Wednesday, April 22, 2015
Bog standard
Paul McCartney has revealed that he finished off many of his greatest songs while sitting on the toilet. Thus, the final verse of Let It Be was written while Paul was pooping in the gentleman’s lavatory at EMI studios. It reached number two in the British charts.
It’s much harder to compose a catchy tune while taking a leak, of course. The “tinkle-tinkle” noise is too distracting for most songwriters. Evacuating the bowels, by contrast, involves lengthy periods of silence interrupted by occasional bursts of wind and percussion. It is said that Beethoven composed his fifth symphony after a heavy lunch of bratwurst and ale.
Although it’s nice of Paul to tell us his song-writing secrets, I’m not really sure I wanted to know. An artist should preserve the mystique of his artistry, so the public remains in awe of his creative genius. When I was in the circus, I performed a conjuring trick that made the audience believe a clown had given birth to a snake. If anyone asked me how I did it, I told them it was voodoo magic from the darkest jungles of Africa.
Now, some would say that Paul hasn’t written a great song in the last 40 years, so his toilet technique must have faltered fairly quickly after the first flush of exuberance. Maybe the break-up of the Beatles affected the regularity of his bowel movements. There is, however, another explanation for the evaporation of his creative juices. A songwriter who achieves prolific early success is often distracted by other pursuits. In Paul’s case it was sumo wrestling. His interest in this oriental oddity arose when he toured Japan in 1993, and he now attends the major tournaments.
Paul only participates as a spectator, of course. He would not be such a fool to compete in a sport designed for stupendously fat men who enjoy wearing nappies. His love of the moob-wobbling spectacle inspired him to sponsor a stable of wrestlers to promote his latest album. He wisely refrained from composing a tribute ballad for them – how could it have improved on I am the Walrus, which John Lennon wrote 48 years ago?
But I shouldn’t give you the impression that I despise sumo wrestlers. They wouldn’t go far in the jungle, but why would they need to? You don’t have to worry about your lack of mobility if you can earn a billion yen by waddling about inside a ring small enough for a cat orgy. I did say they were fat, but I meant that as a description rather than an insult.
In truth, I hate it when humans use the word “fat” as a term of abuse. The latest victim of this nauseating habit was Britney Spears, who was called a fat bitch while performing in concert. I’m glad that Britney gave the heckler a choice riposte of her own, and am mystified that some commentators have criticised her for doing so. You can’t expect a buxom diva to take it lying down.
Labels: Britney Spears, Paul McCartney, Poo-poo, song-writing, sumo, sumo wrestler
Wednesday, November 19, 2014
Beatle for Sale
“Money can’t buy you love, but it sure can buy you a Beatle,” he remarked wryly.
“Paul is a vegetarian and a friend of the gorilla nation,” I replied haughtily. “I will not believe gossip about him until I have researched the matter to my own satisfaction.”
My investigations have since confirmed that the story is well-founded, although there are several qualifications to add. A million dollars is pocket money for Paul, so he was clearly there to network and promote his own investment ideas. Many of those fund managers will soon be putting money into sea cucumber farms. They were also ardent fans of his music:
“I love you Paul!” screamed one investor, jumping up from her seat the moment he appeared.
I’m not the least bit envious of these people. The truly lucky ones were those who heard the Beatles rehearse in the studio. The Beatles themselves were incredibly lucky to have heard themselves play when they were playing.
Although I did not attend the famous rooftop concert at Savile Row, I am proud to reveal that a couple of chimpanzees were among the onlookers. Having been hired to appear in a TV commercial, they were being measured for suits in a nearby couturier when the music started. Quick as a flash, they scarpered out of the shop and bounded up the tallest building in the street to get a panoramic view of the action. The Fab Four’s hirsute appearance affected them as deeply as the music, which they danced to in the traditional arms-forward-bum-backwards style.
