, Jack Lord
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Von Trapped by a nun
I had no idea that The Sound of Music had been revived as a stage musical in London until a French tourist told me about it the other day. This young fellow had been to see the show, which had affected him deeply.
“It is now my desire to make love to a beautiful nun and marry her,” he declared.
Perhaps he was taking the story too literally. Ambition is a fine thing in the young, but one has to have a sense of what is feasible.
“I don’t want to puncture your balloon, Henri, but I believe that nuns take a vow of lifelong chastity,” I said. “Maria was just an apprentice.”
My cautionary words left him undaunted. “I think they just pretend,” he said. “They ‘play hard to get’ as you say. I can see the passion in their eyes.”
He did have a point about their eyes, but I doubted their piety was a façade to attract suitors. Humans are certainly devious creatures, but not so devious as to submit to the rigours of convent life in the hope that some Gallic Romeo will take a fancy to them.
“I expect the ardour in their eyes is for God,” I said. “He’s tough competition, Henri, even for a man of your good looks.”
Henri raised his left eyebrow and grinned. “When I make love to a woman she cries the name of God,” he boasted. “So you see, GB, I am not jealous of God. I am even willing to share a woman with Him!”
There was obviously nothing I could say to dent the confidence of a man who thought he was doing the Almighty a favour every time he made a woman climax.
“That’s mighty generous of you, Henri,” I remarked, “but I suggest you chat up Mother Superior before stealing the heart of one of her girls. You might have more to fear from her than God.”
Henri laughed and promised to send me photos of his ‘Maria’, both with and without the habit. It remains to be seen whether life will successfully mimic art.
I’ve never seen The Sound of Music on stage, but I regret that the famous film version gives me belly cramps. Call me old-fashioned, but a fresh-faced Austrian girl is not worthy of the description unless she speaks English in one of those delightful “little Miss Fräulein” accents, complete with all the Teutonic vowels. Julie Andrews was horribly miscast as Maria, and her inability to do the voice meant that Christopher Plummer (who is a master of accents) was forced to play Captain von Trapp as an English gentleman. No wonder he hates the movie. I enjoy a cut-glass English accent as much as the next ape, but there is a time and a place for everything.
The storyline is also implausible. When Maria arrives on the scene, Captain von Trapp is engaged to a buxom baroness with a sizeable personal fortune and a sturdy pair of calves. I can’t think of a man less likely to cast her aside for an earnest young chit who sings pretty songs and gives every indication of wanting to add to his existing brood of seven. You can’t have it both ways. Either the Captain was a tough, unsentimental naval commander who liked everything to be in its right place, or a big softie who pined for girls in white dresses and blue satin sashes. The idea that the former could be changed into the latter by singing a few syrupy songs is corny in the extreme.
In my version of the story, I’d replace the Captain with a young Frenchman called Henri who runs a dating agency for nuns. All the men who apply are carefully vetted to ensure they are either impotent or gay, so the nuns can be wined and dined without endangering their holy vows. But then Henri falls in love with a young nun called Maria and selects himself for her date. One thing leads to another and Maria leaves the convent for the delights of Henri’s boudoir. Throw in a few singing orphans and I’m confident it would be a smash.
Friday, January 19, 2007
Bedroom noises
I got an e-mail the other day from someone I have never heard of:
Dear Mr Bananas
I read with interest your post of 10th January where you described how a queen behaves. Given your knowledge of these matters, I wonder if you could answer a question which has always intrigued me.
Do posh women make posh noises when they are having sex?
I have never been able to find out for myself because I have only ever slept with prostitutes and cannot afford the high class ones.
Sincerely
Roger Hockey-Stick
You can check for yourself that there was absolutely nothing in that post to suggest I knew the answer to his question. Evidently, he was making unwarranted assumptions about the places I had visited and the events I had witnessed. I am sorry to say that this sort of impertinence from strangers is becoming all too common in internet communications. I sent him the following curt reply:
Dear Mr Hockey-Stick
Frankly, I resent the implication of your message that I have nothing better to do than infiltrate the bedrooms of upper class women and listen to them making love. I am a busy gorilla with affairs to manage and have no time for such frivolous activities. I suggest that you further your enquiries with the Mistress of Girton College, Cambridge.
Yours etc.
Gorilla Bananas
I thought that would be the end of him, but much to my annoyance he persisted in his correspondence with the following message:
Dear Mr Bananas
You misunderstand me. I wasn’t accusing you of being a Peeping Tom. I just assumed you must have humped a few hoity-toity ladies who are into that kind of thing. You know the sort – the ones who like it rough and hairy and will pay for the privilege.
Just between us boys, couldn’t we compare notes? I have done a few things with Brazilian tarts that might interest you.
Respectfully Yours
Roger Hockey-Stick
This was clearly offensive. I have never once been tempted to work as a gigolo, nor have I ever needed to. Thanks to the skills of my manager, Dr Whipsnade, my financial position has always been sound. Nor was I the least bit interested in his experiences with Brazilian tarts. The time had come to take off the gloves and give this degenerate upstart a solid smack of invective:
Hockey-Stick,
Damn you, Sir, I don’t know what noises they make. And if I did know, I would pickle myself in gooseberry juice before telling you.
