Wednesday, May 27, 2009
The manager of the safari camp is fuming about a comment made by Miss Lily Allen, the petite cockney singer. He cites a newspaper article in which the cheeky chanteuse is quoted as saying that she feels guilty about going on safari. In taking pictures of the animals, she believes she subjected them to the same unwanted attention she receives from the paparazzi.
“Why didn’t the stupid little tart stay in Romford!” he rages. “We don’t need pious airheads bad-mouthing our industry to the press! If she’s against exploitation she should stop singing, which is exploiting people’s bad taste in music!”
I feel compelled to speak in her defence.
"She probably didn’t understand that there was no obligation to take pictures," I say. "Don't forget she comes from a society where people do everything they are allowed plus another ten per cent. Self-restraint and decorum are virtues quite unknown to her.”
The manager stomps off, muttering and harrumphing.
Would it be correct to call Miss Allen an “Essex girl”? I believe she wasn’t born in Essex, but the term seems to be more cultural than geographical. She recently recorded a song that is a kind of Essex girl anthem, describing with great acuity the aspirations of these young ladies. However the lyrics may have been sardonic, intending to highlight the deficiencies in their way of thinking. Perhaps Miss Allen might more accurately be described as a “post-Essex girl”.
These Essex girls are the butt of too much derision in any case. Their fondness for the trinkets and baubles of a consumerist society is quite understandable given their upbringing. Theirs is a community in which it is normal for maidens to surrender their virginity with wanton haste, often to the first sweaty-pawed ruffian who manages to fumble with their underwear. If something precious is given away so cheaply, the donor spends the rest of her life trying to make amends by being overly acquisitive. “Bling” is merely a replacement for a prematurely-popped cherry.
Perhaps they might avoid this lamentable fate by following the example of Miss Alina Percea, an 18-year-old Romanian damsel who auctioned her virginity on the internet. The highest bid was made by an Italian businessman aged 45, who according to Alina was “very charming”. One presumes he deflowered her with exquisite tenderness and finesse. Or perhaps not. Yet whatever the manner of initiation, Miss Percea emerged from the experience with undiminished self-respect, proud of the fact that her maidenhead was worth a sum equivalent to 8,782 pounds sterling.
“It was not like prostitution because it was a one-off,” she explained.
Indeed. One banana does not make a bunch, as we say in the jungle.
This gives me an idea. The market value of her purity would have paid for a deluxe safari holiday (including bridal suite with Jacuzzi and douche). Suppose we were to offer a “Lose you virginity in Africa” holiday to the comely maidens of the world, in tandem with a “Deflower a virgin in Africa” holiday to rich businessmen? Of course we would have to vet the men carefully to ensure they could make a good job of it. The last thing we need is disappointed ex-virgins demanding refunds. Businessmen who think they’ve got what it takes should send me an email. No boasters or hoaxers.
Friday, May 22, 2009
The manager of the safari camp has been telling me about a woman who avoided going to her high-school reunion by sending an impostor in her stead.
“Pretty clever eh, GB!” he said. “I bet your females wouldn’t have thought of a trick like that!”
“You’d be surprised,” I remarked. “Female gorillas can be incredibly devious in pursuit of their aims. Not that they’d worry about skipping a high-school reunion, of course. Anyone who tried to pressure them into attending such an event would simply be told to piss off.”
On reviewing the news report, I am forced to admit that this woman, Andrea Wachner, is a cunning wench. The impersonator she hired was a professional stripper well-versed in performing before strangers. Her looks were also carefully chosen – essentially a cuter version Miss Wachner with a smaller nose and a bigger bust. After getting her stooges to install webcams at the venue, Miss Wachner equipped the impostor with an earpiece to receive her instructions. The deception worked perfectly until one of her former classmates sidled up to the stripper near the end of the party.
“You’re not Andrea, your eyes are different!” he said staring intently at her breasts.