People often wonder why it took the police over 40 minutes to end the concert, which was causing major traffic jams as well as annoying several old farts in the vicinity. I can now clear up this mystery. When the Beatles started playing, a retired army colonel phoned the police to demand that they “stop that bloody din” coming from the roof of a nearby building. He put his phone receiver outside his window so the duty sergeant could hear it for himself, and this witless Plod, being no aficionado of pop music, told a couple of fresh-faced constables to “get the Monkees off the roof”. This caused the hapless Bobbies to waste half an hour trying to evict the chimps from their vantage point (an impossible task given the comparative gymnastic abilities of humans and chimps). It took another phone call from the irate colonel to make the sergeant realise his error and redirect his troops to the Apple studios.
To be honest, I don’t blame Paul for preferring to hang out with rich people like himself. His fingers and toes got badly burned by Heather Millstone, who not only fleeced him for 30 million bucks but aired a lot of dirty linen that should have remained in the laundry basket. As we say in the jungle, if you swim with the crocodiles it might cost you an arm and a leg.
Labels: chimpanzees, money, Paul McCartney, sea cucumbers, The Beatles
Wednesday, October 23, 2013
Silly love songs
Paul McCartney has admitted he was too scared to tell his attractive wife that he loved her. Now why would he fear saying that, unless perhaps it wasn’t true? Some women can tell when their husbands are lying as easily as if their noses were growing longer like Pinocchio’s. Female intuition is a more powerful truth serum than sodium pentothal or a kick in the balls. But if Paul doesn’t love her, why would he have married her? That can’t be the cause of his anxiety.
Maybe the source of his fear is financial. When a rich man tells a woman he loves her, his wallet trembles in anticipation. Money can’t buy you love, but love can lose you money, as Paul discovered when he divorced Heather Mills. Was he worried that opening his heart to Nancy might have encouraged her to ask for Tahiti as a Christmas present? No, that can’t be right, the woman is flush herself. If she asked for Tahiti, he could have asked for Bermuda.
In pursuit of an explanation, I phoned Smacker Ramrod, my old circus buddy, who’s been happily married for a decade or so.
“I know exactly how he feels,” he said. “You never know how a woman will react the first time you tell her you love her. My own dear spouse giggled like Scooby Doo before punching me in the face. I had a black eye for a week.”
“That’s a heart-warming anecdote, Smacker.” I remarked. “I shall tell it to my females as proof of the close genetic bond we have with our human cousins.”
Of course, it’s a complete myth that humans invented love. Birds of all species can be incredibly jealous lovers, as anyone who’s flirted with an ostrich knows. I never even smile at an ostrich hen for fear of getting my arse pecked by her mate. Not even among the primates do humans reign supreme in the amorous arts. Our mutual cousins, the bonobos, have fascinated biologists for years with their touchy-feely behaviour and public displays of affection. They are also extremely generous in providing sympathy sex, which is not something humans will do without a lot of play-acting and chicanery.
Another celebrity who’s been having issues with the L-word is Khloe Kardashian, whose marriage appears to be floundering. I suppose it was only a matter of time before the shaven-headed brute she got hitched to fell out of love with her bubble butt. Rather than consult a divorce lawyer, she is seeking solace among her twitter followers, to whom she tweeted the following message:
“I crave a love so deep the ocean would be jealous.”
Poor deluded girl! A love that deep would be full of shipwrecks, sharks and creatures that squirted black ink in her face. My advice to Khloe is to stop tweeting and have some sympathy sex with a good-natured rake like Russell Brand. He may not be as affectionate as a bonobo, but I doubt he’ll expect her to eat his body parasites.
Labels: Khloe Kardashian, Paul McCartney, Russell Brand, sympathy sex
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
Happy birthday Yoko!
Yoko Ono is 80! Her birthday was actually in February, so I’m offering her my belated best wishes. I hope she’ll understand how difficult it is to keep track of celebrity birthdays in the rainforest. I only really notice the passage of time when the crocodiles start humping.