Up Yours
Gorilla Bananas
He hasn’t bothered me anymore with his nuisance e-mails, but I am ashamed to admit that the question he raised has been pecking away at the back of my brain. You know how it is – you start the day with a pure heart and a clean conscience: then you see something that corrupts your mind. I believe that pornography works on a similar principle. Anyway, I’ve decided to put my thoughts on the issue of bedroom noises in the public domain in the hope it will act as a purgative.
In general, I imagine that posh ladies make similar – if not identical – noises to women of more humble birth. The only likely exception I can think of is Lady Penelope of Thunderbirds, who is the kind of woman who would keep her vowels under control if she were being ravished by a troupe of drunken sailors. Let us imagine that she calls Parker into her bedchamber after getting the urge of nature. Obviously, they would do it with their clothes on, Her Ladyship wearing a silk negligee to minimise the friction, and Parker wearing his chauffeur’s uniform. She would lie on her back, looking at the ceiling without blinking, while Parker would bury his face in a pillow to avoid ogling his mistress while alleviating her lust. The dialogue might go something like this:
Lady Penelope (slightly breathlessly): That’s enough rubbing, Parker, you may now proceed.
Parker: Very good, milady.
Lady Penelope: A little faster now, Parker.
Parker: Ooof! Ooof! Ooof!
Lady Penelope: Keep going Parker, we’re almost there.
Parker: Oomph! Oomph! Aaaaargh!
Lady Penelope: Ohww! Paaaaarker!
Parker (chewing on pillow): Chomp! Chomp! Charump!
Lady Penelope: Get off now Parker and hand me that box of tissues on the dresser.
Parker: Very good, milady. (Gets off Her Ladyship and mops sweaty face with chauffeur’s hat before attending to her request).
I think the key characteristic of the über-posh lady would be her ability to carry on speaking in coherent phrases for as much of the coupling as possible; and then, when her desires have been sated, to attend to her daily programme with the same grace and diligence as before.
Glad to have got that off my chest.
Dear Mr Bananas
I read with interest your post of 10th January where you described how a queen behaves. Given your knowledge of these matters, I wonder if you could answer a question which has always intrigued me.
Do posh women make posh noises when they are having sex?
I have never been able to find out for myself because I have only ever slept with prostitutes and cannot afford the high class ones.
Sincerely
Roger Hockey-Stick
You can check for yourself that there was absolutely nothing in that post to suggest I knew the answer to his question. Evidently, he was making unwarranted assumptions about the places I had visited and the events I had witnessed. I am sorry to say that this sort of impertinence from strangers is becoming all too common in internet communications. I sent him the following curt reply:
Dear Mr Hockey-Stick
Frankly, I resent the implication of your message that I have nothing better to do than infiltrate the bedrooms of upper class women and listen to them making love. I am a busy gorilla with affairs to manage and have no time for such frivolous activities. I suggest that you further your enquiries with the Mistress of Girton College, Cambridge.
Yours etc.
Gorilla Bananas
I thought that would be the end of him, but much to my annoyance he persisted in his correspondence with the following message:
Dear Mr Bananas
You misunderstand me. I wasn’t accusing you of being a Peeping Tom. I just assumed you must have humped a few hoity-toity ladies who are into that kind of thing. You know the sort – the ones who like it rough and hairy and will pay for the privilege.
Just between us boys, couldn’t we compare notes? I have done a few things with Brazilian tarts that might interest you.
Respectfully Yours
Roger Hockey-Stick
This was clearly offensive. I have never once been tempted to work as a gigolo, nor have I ever needed to. Thanks to the skills of my manager, Dr Whipsnade, my financial position has always been sound. Nor was I the least bit interested in his experiences with Brazilian tarts. The time had come to take off the gloves and give this degenerate upstart a solid smack of invective:
Hockey-Stick,
Damn you, Sir, I don’t know what noises they make. And if I did know, I would pickle myself in gooseberry juice before telling you.
Up Yours
Gorilla Bananas
He hasn’t bothered me anymore with his nuisance e-mails, but I am ashamed to admit that the question he raised has been pecking away at the back of my brain. You know how it is – you start the day with a pure heart and a clean conscience: then you see something that corrupts your mind. I believe that pornography works on a similar principle. Anyway, I’ve decided to put my thoughts on the issue of bedroom noises in the public domain in the hope it will act as a purgative.
In general, I imagine that posh ladies make similar – if not identical – noises to women of more humble birth. The only likely exception I can think of is Lady Penelope of Thunderbirds, who is the kind of woman who would keep her vowels under control if she were being ravished by a troupe of drunken sailors. Let us imagine that she calls Parker into her bedchamber after getting the urge of nature. Obviously, they would do it with their clothes on, Her Ladyship wearing a silk negligee to minimise the friction, and Parker wearing his chauffeur’s uniform. She would lie on her back, looking at the ceiling without blinking, while Parker would bury his face in a pillow to avoid ogling his mistress while alleviating her lust. The dialogue might go something like this:
Lady Penelope (slightly breathlessly): That’s enough rubbing, Parker, you may now proceed.
