Wednesday, January 25, 2017
Manphobia
An English “glamour model” has taken the unusual step of banning men from her home:
“I honestly can't bear the thought of letting a man into my house ever again,” tweeted Jodie Marsh. “My house is too beautiful & clean & perfect ... I'm not saying men are untidy or dirty or smelly or unhygienic. Just that in my experience ... well, you know ... Men are like elephants. I appreciate their beauty and I like looking at them but I don't want to own one and I don't want one in my house.”
Given that Ms Marsh has made a handsome living from posing topless in “lads’ magazines”, her tweets may be unhelpful in furthering her career plans. Those who have stared ravenously at her jahoobies don’t want to be told that they’re smelly vagabonds by the owner of the said jahoobies. Publicly banning them from her home may also be counterproductive. They surely never expected to be invited, but now they can’t even fantasize about the possibility.
My mentor, Dr Whipsnade, didn’t allow tramps or vagrants into his impressive mansion, but he never announced it as a policy. If they turned up at his door, they were directed to the garden shed and told to wait for provisions. If you own a big, impressive house, you mustn’t insult the masses by telling them it’s strictly off-limits. That kind of behaviour can provoke a brick through the window. Even the Queen of England invites common folk to her garden parties, serving them an excellent buffet of teacakes and desserts.
So why has Ms Marsh acquired such an aversion to the opposite sex? Part of the reason might be the marriage she is currently in the final stages of dissolving. Her estranged husband was reputedly a man of lowly character with body odour issues. Having a mate who smells bad can put anyone off sex. Ms Marsh expounded on the delights of celibacy in an earlier TV interview conducted in her home:
“I'm celibate again now, because I just like it. I don't want any willies near me. I'm just nothing, I'm asexual.”
When asked about self-love, she said that was a different story and told the interviewer not to rummage in her drawers.
“Because you've got all the implements!” he exclaimed.
I think we can take it as read that the toys in her drawers are giving full satisfaction. If I were her agent, I’d negotiate an endorsement deal on her behalf. Having a nude model say that your device is so effective that she doesn’t need men is a manufacturer’s dream.
It is possible, of course, that Ms Marsh has not dated the right kind of man. Women of her background and appearance tend to attract the coarser variety of suitor. As well as smelling like baboons, such men have an unsubtle approach to the erotic pleasures. Maybe she would have fared better with the smoother type of fellow who showers regularly, uses cologne and keeps his tufts well trimmed. It’s easy to mock the metrosexual dandy, but I bet he gets laid more often than the he-man.
Labels: body odour, celibacy, jahoobies, Jodie Marsh, Sex toys
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
Only 10 scents
Scientists are claiming that the human nose is only capable of distinguishing 10 different smells. If you look at their list, you will find that “sweaty armpit” and “farty poo-poo” are curiously absent.
My gorilla nose grew finely attuned to human odours in my circus days. I remember inhaling the aromas of the all-girl acrobat team, hot and sweaty after a training session. They were eager to hit the showers, but I asked them to hang around for a minute so I could sniff them discreetly.
“You smell like female gorillas who’ve returned to camp after a hard day of baboon-wrestling,” I remarked. On seeing their disgruntled faces, I added: “which is a fragrance that brings rapture to my grateful nose.”
Pheromones were not much discussed in those days, so few women knew they gave off chemical signals that could make a man friskier than a billy goat. My friend Smacker Ramrod, the circus vet, was always keen to sniff the secretions of the women he romanced:
“I take them out dancing and we boogie until the witching hour,” he explained. “If a woman shakes her bottom for long enough, her natural scent will overwhelm any perfume she’s wearing.”
I had no reason to doubt his word on this matter.
Maybe a knowledge of pheromones would be useful to prostitutes in Switzerland who are offering their services in sex boxes along the highway. It seems their venture has had a “modest start”, which is business-speak for “Where are the ruddy customers?” Punters might be shunning them for reasons other than a lack of olfactory stimulation, of course. The boxes look very short of cover to me, and a prankster could easily stick his face into one at a critical moment, shouting an exhortation such as “Bravo Sir! Give it to her amidships!” I suspect this would dampen the biological urges of the most incorrigible whoremonger.
A man who ought to know something about biological urges is my friend Dicky Dawkins, the evolutionary theorist. I was delighted to discover that a new book of his has recently been published. This one is an autobiography of his early life, rather than the usual guff about selfish genes and the selection of the naturally fit. It is undoubtedly a literary masterpiece and I shall order a copy forthwith.
My only qualm is that the title of the book is “An Appetite for Wonder, The Makings of a Scientist”, which is ridiculously affected. People browsing in a bookshop might conclude, incorrectly, that the author is a pompous old fart. I blame the publisher. They should have insisted that the book was called “Young Dicky”, which I’m sure you’ll agree is a far catchier title than the one selected. This lack of marketing nous might reduce sales by half a million, which is not what Dicky needs with retirement looming. I think I’ll send him an email advising him to consult me before publishing a work intended for the mass market.