What a fascinating human being Yoko is! People have often wondered how a demur, soft-spoken Japanese woman could be so barmy. I blame it on the American military occupation of Japan following World War 2. When a teenage girl used to a diet of steamed rice and vegetables suddenly starts binging on chocolates and Coca-cola, it has a similar effect on her brain to LSD. She later did take acid, of course, and her disordered mind began to make weird connections, such as noticing the humour in men’s private parts. Did she laugh at John Lennon’s dick? It wouldn’t surprise me, but I doubt it damaged their relationship.
I once made the mistake of discussing the break-up of the Beatles with the manager of the safari camp. I said it wasn’t Yoko’s fault because the lads had already grown apart and were following diverging paths. This provoked a furious response:
“Of course it was Yoko’s fault, you ignorant ape!” barked the manager. “You don’t have a clue what was going on behind the scenes! She put a hex on the band and made weird mewling noises when they were rehearsing. If it wasn’t for her interference, John would be alive today and the Beatles would be playing in the Cavern!”
There was no point arguing with an irrational outburst like that, so I turned my back on him and farted before returning to the jungle.
The good news is that Paul has settled the issue by stating that Yoko didn’t break up the Beatles. What a nice thing to say after all the spiteful words that ping-ponged between them. Paul must have realised that there were bitchier women than Yoko on the face of the Earth after his divorce from Heather Mills. Whatever nasty things Yoko said about him, she didn’t cost him 30 million bucks. Let’s hope he goes to watch her perform at this summer’s music festival in London, where she’ll be singing the songs that John recorded shortly before he was assassinated by the mad assassin.
Another person who ought to go to the concert is Bjorn Ulvaeus, who praised the Beatles in a recent interview. When asked whether the Abba girls got annoyed when their husbands were chased by groupies, Bjorn replied:
“You may find this unbelievable but we never really had them.”
It does surprise me that neither Bjorn nor Benny attracted a single groupie at the height of their fame in Abba. But “unbelievable” is a strong word, particularly after looking at old photos of the band. If Bjorn says there were no groupies, I will accept his statement as factual if he gives me his word as a gentleman and a Swede.
Labels: Abba, groupies, laughing at John Lennon's dick, Paul McCartney, The Beatles, Yoko Ono
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Reaching Nirvana
So Nirvana have asked Paul McCartney to be their lead singer. A shrewd move. Whatever you say about Paul, he’s not going to kill himself like that drug addict who used to be their front man. He might die of natural causes, of course, but such is the fate of all mortal men. I hope they tape a device to his chest to monitor his vital signs when he’s performing. For a Beatle to die on stage would be more than the world could bear. Even to contemplate such a tragedy makes me howl with anguish.
I have a bet with the manager of the safari camp that Paul will outlive Mick Jagger. He thinks Mick is healthier because of the way he prances about on stage, but I know better. No man ever lived to the age of 100 by having ants in his pants. The secret of longevity is a serene mental outlook combined with the avoidance of physical jerks. Jagger falls short in both departments, which is why he’s as wrinkly as a prune. He won’t be able to keep it up for much longer. (Behaving like a hyperactive rooster, I mean.)
It’s an interesting fact of human biology that women live longer than men. That’s why old women greatly outnumber old men. People sometimes ask me whether evil old witches like Rider Haggard’s Gagool are common in Africa. The answer is no. Any woman half as wicked as Gagool would be thrown to the crocodiles before she got to middle age. Old ladies in Africa are wonderfully benign and sometimes have the power of prophesy. One such ancient seeress held me in her arms when I was a baby gorilla.
“Thine eyes are bright, my little hairy one!” she crooned in an obscure Congolese dialect. “I foretell thou shall migrate to a northern land and acquire human language and learning; whereupon thou shall join a great carnival and entertain the multitude in many ways, including the kicketh of clowns in the arse; after which thou shall return to the jungle with a tidy fortune to invest in the safari business; and thenceforth shall thou enjoy a life of much leisure, japing and whimsical banter.”