Parker: Very good, milady.
Lady Penelope: A little faster now, Parker.
Parker: Ooof! Ooof! Ooof!
Lady Penelope: Keep going Parker, we’re almost there.
Parker: Oomph! Oomph! Aaaaargh!
Lady Penelope: Ohww! Paaaaarker!
Parker (chewing on pillow): Chomp! Chomp! Charump!
Lady Penelope: Get off now Parker and hand me that box of tissues on the dresser.
Parker: Very good, milady. (Gets off Her Ladyship and mops sweaty face with chauffeur’s hat before attending to her request).
I think the key characteristic of the über-posh lady would be her ability to carry on speaking in coherent phrases for as much of the coupling as possible; and then, when her desires have been sated, to attend to her daily programme with the same grace and diligence as before.
Glad to have got that off my chest.
Monday, January 15, 2007
The Bloody Tower
I hear that the Tower of London has employed its first female Beefeater in 522 years. Good thing too. It’s about time these historical attractions were dragged into the twenty-first century. I once visited the Tower with our all-female acrobat team – we got a guided tour from a grizzled member of the yeomanry wearing the famous Toyland costume. Although the fellow did a competent job, he couldn’t resist showing off in front of the girls. I’ve noticed this tendency in the human male – when a gorilla’s in the vicinity, he makes a special effort to convince any watching females that he’s the dude who’s calling the shots.
“As you can see there are trees planted all around the courtyard,” he said, “but I hope our hairy friend won’t be tempted on this occasion.”
I assumed he meant the temptation to climb them rather than piss on them.
“If I do get the urge I’ll fight it with all my strength,” I assured him. “But if worst comes to worst, you can always lure me down by sticking a plum on the end of one of those long spikes you warders are equipped with.”
He grinned sheepishly.
The main history lesson I took from the visit was what appalling despots the monarchs of England used to be. One of the worst was that disgusting ox King Henry VIII, who had the hapless Anne Boleyn beheaded in the Tower courtyard for the alleged crimes of adultery (i.e. playing a game of kiss-chase with a childhood friend) and witchcraft (i.e. singing French ditties while wearing a pointed hat). Her real offence, it seems, was miscarrying the male foetus of the Tudor tyrant, for which a more just reward would have been a purse of fifty guineas.
The Tower complex was certainly impressive, but I left with the feeling that it lacked the romance of a truly first-class tourist venue. Perhaps it’s because it was built by those dour dismal Normans, merciless control-freaks who recorded every cowpat and codpiece in their infamous Domesday Book. That kind of obsessive documentation leaves no room for fable and fantasy, which are the lifeblood of all the most popular historical sites. If I were in charge of the English Tourist Board, I would mug up on Dark Age myths and circulate a few choice stories about places to visit near the Thames.
I hear, for example, that there’s now a giant wheel on the South Bank, where tourists pay a handsome fee for the privilege of gazing at the gorgeous scenery of Tooting. How many more visitors would be lured to that wheel if people realised the historical significance of the plot of land beneath it? It is the very spot, forsooth, where Osgood the Good and his fearless Saxon pikers filleted and skewered the favourite goat of Odkell the Viking, causing the broken-hearted heathen to wander aimlessly though the Thames mudflats bleating maudlin Norse dirges. It is said that you can still hear those laments if you listen hard on Waterloo Bridge on a windswept winter night.
Part of the problem, I suspect, is that the English lack the poetic sensibilities of their cousins north of the border, who have mastered the art of publicising their own myths in the spooky voice of the Highland crofter. The Loch Ness monster is a classic example. I know for a fact that Nessie was actually a circus elephant taking a well-earned bath after performing in a show, but you don’t hear the Scotch pouring cold water on the gibbering of gullible tourists or objecting to the latest Hollywood movie about the legend. Those canny Celtic folk know on which side of the kilt their sporrans are buttered.
“As you can see there are trees planted all around the courtyard,” he said, “but I hope our hairy friend won’t be tempted on this occasion.”
I assumed he meant the temptation to climb them rather than piss on them.
“If I do get the urge I’ll fight it with all my strength,” I assured him. “But if worst comes to worst, you can always lure me down by sticking a plum on the end of one of those long spikes you warders are equipped with.”
He grinned sheepishly.
The main history lesson I took from the visit was what appalling despots the monarchs of England used to be. One of the worst was that disgusting ox King Henry VIII, who had the hapless Anne Boleyn beheaded in the Tower courtyard for the alleged crimes of adultery (i.e. playing a game of kiss-chase with a childhood friend) and witchcraft (i.e. singing French ditties while wearing a pointed hat). Her real offence, it seems, was miscarrying the male foetus of the Tudor tyrant, for which a more just reward would have been a purse of fifty guineas.