The hoax almost succeeded, though, and the idea of using a double to fob people off was brilliant. It’s a concept that might lead to a social revolution comparable to that of the birth-control pill. The busy career woman, juggling work and family responsibilities, could hire multiple look-alikes for different tasks – one to attend office parties, one to drive the kids to school, one to give her husband a treat on his birthday, and so on. A rich femme fatale could lead the life of a Bond villain, lying on a couch in her boudoir while watching her doppelgangers carry out her nefarious plans. The ones that make a hash of it would be invited back to HQ for a paddle with the sharks in the aquarium.
Yet contrasting such womanly wiles with the behaviour of female apes is obviously comparing apples with pears. The apettes may not hire strippers to impersonate them, but they possess jungle instincts that the modern woman lacks. Take the recent case of Miss Karta, a sharp-witted orang-utan who escaped from her zoo enclosure by building a ladder and short-circuiting an electric fence. When surrounded by a posse of her captors, she jumped back into her enclosure before they could fire their tranquiliser darts. Are there women who can make ladders and short-circuit electric fences without being unnaturally butch? Not that I’ve seen.
I think it’s fair to say that women and female apes have much to learn from each other. Women may have guile and subtlety, but their hairy sisters could teach them a range of practical skills that would serve them well in life, such as tree-climbing. A woman who knows how to straddle up and down a tree trunk has an exciting feral quality that complements her softer virtues. Perhaps I should hold a jungle symposium for female primates of all species to exchange ideas.
Monday, May 18, 2009
The Queen and I
When I tell American tourists that I used to live in England, they often ask me whether I ever met Queen Elizabeth II. Sadly we were never formally introduced, although our paths did once cross on the day of the Epsom Derby. On her way back home from the races, her car stopped alongside my car at the traffic lights. As our eyes met, I licked my thumbnail and rubbed it on my chin in a circular motion. The alpha females all know what it means, and Her Majesty gave me the biggest ear-to-ear grin you could ever wish to see on the face of a reigning monarch. I later received a jar of royal jelly from Buckingham Palace with a card signed “ERxxx”.
Yes, indeed, the Queen gazed into my soul and evidently liked what she saw. I think she sensed we were kindred spirits, both being expected to perform in public, albeit in very different ways. Her job was the harder by far. I never needed to worry about making a fool of myself because people always assumed it was part of my act. But the Queen had to be constantly in control of her emotions lest she was photographed making a silly face. That’s not easy given the number of people she meets, some of whom will inevitably scratch their crotch in her presence.
The latest attempt to embarrass England’s gracious monarch occurred when a couple were caught dogging on the lawn outside Windsor Castle. Apparently it was a spur-of-the-moment thing which they later much regretted. As the Queen was in residence, the royal security police had no option but to pounce on the pair while excited Japanese tourists clicked their cameras. Her Majesty, of course, remained impassive during the whole fracas. People sometimes forget that she is an accomplished horse breeder who has watched hot pumping stallions cover countless mares. For those who have witnessed such deeds, human coitus is a spectacle no more shocking than gerbils having a cuddle.
Much less impressive than Queen Elizabeth are her immediate family. The fogeyish Prince of Wales continues to denounce his pet hates in front of audiences who grin sheepishly at his fixations. One thing I know as a gorilla is that you should never complain about architecture. Human erections are part of the landscape and no more worthy of condemnation than the mountains and trees. One should especially avoid criticising tall buildings in case people think you have a penile complex. From the way Wally Prince Charlie goes on about these edifices you’d think they were giant dildos inserted half-way up his celestial butt-hole.
A lot of Americans seem envious of the British monarchy, but there’s nothing to stop them having their own titular sovereign. Mrs Obama is too tall for the job and the base of her neck looks inappropriately sturdy – a warrior princess perhaps, but a queen definitely not. Hilldog, on the other hand, is naturally regal in her demeanour and full of queenly qualities. Her only demerit is to have been repeatedly cuckolded without retaliating, which is not in the spirit of Catherine the Great. She won’t be worthy of her nation’s crown until she gets out of the hen coop and sows some royal oats. Assuming, of course, there is still a man bold enough to pin her to the bed.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
A vet seeks sanctuary
Have you ever helped a fugitive from justice? Smacker Ramrod’s old chum from veterinary school, Barry Bullman, flew in from New York last week. As well as having a lucrative private practice in the Big Apple, a local radio station had hired him to present a show called “Your pets and their sex lives”. It was this foray into the field of broadcasting that led to his downfall.