Needless to say, her prophesy was 100% accurate in every particular. I often visit her grave, which I decorate with scented African violets and banana peel.
Now, why do women live longer than men? The answer is testosterone, by which I mean the lack of it. In addition to making men frisky, this naughty hormone has various deleterious effects on health, which shortens the average male lifespan. This has been verified by a study showing that eunuchs live longer than men with their goolies intact.
I don’t suppose Paul McCartney will be interested in using this knowledge to prolong his own life. His attractive new wife has plenty of mileage in her for one thing. But wouldn’t the sacrifice of an ageing nutsack be a price worth paying to delay the death of another Beatle? I’m not saying anyone should force him, but he ought to consider it seriously.
Labels: eunuchs, Gagool, goolies, Mick Jagger, Nirvana, Paul McCartney
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Another girl
I don’t feel snubbed because Paul McCartney didn’t invite me to his wedding. Paul knows full well that we gorillas find such occasions arse-scratchingly tedious, and didn’t want to put me in the awkward position of having to decline. The only wedding I’ve ever attended was that of my circus comrade, Smacker Ramrod, who needed a minder to stop his old school chums from de-bagging him at the reception. After the ceremony, his blushing bride combed the confetti out of my fur. A male gorilla will agree to most things after he’s been groomed by a female.
Now that Paul is happily hitched, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind me telling you about the counselling I gave him after his divorce from Heather “Moneybags” Mills.
“I dunno, GB,” he mused. “If only we could do things as simply as you gorillas.”
“Don’t be an ass, Paul, you belong to a different species,” I replied. “Just make sure the next one you marry has plenty of cash, so if it doesn’t work out you’ll agree to call it quits. And pick a woman who’s above child-bearing age. You’ve already sired a decent brood, and don’t want another baby selfishly hogging your wife’s udders.”
The new Lady McCartney could not have fulfilled my specifications more perfectly if I had picked her myself. Ms Nancy Shevell, aged 51, is the heiress of a road haulage empire. She is attractive; she is demure; her eyes do not have daggers in them. In short, she is the kind of woman who wouldn’t throw her hairdryer at you for saying her new hairstyle made her look like a yeti.
When I discussed Paul’s nuptials with the manager of the safari camp, he affected a sceptical tone:
“This Nancy woman sounds a bit bland to me,” he said. “Some men prefer a hot-headed wife who curses and bites before you pin her to the bed.”
“You’re confusing humans with apes,” I replied. “A man married to a dragon-lady can only fantasize about bed-pinning scenarios. Attempting such a manoeuvre in real life would most likely provoke a stiletto in the groin.”
Is it possible for a man to find happiness in the arms of a bad-tempered woman? Count Dracula’s wives were obviously crazy bitches from hell, yet they seemed quite devoted to their sinister and remorseless husband. They also got on tolerably well with each other, which doesn’t always happen in polygamous situations.
I would guess that the cornerstone of their relationship was the total absence of jealously. The Count was perfectly free to pursue any virgins her fancied, even if it meant going on extended vacations with limited opportunities for correspondence. And his feral spouses didn’t hesitate to sink their fangs into any stray man-flesh that wandered into the castle grounds. The Count, indeed, often played the pander to their grisly debaucheries.
Clearly there’s a lot wrong with vampires and their lifestyle wouldn’t be to everyone’s taste. But you have to admire the mature way they dealt with their relationship issues.
Labels: bed-pinning scenarios, marriage, Paul McCartney, vampires
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Hello Goodbye
I am delighted to hear that Paul McCartney is getting married for the third time. As a friend of the gorilla nation, he is entitled to the warmest of good wishes from me and my females. The omens for this union are good. Paul has wisely gone through a five-year courtship rather than rushing, lemming-like, into wedlock with a woman of avaricious and cantankerous disposition. His fiancé’s first name is Nancy, one of the select few that Macca has used in one of his own compositions. Admittedly, the woman in the song was a saloon bar dancer of easy virtue, but one is entitled to poetic license in making such artistic analogies.