The Tower complex was certainly impressive, but I left with the feeling that it lacked the romance of a truly first-class tourist venue. Perhaps it’s because it was built by those dour dismal Normans, merciless control-freaks who recorded every cowpat and codpiece in their infamous Domesday Book. That kind of obsessive documentation leaves no room for fable and fantasy, which are the lifeblood of all the most popular historical sites. If I were in charge of the English Tourist Board, I would mug up on Dark Age myths and circulate a few choice stories about places to visit near the Thames.
I hear, for example, that there’s now a giant wheel on the South Bank, where tourists pay a handsome fee for the privilege of gazing at the gorgeous scenery of Tooting. How many more visitors would be lured to that wheel if people realised the historical significance of the plot of land beneath it? It is the very spot, forsooth, where Osgood the Good and his fearless Saxon pikers filleted and skewered the favourite goat of Odkell the Viking, causing the broken-hearted heathen to wander aimlessly though the Thames mudflats bleating maudlin Norse dirges. It is said that you can still hear those laments if you listen hard on Waterloo Bridge on a windswept winter night.
Part of the problem, I suspect, is that the English lack the poetic sensibilities of their cousins north of the border, who have mastered the art of publicising their own myths in the spooky voice of the Highland crofter. The Loch Ness monster is a classic example. I know for a fact that Nessie was actually a circus elephant taking a well-earned bath after performing in a show, but you don’t hear the Scotch pouring cold water on the gibbering of gullible tourists or objecting to the latest Hollywood movie about the legend. Those canny Celtic folk know on which side of the kilt their sporrans are buttered.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Lady and the Trump
I’m still puzzling over Donald Trump’s decision not to fire Tara Conner, the reigning Miss USA. She clearly wasn’t doing her job and made a mockery of her title by snogging a girl in public. Yet the tough-minded tycoon showed a forgiving side to his nature which he had previously been careful to conceal.“Frankly, I have a lot of compassion for this young woman,” he said on Fox TV.
I bet he has. Gorilla Bananas is no cynic, but even he can detect a possible ulterior motive in Mr Trump’s avuncular concern for a blonde bikini model reputed to have perkiest boobs east of the Rocky Mountains. Miss Conner, of course, was very thankful for her second chance.
“You'll never know how much I appreciate Mr Trump for saving me on this one,” she sobbed at a press conference in New York.
I expect she’s right, although Mr Trump might be lucky enough to find out. The sight of a 60-year-old billionaire with a racoon pelt on his head soliciting the gratitude of a 21-year-old beauty queen will no doubt provoke strong emotions in middle-aged fathers throughout America. “Disgust” would be a possible description of their feelings – “envy” might be a more accurate one.
Human beauty pageants have never captured my imagination. To be honest, I find them degrading. A bunch of girls, most of whom would look attractive enough walking down the street, are forced to wear high-heeled shoes and strut about on a stage like storks. Their smiles are forced, their conversation is inane and their bathing suits might have been designed to show their bottoms to maximum disadvantage. The whole thing is obviously an ordeal for them, which is why they often break down in tears at the end. Even a gorilla knows that the human female will never shine in such a tense and unnatural environment. Women need to be wooed, amused, chased and tickled before they exhibit the most attractive qualities of their gender.
Beauty contests are depressingly trivial. I would much rather see young women competing for a real crown. There are surely nations that have wearied of republicanism and would welcome the idea of a well-spoken lady hosting state banquets, christening gunboats and reminding people of their place. Opinions differ on what the most important regal qualities are – my own view is that a queen should have sufficient presence of mind to make her virtually unshockable. Let us imagine that she is being served breakfast by her butler when a naked man rushes before her while she is munching on her toast.
“Gawd bless yer majesty, may yer reign be longer than me cock!” he shouts.
How should a queen respond? Any woman who screamed, giggled or even blushed could be disqualified immediately. A true queen would say nothing until she had finished swallowing her toast – as queens do not speak with food in their mouths – and then address the man in a calm, measured tone:
“It is most kind of you to say so,” she would say. “Tibbs, would you fetch this gentleman a pair of britches – he seems to have forgotten to put his on.”
After putting on the trousers, the man would be offered a cup of tea in the kitchen and sent on his way with a brace of pheasants and a framed photograph of his sovereign.
A queen does not come cheap, and her toiling subjects would doubtless groan at the taxes required to keep their monarch living in the splendour essential to her role. But wouldn’t that be better than forcing her to earn her lavish stipend by stroking the squirrel on Donald Trump’s head? Friday, January 05, 2007
Loving the older woman
I was sorry to hear that Gina Lollobrigida won’t be walking down the wedding aisle for one last time. Her 45-year-old Spanish fiancé got cold feet after being relentlessly hounded by the gutter press. Now aged 79, La Lollo was the pride of Italy in the 1950s, acclaimed as la donna più bella until she was eclipsed by the sultry Sofia Loren. Let’s hope she is now deluged with offers from 19-year-old Italian lads, patriotically determined to keep her bed warm and her cheeks flushed.