Before you get the wrong idea, there was nothing remotely amiss in the advice he gave over the airwaves. Middle-aged ladies would phone in to ask whether they should worry about little Poochy trying to hump the coffee table, and Barry would reassure them that it was perfectly normal for small dogs to hump coffee tables. The pet-owning burghers of New York City loved his British accent, and he quickly attracted a sizeable audience who sent him plenty of fan mail. Then he received the following letter from a female admirer:
Dear Dr Bullman
I love your radio show even though we don’t presently share our home with an animal. I know you’re a vet but could you advise me about my own sex life? I have never had an orgasm in five years of marriage. My husband has tried everything but nothing seems to work. You sound very knowledgeable so is there anything you could suggest? I have enclosed a photograph of us on our wedding day.
Mrs Irma V Schwartz
Now strictly speaking this query was beyond Barry’s competence, but like most vets he was not shy of tackling any problem with an anatomical aspect. Furthermore, he had recently acquired a Puerto Rican girlfriend whom he was able to consult on the matter, and she had made a very practical suggestion, or so it seemed to him. Thus he mailed the following reply to the frustrated Irma S:
Dear Mrs Schwartz
Frankly I’m not surprised you can’t have an orgasm with your husband. Whatever possessed you to marry that bow-legged chipmunk? I enclose the business card of my girlfriend’s younger brother, Umberto, who is a male escort. He normally works with women quite a bit older than yourself, so he’ll probably give you a 20% discount. (If you’ve lost a couple of stone since your wedding day he might go as high as 50%). Discretion is assured and I can vouch for his good character.
This well-intentioned advice resulted in a letter from a legal firm representing Schwartz and Schwartz, threatening to sue Barry for inflicting emotional distress by means of a malicious communication. As if that wasn’t enough, the police arrested him for soliciting acts of prostitution. He fled the country when he was bailed and is now seeking to shelter within the protective embrace of my hairy tribe.
My inclination is to offer him refuge. We gorillas have a “sticks and stones” philosophy to personal insults and rarely make a legal issue of them. Rather than press for damages we would turn the other cheek, albeit that the cheek in question might be located on the rump. As for the soliciting charge, forwarding a gigolo’s business card is precisely the kind of activity that oils the wheels of commerce in an economic downturn. He must have been charged under some ancient Puritan law that the State of New York forgot to repeal.
I don’t want to leave you with the impression that I would offer sanctuary to any miscreant who darkened our door. Bottom pinchers, exhibitionists and peeping toms are certainly not welcome in our neck of the jungle. If you have any sins of that nature on your conscience, you should throw yourself on the mercy of your local religious pastor, and accept his penance through gritted teeth. Checking thy body may amend thy soul.
Friday, May 08, 2009
Indian shoe protest
An epidemic of shoe-throwing has broken out in India. It seems that a politician need only open his mouth in public to get a shower of sandals raining down on his head. The authorities are trying to stop it by forcing the masses to go barefoot to political rallies, but it’s likely to be a futile precaution. Deprive people of their shoes and they’ll find other things to throw. The mayor of Estepona thought he’d be safe on a nudist beach, but the bathers pelted him with marbles they’d hidden inside their body cavities.
My jungle experience tells me that when a craze like this develops you’ve got to ride with the punches and wait for the mob to tire of their antics. When the baboons started throwing onions at us, we ducked for cover and made onion soup rather than trying to confiscate their onions. My advice to India’s politicians is to wear crash helmets when giving speeches and instruct their flunkies to harvest the shoes for sale on the black market. Make the smelly-toed rabble repurchase their footwear at inflated prices.