It reflects well on Paul that he is still willing to get hitched after the ignominy of his second marriage. Let us never forget the calumnies that emerged from the poisonous tongue of Ms Heather Mills, who accused her husband, among other things, of being obsessed about her breasts. The woman was clearly unfit for matrimony – an honest wife would have thanked her lucky stars that he wasn’t obsessed about another woman’s breasts. Yet in spite of the humiliations and pecuniary losses he suffered at the hands of his ex-wife, Paul is now taking the plunge with another woman (albeit of very different temperament, one hopes). All those sappy romantic lyrics he wrote must have genuinely come from the heart.
As one musical man marries, another brawny one divorces. It gives me no pleasure whatever to hear that Arnold Schwarzenegger’s wife has given the old beef steer his marching orders, even though he has no one to blame but himself. I don’t know what possessed him to declare that mulatto women have the best behinds. His wife, who is not a mulatto, must have burned with indignation as she strained her neck to inspect her own tush in the bedroom mirror. As a woman from the Kennedy family, she might have forgiven Arnie the odd affair, but she could never tolerate him publicly scorning her charms. Apparently his remark was made on the spur of the moment, after a Brazilian samba dancer nudged him with her buttocks, but there are times when a husband should salivate in silence. A wise man never comments about the first thing that rubs against his thigh.
Arnie’s troubles remind me of the advice I gave Smacker Ramrod before he popped the question to his current lady wife. My devoted circus buddy had asked me whether he ought to inform his intended of his past dalliances and debaucheries, of which there had been many.
“Don’t do it, Smacker!” I exclaimed. “However much she says it doesn’t matter, it will always prey on her mind! Just smile enigmatically if she asks. Let sleeping cats lie!”
I am pleased to say that Smacker followed my advice and has remained happily married for almost a decade. As we say in the jungle, the truth is like a hornet sting – only give it to creatures with a thick hide.
Labels: Divorce, marriage, mulatto women, Paul McCartney
Monday, March 22, 2010
Shabby Road
The equinox arrives, which means it’s time to write to Paul McCartney. Every year, I invite him to give a concert in the Congo; thus far he has always declined, citing prior engagements. What can I do to tempt the great tunesmith to the jungle this year? Free lessons on the Congolese nose-flute? A year’s supply of Jamba weed reefers? A brightly-plumed parrot that will sit on his shoulder and squawk the lyrics of Hey Jude? Maybe it’s impossible to tempt him with bribes because he’s worried about the reception he’ll get from the chimpanzees. Rumour has it that he used to snub Bubbles during his visits to Neverland. These things can weigh on the conscience of an artist.
Macca, let it be said, is a tremendous friend of the gorilla nation. During his last world tour, he insisted that only vegetarian meals were served to the workmen who put up the fixtures. When it was suggested to him that men who did heavy lifting needed to eat steaks, Paul pointed out that gorillas were plenty brawny on a meat-free diet. How right he was! It’s as easy as walnuts in a condom to acquire a muscular physique on fruit and vegetables. You just have to combine the wholesome fare with a rigorous exercise regime involving tree-climbing, chest-thumping and the spanking of recalcitrant baboons.
He might have also mentioned that eating meat gives you halitosis. Lions may look pretty feisty in wildlife documentaries, but most of their time is spent sprawled on the ground, panting out foul gases that would poison a dung beetle. Fresh vegetables, by contrast, only give you flatulence. In the words of Old Melonhead The Wise, “Tis better to fart like thunder than to have bad breath.”