We circus performers will always revere Gina for co-starring with Burt Lancaster and Tony Curtis in the classic movie Trapeze. She plays a scheming trampolinist who drives the flyers mad with desire, provoking them to compete in spine-tingling aerobatics without the normal protective devices. It would all be totally unbelievable without a woman like La Lollo as the prize.
She will also be remembered for a wantonly seductive dance routine in Solomon and Sheba, repeatedly thrusting her boobs at the burning eyes of Yul Brynner, who drags her off to a secluded glade while the other Israelites freak out to the biblical flutes. Unfortunately, God puts a stop to the revelry with a lightning bolt before the royal pair can consummate their alliance. “Thou shalt not covet the Queen of Sheba’s ass” is the point I expect He was making.
There is much to be said for the young human male sowing his wild oats in the furrow of an older female. The mature lady can take care of herself and is unlikely to have her heart broken by a panting young rake. She’s also had plenty of time to master all the bedroom tricks and acquire a proper understanding of her own carnal needs. The only problem in these liaisons is the financial aspect of the courtship – a woman cannot reasonably expect to be wined and dined by a man several decades her junior unless he happens to be loaded.
One recalls the infamous scene in the film Midnight Cowboy, where Joe Buck gives a middle-aged New York harridan the ride of her life, only to be rewarded with a furious temper-tantrum when he tactfully brings up the question of his fee. That kind of vanity is unbecoming in the older woman. She who wants to be serviced by the young stud should accept that he needs an allowance to pay for his body lotions and multi-vitamin tablets.
This is not to suggest that shagging older females is anything like a chore. Humans may find this difficult to believe, but in chimpanzee society it is actually the mature babes who are most desirable, whereas the young chicks only look good to males who’ve downed a few shells of fermented coconut juice. The key difference with humans is that female chimps don’t have a menopause, so they go on producing babies until they die. Thus, the brain of the male chimp is hard-wired to lust after the well-milked teats of the experienced mother who has learned about child-rearing the hard way.
Why do human females lose their fertility after a certain age? I should imagine it’s because of the importance of the grandparent in human society. It makes more sense for an older woman to care for her children’s children rather than bearing more of her own. As for women without grandchildren, no one should hold it against them if they fill the void in their lives with Activella tablets and a couple of well-groomed gigolos. We gorillas know from experience that there’s nothing like the satisfied glow of a mature female who’s been given a good seeing to.
Monday, January 01, 2007
Close encounter of the 42nd kind
Gorillas are great companions when you’re feeling light-hearted, but an ape with a more serious side to his character sometimes needs to be alone. That’s why, once a year, a light aircraft drops me off in the Kalahari Desert for a five-day sojourn in the sand. I might describe the aim of this excursion as “opening my soul to the stillness of eternity”, but won’t do so for fear of sounding like a sententious ass.
I returned from my latest trip yesterday and have an unusual incident to report. Everything started as normal as I disembarked from the aeroplane with my water-flask and belt bag. The latter contained the standard provisions for a venture of this type – a compass, a pastry fork, a box of mahogany toothpicks, suppositories and one extra-large packet of dried locusts. I wore a floppy sun hat and a flowing silk robe, essential garb to keep the sand out of my fur. We gorillas do not cross-dress without good reason.
In the desert one travels by night and rests by day, so I crawled beneath the shade of a large rock and snoozed until the sun went down. After eating a couple of locusts at dusk, I began my first nightly trek. Mid-way through the journey, in the serene repose of a starry night, I saw a bright yellow dot appear over the horizon. As it neared, I discerned a shiny metallic object which looked rather like a giant screw. It stopped in the sky some fifty yards ahead of me, allowing me to confirm that it was indeed a giant screw. The sharp end twisted itself ten feet into the ground with a sonorous whir, leaving the rest of the shaft standing as tall as King Kong.
I didn’t see any point in trying to run away. The screw was obviously much faster than me and its dazzling light illuminated the desert for hundreds of yards in all directions. The device had clearly sought me out on some petition, so I held my ground, waiting for it to make its move. After nothing had happened after five minutes, I grew impatient:
“Are you going to twist those threads or whistle Colonel Bogey?” I shouted.
Scarcely had the words left my lips when I saw a humanoid figure materialise before me in Star Trek fashion. Those of you who live in fear of ugly, critter-faced aliens can take heart – this one was the spitting image of a young Omar Sharif, dressed in the raiment of a medieval warrior-prince. He stared at me with intense hawk-like eyes.
“You are a gorilla,” he said in a smouldering galactic drawl.
“Yes,” I replied, “and who are you?”
“I am not of your world, gorilla. My name is Binky Lokta Poopy Lakta, which in your Earth language is Torquil Screwdriver.”
“Indeed?” I replied. “Then welcome to Earth, Mr Screwdriver.”