Labels: body odour, Dicky Dawkins, pheromones, prostitutes, sex boxes
Monday, November 19, 2012
China syndrome
I can’t understand why a Chinese airline has introduced a smelly armpit test for its pilots. Hainan Airlines will not allow anyone with a malodorous underarm to fly its jets. Why in the name of Confucius did they not introduce this test for the flight attendants, who unlike the pilots actually mingle with the passengers? All too often, my blameless olfactory organ has been offended by human body odours while travelling in a commercial jet. These unwelcome aromas were usually emitted by the cabin crew, extending their arms to open overhead lockers or leaning across my seat for no good reason.
It is possible, of course, that Chinese pilots make a habit of hobnobbing with the passengers. I remember being accosted by one such character on a flight from Hong Kong to Taipei – he burst out of the cockpit when the plane had reached cruising altitude:
“Ho! GB!” he exclaimed. “Tell me about your life in jungle. You gorillas always fucking eh? Haha!”
“Shouldn’t you be flying the plane?” I asked.
“No worry about that!” he replied jovially. “Autopilot fly plane and co-pilot keep eye on everything. Unless he playing with his dick! Haha!”
“That’s all well and good, but I’d rather you were in the cockpit doing your job,” I said. “After we land, I’ll be more than happy to grant you an interview.”
So he returned to his post, muttering something in Cantonese which I could not translate.
I shouldn’t give you the impression that I view the Chinese as ninnies, because they’re coming up with some brilliant innovations that ought to be copied in the West. One such idea is the angry room, invented by restaurant owner Zhou Jun, which is a place where staff can abuse pictures of their boss. It is hoped this will defuse their pent-up frustrations and diminish the urge to empty a pot of hot soup over Mr Zhou’s head. Note the pragmatic attitude of Chinese bosses, who don’t mind being hated as long as their workers are happy and productive.
The nearest thing to the anger room in the West is the Justin Bieber sex doll, an amazingly lifelike replica produced specifically for men who have “issues” with Justin. It’s a sad fact that Bieber’s macho persona makes a lot of guys feel puny and worthless, disabling their capacity to engage in manly pastimes. Some of them react to their low self-esteem by wearing ladies’ underwear. Others experiment with butt plugs. It is thought that acquiring an effigy of their bête noire (and sodomising it at leisure) will enable them to rediscover their sense of self-worth. This will allow them to return to their ranches and lumber yards to explore their virility with renewed vigour.
Speaking as a gorilla who would pose no threat to Justin if we met in a dark alley, I welcome this attempt to deflect the animosity he inspires. Any invention that prevents Bieber from getting buggered is worth its weight in gold.
Labels: air travel, body odour, China, Justin Bieber, sex dolls
Monday, May 03, 2010
The scent of a human
I’m thinking of sending a condolence note to a shop worker in America who got punched in the face for telling a customer he smelt awful. I know from experience how sensitive humans can be about the odours they exude. Back in my circus days, I happened to catch a whiff of the female acrobats after a particularly strenuous practice session.
“Good heavens, ladies!” I exclaimed. “I could track you at 50 yards like a hyena! It’s a good thing no male baboons are in the vicinity!”
I meant no offence by these remarks, but the girls took umbrage, assailing me with bitter rebukes and rude gestures. I later made up with them by professing admiration for their wholesome emanations.
“Any red-blooded man who sniffed your womanly scents would go crazy with lust,” I said tactfully.
They pooh-poohed my flattery, but were pleased to hear it nonetheless.
I am fortunate that my own smell is extremely congenial to the human nose. We of the House of Bananas are blessed with a rich, woody bouquet, redolent of forests of teak and mahogany after a tropical downpour. This was the first thing Lady Chuffington noticed on meeting me after a circus performance.
“I say, Bananas, that’s a damned intoxicating aftershave you’re wearing,” she remarked. “What is it?”
“Milady, you are mistaken,” I replied. “I do not apply perfumes to any part of my body, which as you can see is unshaven from head to toe. The fragrance you are inhaling is pure essence of gorilla.”
“How extraordinary!” she exclaimed. “I’m tempted to ask you to lie on the couches in my home to freshen them up. Your belly would make an excellent cushion if we could get it in the right position.”
“You are too generous, milady,” I replied. “Much as I would enjoy assuming any position you suggested, my busy schedule would not permit such luxurious indolence.”
Now the crux of the human body odour problem is perspiration. Homo sapiens is by far the sweatiest of the primates, its abundant pores being used to discharge a variety of malodorous toxins. It follows that women who habitually anoint themselves with antiperspirants and deodorants are bottling up noxious substances that their body needs to expel. This might cause them to behave like the venomous tarantula, biting and stinging at the slightest provocation.
My advice to women who use such toiletries is to have a weekly sauna to sweat out the poisons that would otherwise aggravate their distemper. That’s what the women of Sweden do, and they are famously easy-going and laconic. A side-effect of their sauna habit is that an unusually high proportion of them have bisexual fantasies, presumably about the women they see naked in the steam cabin. Is that a bad thing, though? I’d wager any husband striving to pleasure his wife would rather she were thinking of a woman than another man.
Actually I’m not so sure about this, I throw it open for debate.
Labels: bisexual fantasy, body odour, essence of gorilla, sauna