Paul has recently been in the news for trying to save the famous studio near the famous zebra crossing which he famously walked across barefoot. Miserly EMI Records want to sell the property to a consortium planning to convert it into a plastic surgery clinic. “All you need is a nose job,” as John said to Ringo. I suppose Paul is reluctant to buy it himself after paying his ex-wife £24 million for three years of viper-tongued bliss. But maybe the real problem is excessive nostalgia. The Beatles are gone, and posing for a picture on a zebra crossing in London does nothing to honour their memory. For what great band ever wished to be remembered for disrupting the flow of traffic and increasing the blood pressure of motorists?
Forget about the zebra crossing. If Paul comes to Africa, we’ll give him a real live zebra instead. Ordinarily they’re truculent beasts, but if one of the Beatles is in the vicinity they lie on their backs and giggle like star-struck schoolgirls. Paul’s barefoot march across Abbey Road will seem like a trivial detail of history after he’s ridden bare-arsed on a galloping zebra, tanning his ageing butt-cheeks in the African sun. A picture of Macca mooning the baboons would make a far more exciting album cover than that over-hyped tiptoe on the tarmac.
Labels: mooning, Paul McCartney, vegetarian, zebra
Monday, October 22, 2007
Keeping abreast of developments
A Californian dentist argues that massaging a woman’s breasts can cure her of toothache. I suppose it might take her mind off it, but it didn’t stop the 27 women he artlessly groped from reporting him to the authorities. He hopes that the court will not revoke his licence if he promises to stop feeling up his female patients and examine them only in the presence of two chaperones. I am not one to prejudge these complex legal cases, but I get the feeling that his proposed plea bargain may be too little, too late.
My advice to the fellow would be to quit while he’s ahead. Having fondled 27 bosoms without retribution, it’s time to cash in his pension and move to Florida. His days of bamboozling women about the therapeutic benefits of the boob rub are behind him. After relocating in the Sunshine State, perhaps he could find work milking cows or squeezing oranges. A humble occupation like that is just what he needs to calm his restless spirit and maintain a low profile in the local newspapers. It might also be a good idea to send a $500 cheque to each of the women he groped. Penance is good for the soul, particularly if it encourages your victims to maintain a discreet silence.
There’s really no way back for the distinguished man who’s been exposed as a tit fiend. Have any of you been following Paul McCartney’s divorce? I sensed things would turn nasty when Ms Mills alleged that her husband forbade her from suckling her baby on the grounds that he had exclusive rights to her udders. Of course, one shouldn’t automatically accept the word of a woman willing to air dirty linen in the hope of getting 50 million rather than 30 million. But the image of Sir Paul mooching possessively over Heather’s boobs is difficult to banish from the mind. “What kind of man would refuse to share his wife’s nipples with his baby daughter?” is the question one cannot avoid asking. “One about to have his own assets well and truly milked” would be a possible answer.
Now there are a few professions where it is possible to touch a woman’s breasts in the line of duty. Dr Whipsnade has a friend who is a Harley Street consultant specialising in sexual maladies. A newly-wed woman once came to him complaining that she found sex with her husband to be painful and joyless. After summoning his dildo-equipped nurse, the doctor began caressing the patient’s breasts. The nurse attended to the woman’s lower half and presently slipped in the device without difficulty.
“Does that feel good?” asked the doctor in a matter-of-fact voice.
The blushing bride admitted that it did, whereupon the doctor told her that she was perfectly normal and should ask her husband to do as they had done, rather than ramming her like a frustrated satyr.
I had the same kind of disinterested concern for my female fans back in my circus days. I never knowingly touched their breasts, but I kissed quite a few hands and signed countless autograph books. He who inspires that kind of adulation needs a strong moral fibre to keep things in check. With the festive season approaching, I should imagine that many male bosses are contemplating frisky forays with female staff at the office party. My advice to them would be to think of the embarrassment that one drunken lunge can produce well into the New Year and beyond. In the evergreen words of Sheriff Buford T Justice, “You can think about it, but just don’t do it.”
Labels: breast massage, frustrated satyr, Paul McCartney, tit fiend