“To where do you travel, gorilla?” he asked.
“To the Vasikela water hole,” I answered.
“I will take you in my screw,” offered the alien.
“Thank you, but I prefer to go on foot,” I replied.
“You will surely lose you way,” cautioned the alien, “and losing your way you will perish miserably in the sun.”
“Not with my compass,” I retorted, removing the instrument from my belt bag and holding it up to his face.
I then felt the compass dissolve in my fingers and saw it re-appear in the hand of the alien. I tried not to show surprise at this unnerving feat. He examined it with a look of amused disdain on his face.
“What if I take this compass, gorilla?” he said with an unpleasant sneer.
“Then you would be a thief,” I replied, looking back defiantly into his eyes.
“Have you no fear, gorilla?” he asked in apparent surprise.
“My fear is my concern,” I answered haughtily.
He nodded at me respectfully and I felt the compass materialise in my fist. He then cordially invited me into his screw for a spot of refreshment, and given the change in his demeanour I didn’t hesitate to accept. It was the old story. The invincible alien warlord gets so accustomed to people grovelling at his feet and quaking at his threats, that anyone who addresses him boldly is automatically accorded the status of a thane.
The interior of the screw was much more spacious than appeared possible from the outside. As we sat down in a salon furnished with satin-covered sofas and rosewood coffee tables, Torquil Screwdriver told me he was from Asda-3, a planet that had been vaporised when its Sun became a supernova. As one of the few Asdarians to have escaped, he was looking for a new home to settle in. Having visited several suitable planets in the Orion Arm, he had chosen our world after noticing that tiny replicas of his spaceship were used in local handicrafts, which he took as a good omen. He told me that he was able to assume the form of any Earth creature.
“Any reason why you chose Omar Sharif, Torkers?” I asked, while sipping a cup of Asdarian tea. “I mean, he’s a good-looking chap and all that, but his best work is long behind him.”
“Who is Omar Sharif?” asked Torquil with a puzzled look on his face. “The man whose shape I have taken is a great warrior called Genghis Khan.”
A large display screen then appeared on the wall and a movie started playing. I recognised it as the 1965 version of Genghis Khan, with Omar Sharif in the title role and James Mason as one of his co-stars. Torquil explained that the Earth’s entire digital media output had been stored on the ship’s computer. Having watched hundreds of films, he had concluded that Genghis Khan was the top-ranking human because of the number of followers he commanded and the number of wives who shared his bed. Hence he had adopted the appearance of the merciless Mongol, or so he thought.
I decided to put him straight on a few important matters.
“Movies are not real life, Torkers,” I said. “All those people you see on the screen are really actors putting on a show for the viewers.”
“You surely jest!” exclaimed Torquil. “All those humans riding horses and swishing swords are just pretending!”
“Yes,” I replied. “We call it entertainment. Didn’t you have make-believe on Asda-3?”
“Our children used to play such games but they always grew out of them,” he answered.
“Well, we Earth creatures are pretty immature,” I explained. “If you don’t believe me, I’ll show you other films starring Omar Sharif.”
So we got the ship’s computer to play a few excerpts from Dr Zhivago and Lawrence of Arabia, and the perplexed alien was forced to concede that a Mongol chieftain could not also be a Russian doctor and a Bedouin prince.
“But if this man Sharif is an actor, who is truly the highest-ranking human on Earth?” asked Torquil.
I thought hard about this one. Clearly, I had to steer Torquil away from wrong kind of role model. Genghis Khan may have been great in his day, but the last thing the Earth needed was a horseback tyrant looting the shopping malls and pillaging the finishing schools, while kicking dust into the faces of innocent bystanders. I asked Torquil to hand me the touchpad interface for the ship’s computer, and with a bit of instruction managed to get the footage I wanted on the screen.
“Why are those men chasing after a ball?” he asked.
“It’s a sport called football, Torkers,” I replied. “Now look what happens after the ball goes into the net. The crowd are acclaiming the man who has scored as their leader. Can you hear them chanting his name, ‘Rooney’, ‘Rooney’? He is the highest-ranking human on Earth.”
“He does have many followers,” admitted Torquil. “But why are the other players trying to mate with him after he has scored? In Asda-3 such males were known as ‘left-handed-threads’. Most of them worked in fur-trimming boutiques for the females and were not highly regarded.”
“No, No, Torkers!” I cried, “that’s just a bit of friendly hugging. I assure you that Rooney likes girls as much as Genghis Khan did.”
“But do many females want to mate with him?” asked Torquil.
“Oodles of them, Torkers, oodles of them! I promise you they’re practically queuing up to spread their legs for him.”
“I find that surprising,” said Torquil. “This man Rooney has a face like the snub-nosed water weasel of Argos-11.”
“They don’t look at his face, Torkers, they just smell the cash on his body. I’ll show you all the newspaper articles about his shagging activities. They should be on your database.”