Public disorder can be provoked by the most unlikely incidents in that part of the world. Ranjit Ram, the Indian knife-thrower, once told me about a riot that broke out during a cricket match in his country. It started when an Australian fast bowler kissed an umpire on the cheek during a drinks interval, which infuriated the crowd for some reason. Perhaps they thought it was an attempt at bribery, although I’d be surprised if even an umpire would sell his loyalty that cheaply. It took a squadron of police to restore order by swishing their lathis with gay abandon. The application of the cane to the buttocks is one of the enduring legacies of the British Raj.
Perhaps the crowd would have been less agitated if they’d known that Australian men will smooch anything when they're in the right mood. A farmer from Down Under has recently announced his intention to kiss his pigs on a regular basis, claiming it would prove they were not infected with swine flu. Who is he trying to fool? If a man fancies his pigs, he ought to come clean about it rather than concocting flimsy excuses to snog them. I’m sure the pigs would prefer to be wooed by an honest suitor rather than a sly hog fiend who molests them on a bogus medical pretext.
Yet it would be wrong to denigrate Australian men, whose ranks include august statesmen such as John Howard (“The Sheriff”) and Paul Keating (“The Larrikin”). I sympathise greatly with humans who have the thankless task of governing in a democracy. To get elected they have to flatter the voters, telling them they’re good citizens entitled to nothing but the best, when in reality most of them are impudent rascals who deserve a good whipping. Then, when they’re trying to do their jobs, they get pestered by swarms of angry yahoos who bombard them with projectiles. What these ungrateful ruffians really need is a merciless despot to teach them some manners. Humans never appreciate how lucky they are unless they are periodically reminded of how bad things can get.
Monday, May 04, 2009
Virgin in a hen coop
A 26-year-old man has got a job at lap-dancing club by claiming to be a virgin.
“I’ve been propositioned more than 20 times but the girls won’t have much luck,” says Dave Dragas, a devout Christian.
Luck? He seems to think that the woman who pops his cherry will have won first prize in a raffle draw. In stating the number of offers he has refused, he is really no better than the playboy who boasts about his conquests. Sex may not make you wiser, but neither does abstaining from it. Perhaps he’ll realise that when he finally gets laid. In the meantime, he might learn a few things from his job of “managing” the lap dancers. I would guess that involves making sure they share their earnings with the club rather than stuffing banknotes up their cha-chas. Christian or not, he’d better prepare himself for a gruelling stint of amateur gynaecology.
He sounds like the kind of goody two-shoes who’ll really get on their figurative tits. It reminds me of the movie Klute, in which Donald Sutherland plays a straight-laced detective who initially rebuffs Jane Fonda’s tartish overtures. Infuriated by his smug incorruptibility, she tricks him into sleeping on the floor beside her bed and ravishes him while he’s half asleep. Once Klute has gone the way of a thousand Johns he is a sadly diminished figure, fawning on the call girl like a lovesick puppy. I suspect that young Dragas will suffer a similar fate when one of the dancers puts him through the meat grinder.
I confess that the appeal of lap dancing puzzled me for a long time. A fully-clothed man sits on a chair while a semi-naked woman presses her bottom against his trousers. The whole thing is monitored on CCTV, and if he dares to fondle her, a burly bouncer storms into the room and chucks him out. To top it all, he has to pay for the experience in hard currency rather than dinner vouchers. By my reckoning, there were at least 57 more enjoyable ways of spending time with a woman.
The mist cleared when I learned that most of the men involved were married. I then realised that such establishments were a refuge for the hen-pecked husband. Rather than answering his wife back, which would generate further friction, he retaliates covertly by partaking in naughty deeds that fall short of adultery. This allows him to return home in triumph, feeling like a warrior who has looted and pillaged the enemy camp. The poor deluded wife must think her husband is smiling because he’s glad to see her.
Could there be lap-dancing clubs for frustrated wives? The problem is that very few women could comfortably bear the weight of a beefcake stud on her lap. Yet the desperate housewife surely has other ways of dealing with her marital angst. A visit to the hairdresser seems to fulfill this important social function, giving her plenty of time to tell a captive audience what an incomparable doofus her husband is. Add a few flirty remarks from the salon’s official gigolo, and her zest is renewed for another bout of domestic strife.
The modern human marriage would surely be doomed without these essential safety valves.