Wednesday, December 25, 2013
Congo Christmas
It’s Christmas morning in the jungle, and I awake to the sound of African songbirds chirping to the tune of ‘Jingle Bells’. On seeing me stir, the parrots flap their wings and greet me. “Give us some nuts!” they squawk, but I have no intention of obliging them. One does not reward creatures whose evocation of the Christmas spirit is to shit on your head while you’re sleeping.
In a few hours, I’ll be making my way to the safari camp with my customary gift of freshly-picked wild fruit. The manager, truth be told, is not a big fan of fruit, but his wife forces him to eat it as a palliative for his constipation. “I don’t want to hear you grunting and groaning in the bathroom,” she says in answer to his complaints.
Another yuletide tradition at the safari camp is the singing of our favourite Christmas songs. This year, my choice will be ‘Mrs Robinson’ by Simon and Garfunkel. For those who doubt its relevance to the most auspicious day in the Christian calendar, let me remind you the lyrics:
And here’s to you, Mrs Robinson
Jesus loves you more than you will know
Whoa whoa whoa.
God bless you please, Mrs Robinson
Heaven holds a place for those who pray
Hey, hey, hey
Hey, hey, hey.
It’s a fine example of the Christmas message – peace and goodwill to all, including the shameless cougar. For Mrs Robinson was indeed a wicked woman, and seducing a fresh-faced college graduate was the least of her infractions. Her worst abomination occurred when young Ben Braddock repented of their lustful liaison and declared himself a suitor for the lovely Elaine. Rather than rejoicing that her daughter would have a husband with excellent prospects (and one that she had personally trained), she banned him from the family home and concocted a false story to make Elaine despise him.
If I saw Mrs Robinson in the jungle today, I would grab her by the waist, lift her off her feet (to stop her running away) and invite her to lunch at the safari camp. No doubt, she would snarl like a she-wolf and curse like a sailor, but I would maintain steady eye contact while bearing her kicks and punches with apely fortitude.
“Woman, cease thine evil beshrewing!” I would say. “Tis a day for even the most cussed harridan to repent of her sins and break bread with the virtuous.”
If that didn’t pacify her, I don’t know what would.
There’s more to Christmas than singing songs and making sinners repent, of course. At this holy time of year, humans are apt to hold drunken parties, which for some may lead to illicit groping and smooching. Having avoided this year’s “event” at the safari guesthouse, I have been spared the drudgery of disciplining the unruly and carrying the unconscious to a safe place of repose. This means I have no lurid tales to tell, which doesn’t bother me at all. Nor should it bother you. Christmas is not a time for gossip and tittle-tattle.
The Japing ape wishes his readers a Happy Christmas
Labels: Christmas shagging, constipation, Mrs Robinson
Friday, December 23, 2011
Christmas Carols
I arrive in London to spend Christmas with the noble Dr Whipsnade, benefactor of the worthy, guardian of the innocent and chastiser of the villainous. After taking supper with the doctor and his wife, I step outside to watch a band of humans singing Christian hymns. Their voices are earnest and tuneful, although rather affected for my taste. We gorillas prefer a more robust style of vocal expression that reaches the pelvis as well as the ear drums. This does not stop me from applauding their performance:
“Bravo!” I cry. “Wait here while I go inside to get something for you!”
I brush past the butler when he opens the door and return with a couple of crisp banknotes in my paw. I am about to hand them over when Dr Whipsnade emerges in his overcoat and grabs my forearm.
“Don’t do that, Bananas, they’re not licensed to collect for charity,” he says. “Jevons will bring them some mulled wine.”
The choir look disappointed. “We wouldn’t have minded a tip,” mutters one of them as I re-enter the mansion with cash in hand.
This incident illustrates one of the enduring features of an English Christmas: it’s the time of year when money is at the forefront of people’s minds. The first man who properly understood this was Charles Dickens, whose work is much celebrated in the festive season. A Christmas Carol, let no one forget, is a parable about a miser. I’ve seen it enacted so many times that I now hold revisionist views on it.
The story, you see, has a glaring moral defect: Scrooge was scared into turning over a new leaf by ghosts. The use of terror tactics to make a sinner repent is not the Christmas spirit. It seems obvious to me that what the old codger really needed was a woman. Instead of harassing him with spectres, Dickens should have given Nancy from Oliver Twist a supporting role as the Wench from Novels Past. If she had snuck into Scrooge’s bed at midnight, straddling him between her broad and luscious thighs, he would have definitely been a new man in the morning.
A consistent theme in all of Dickens’ work is that sex makes humans happy. Why else would Bob Cratchit be in such good cheer, in spite of all his woes? The size of his family suggests that servicing the missus was one of his favourite pastimes. The same is true of Dickens’ female characters. David Copperfield’s pretty young wife died with a smile on her face, which women don’t make a habit of doing unless they’ve been given a good seeing to. And no one was more miserable than Miss Havisham, the bitter old prune who renounced men after getting jilted on her wedding day.
After retiring to my bedroom, I look out of the window at the grand houses in this affluent neighbourhood of London, and wonder how much shagging is going on. Not much, judging by the long faces I saw moping around in the morning. I blame Dickens. People are so preoccupied with money and presents that their libidos have turned Scrooge-like. They ought to remember the event that Christmas celebrates: the first and only time that God had sex with a woman.
Gorilla Bananas wishes his readers a Merry Christmas.
Labels: Carol singers, Christmas shagging, Dickens, money, Scrooge