So we used the computer to trawl for tabloid headlines such as I dropped my knickers for Wayne, Twins take turns with Rooney in V.I.P. bog and Rooney made my Mum meow like a cat. I could see that these stories were having a powerful effect on Torquil. After we had read about seven of them his mind was made up: he would fly to Manchester in his screw and take on the bodily form of its most famous English footballer.
At daybreak, Torquil insisted on taking me to the place I would have reached had I continued my night-trek without interruption. We materialised together on the desert sand and before we made our farewells an obvious point occurred to me.
“How are you going to deal with the problem of having two Roonies?” I asked. “People tend to smell a rat when that sort of thing happens on Earth.”
“I will beam the real Rooney somewhere else before taking his place,” said Torquil. “There is a stud farm on Onus-5 looking for an apprentice shaft-handler to relieve the Viagran Bulls.”
I nodded in approval. “I’ve always believed in giving young humans the chance to learn a new trade,” I remarked. “What about playing football yourself, Torkers? Will you be able to reproduce the Rooney magic on the field of play?”
Torquil gave me a smug Asdarian smile. “I’ll do everything that he did and few other tricks the fans have never seen,” he boasted.
So we shook hands and wished each other well in our future endeavours. I watched Torquil disappear back into the screw, which twisted away into the pale morning sky. I don’t know exactly when he’ll step into Wayne’s boots, but I’m sure he’ll be true to his word about surpassing him as a player. So if you see Rooney perform any unheard-of feats on the football pitch, like getting the ball to ricochet into the net off the referee’s nose, you’ll know that the Premier League has witnessed its first alien footballer.
I returned from my latest trip yesterday and have an unusual incident to report. Everything started as normal as I disembarked from the aeroplane with my water-flask and belt bag. The latter contained the standard provisions for a venture of this type – a compass, a pastry fork, a box of mahogany toothpicks, suppositories and one extra-large packet of dried locusts. I wore a floppy sun hat and a flowing silk robe, essential garb to keep the sand out of my fur. We gorillas do not cross-dress without good reason.
In the desert one travels by night and rests by day, so I crawled beneath the shade of a large rock and snoozed until the sun went down. After eating a couple of locusts at dusk, I began my first nightly trek. Mid-way through the journey, in the serene repose of a starry night, I saw a bright yellow dot appear over the horizon. As it neared, I discerned a shiny metallic object which looked rather like a giant screw. It stopped in the sky some fifty yards ahead of me, allowing me to confirm that it was indeed a giant screw. The sharp end twisted itself ten feet into the ground with a sonorous whir, leaving the rest of the shaft standing as tall as King Kong.
I didn’t see any point in trying to run away. The screw was obviously much faster than me and its dazzling light illuminated the desert for hundreds of yards in all directions. The device had clearly sought me out on some petition, so I held my ground, waiting for it to make its move. After nothing had happened after five minutes, I grew impatient:
“Are you going to twist those threads or whistle Colonel Bogey?” I shouted.
Scarcely had the words left my lips when I saw a humanoid figure materialise before me in Star Trek fashion. Those of you who live in fear of ugly, critter-faced aliens can take heart – this one was the spitting image of a young Omar Sharif, dressed in the raiment of a medieval warrior-prince. He stared at me with intense hawk-like eyes.
“You are a gorilla,” he said in a smouldering galactic drawl.
“Yes,” I replied, “and who are you?”
“I am not of your world, gorilla. My name is Binky Lokta Poopy Lakta, which in your Earth language is Torquil Screwdriver.”
“Indeed?” I replied. “Then welcome to Earth, Mr Screwdriver.”
“To where do you travel, gorilla?” he asked.
“To the Vasikela water hole,” I answered.
“I will take you in my screw,” offered the alien.
“Thank you, but I prefer to go on foot,” I replied.
“You will surely lose you way,” cautioned the alien, “and losing your way you will perish miserably in the sun.”
“Not with my compass,” I retorted, removing the instrument from my belt bag and holding it up to his face.
I then felt the compass dissolve in my fingers and saw it re-appear in the hand of the alien. I tried not to show surprise at this unnerving feat. He examined it with a look of amused disdain on his face.
“What if I take this compass, gorilla?” he said with an unpleasant sneer.
“Then you would be a thief,” I replied, looking back defiantly into his eyes.
“Have you no fear, gorilla?” he asked in apparent surprise.
“My fear is my concern,” I answered haughtily.
He nodded at me respectfully and I felt the compass materialise in my fist. He then cordially invited me into his screw for a spot of refreshment, and given the change in his demeanour I didn’t hesitate to accept. It was the old story. The invincible alien warlord gets so accustomed to people grovelling at his feet and quaking at his threats, that anyone who addresses him boldly is automatically accorded the status of a thane.
The interior of the screw was much more spacious than appeared possible from the outside. As we sat down in a salon furnished with satin-covered sofas and rosewood coffee tables, Torquil Screwdriver told me he was from Asda-3, a planet that had been vaporised when its Sun became a supernova. As one of the few Asdarians to have escaped, he was looking for a new home to settle in. Having visited several suitable planets in the Orion Arm, he had chosen our world after noticing that tiny replicas of his spaceship were used in local handicrafts, which he took as a good omen. He told me that he was able to assume the form of any Earth creature.
“Any reason why you chose Omar Sharif, Torkers?” I asked, while sipping a cup of Asdarian tea. “I mean, he’s a good-looking chap and all that, but his best work is long behind him.”
“Who is Omar Sharif?” asked Torquil with a puzzled look on his face. “The man whose shape I have taken is a great warrior called Genghis Khan.”
A large display screen then appeared on the wall and a movie started playing. I recognised it as the 1965 version of Genghis Khan, with Omar Sharif in the title role and James Mason as one of his co-stars. Torquil explained that the Earth’s entire digital media output had been stored on the ship’s computer. Having watched hundreds of films, he had concluded that Genghis Khan was the top-ranking human because of the number of followers he commanded and the number of wives who shared his bed. Hence he had adopted the appearance of the merciless Mongol, or so he thought.
I decided to put him straight on a few important matters.
“Movies are not real life, Torkers,” I said. “All those people you see on the screen are really actors putting on a show for the viewers.”
“You surely jest!” exclaimed Torquil. “All those humans riding horses and swishing swords are just pretending!”
“Yes,” I replied. “We call it entertainment. Didn’t you have make-believe on Asda-3?”
“Our children used to play such games but they always grew out of them,” he answered.
“Well, we Earth creatures are pretty immature,” I explained. “If you don’t believe me, I’ll show you other films starring Omar Sharif.”
So we got the ship’s computer to play a few excerpts from Dr Zhivago and Lawrence of Arabia, and the perplexed alien was forced to concede that a Mongol chieftain could not also be a Russian doctor and a Bedouin prince.
“But if this man Sharif is an actor, who is truly the highest-ranking human on Earth?” asked Torquil.
I thought hard about this one. Clearly, I had to steer Torquil away from wrong kind of role model. Genghis Khan may have been great in his day, but the last thing the Earth needed was a horseback tyrant looting the shopping malls and pillaging the finishing schools, while kicking dust into the faces of innocent bystanders. I asked Torquil to hand me the touchpad interface for the ship’s computer, and with a bit of instruction managed to get the footage I wanted on the screen.
“Why are those men chasing after a ball?” he asked.
“It’s a sport called football, Torkers,” I replied. “Now look what happens after the ball goes into the net. The crowd are acclaiming the man who has scored as their leader. Can you hear them chanting his name, ‘Rooney’, ‘Rooney’? He is the highest-ranking human on Earth.”
“He does have many followers,” admitted Torquil. “But why are the other players trying to mate with him after he has scored? In Asda-3 such males were known as ‘left-handed-threads’. Most of them worked in fur-trimming boutiques for the females and were not highly regarded.”
“No, No, Torkers!” I cried, “that’s just a bit of friendly hugging. I assure you that Rooney likes girls as much as Genghis Khan did.”
“But do many females want to mate with him?” asked Torquil.
“Oodles of them, Torkers, oodles of them! I promise you they’re practically queuing up to spread their legs for him.”
“I find that surprising,” said Torquil. “This man Rooney has a face like the snub-nosed water weasel of Argos-11.”
“They don’t look at his face, Torkers, they just smell the cash on his body. I’ll show you all the newspaper articles about his shagging activities. They should be on your database.”
So we used the computer to trawl for tabloid headlines such as I dropped my knickers for Wayne, Twins take turns with Rooney in V.I.P. bog and Rooney made my Mum meow like a cat. I could see that these stories were having a powerful effect on Torquil. After we had read about seven of them his mind was made up: he would fly to Manchester in his screw and take on the bodily form of its most famous English footballer.
At daybreak, Torquil insisted on taking me to the place I would have reached had I continued my night-trek without interruption. We materialised together on the desert sand and before we made our farewells an obvious point occurred to me.
“How are you going to deal with the problem of having two Roonies?” I asked. “People tend to smell a rat when that sort of thing happens on Earth.”
“I will beam the real Rooney somewhere else before taking his place,” said Torquil. “There is a stud farm on Onus-5 looking for an apprentice shaft-handler to relieve the Viagran Bulls.”
I nodded in approval. “I’ve always believed in giving young humans the chance to learn a new trade,” I remarked. “What about playing football yourself, Torkers? Will you be able to reproduce the Rooney magic on the field of play?”
Torquil gave me a smug Asdarian smile. “I’ll do everything that he did and few other tricks the fans have never seen,” he boasted.
So we shook hands and wished each other well in our future endeavours. I watched Torquil disappear back into the screw, which twisted away into the pale morning sky. I don’t know exactly when he’ll step into Wayne’s boots, but I’m sure he’ll be true to his word about surpassing him as a player. So if you see Rooney perform any unheard-of feats on the football pitch, like getting the ball to ricochet into the net off the referee’s nose, you’ll know that the Premier League has witnessed its first alien footballer.
