Wednesday, May 17, 2017
Catfight?
Is it true that Taylor Swift and Katy Perry are embroiled in a feud? That’s what on-line gossips like Perez Hilton are saying, but the evidence looks flimsy to me. Much has been made of the fact that Taylor released an album called Bad Blood, but what does that prove? ‘Bad blood’ exists between a wide range of antagonists in many complex and varied situations. You can’t infer the existence of a feud between two pop singers because one of them uses it as the title of a songbook.
It reminds me of when Paul McCartney put a picture of one beetle mounting another on the cover of a record he produced shortly after the Beatles spilt up. All the pundits assumed he was referring to what the Fab Four were doing to each other, but maybe he just thought insect sex was funny. I confess that the sight of bugs getting laid always cracks me up – it’s the deadpan expressions on their faces that does it.
In an attempt to gain further insights into the Swift/Perry imbroglio, I asked the manager of the safari camp what he made of the rumours.
“I couldn’t give two hoots,” he said. “Those vixens quarrelling isn’t going to change the price of jelly beans. I’m not taking an interest in the matter unless they agree to settle their differences woman-to-woman in a naked mud-wrestling fight.”
This lack of useful input from the manager prompted me to do my own research. It seems that Katy has a habit of getting pally with Taylor’s ex-boyfriends. First it happened with a fellow called John Mayer, who became the subject of a heartbreak ballad written by Taylor. Then it happened with a disc jockey and impresario called Calvin Harris, who is now one of Katy’s artistic collaborators. You could say it was a coincidence, but we gorillas don’t believe in coincidences. Miss Perry clearly has some weird fixation about bedding Taylor’s cast-offs.
I decided to ask my old circus buddy, Smacker Ramrod, whether he had ever encountered this syndrome in his long and distinguished career as a playboy and poodlefaker.
“Indeed I have!” he exclaimed. “It’s a competitive thing. The second woman wants you to tell her she’s better in bed than the first woman. I refused to comment until it became clear that she needed to hear it to get turned on. I didn’t want to say it, but a man has to be pragmatic when he trying to get a woman aroused.”
If Smacker’s evidence is correct – and I have a high degree of confidence in his reliability as an expert witness in the sexual habits of humanity – it reflects very poorly on Miss Perry. In spite of all the praise and admiration lavished on her and her impressive boobs, she remains a deeply insecure woman. One hopes she is undergoing therapy to deal with her issues. If that doesn’t work, she should spend a few months in a nunnery to get it out of her system.
Labels: catfight, insect sex, Katy Perry, poodlefaker, Taylor Swift
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Blessed are the peacemakers
Earlier this year, I rebuked a chimpanzee for wearing a Manchester United football shirt.
“You silly chimp!” I exclaimed. “Have you ever been to Manchester? The place is cold and grey and full of sour-faced humans.”
“But I’ve seen them play on the satellite sports channel!” he protested. “Their best player is the spitting image of our band’s alpha male.”
“Looks aren’t everything,” I replied. “I assure you he’d be useless in a fight with marauding baboons.”
I was reminded of this exchange on hearing news of a 19-year-old Mancunian who is patrolling the mean streets of his city in a costume that might have been designed for Spiderman’s bumbling sidekick. His aim is to dissuade rowdy men from brawling and encourage them to settle their differences amicably.
“All I want to do is try and get people to like each other," he explained to a journalist.
Remarkably, none of the ruffians he has attempted to mollify has responded to his message of goodwill by using his masked head as a football. Perhaps that’s because he judiciously calls the police if he senses his intervention will provoke antagonism rather than reconciliation. Even Batman and Robin used to bring in the fuzz to sort things out in the final stages.
Before you get the wrong idea, let me emphasize that I have no scorn for this idealistic young simpleton. When I was a young gorilla, living among humans, I also tried to pacify men engaged in fisticuffs. I then discovered a remarkable paradox – the only effective method of putting an end to their violence was to threaten (and often deliver) more brutal violence. This led me to revise my tactics. When I see men fighting nowadays, I pull up a chair, order a tub of popcorn and watch the action like a film buff at the cinema. If this alone doesn’t bring about a truce, shouting “I’ll fight the winner” usually has a calming effect.
A very different approach is required when I encounter an affray between women. Obviously I can’t just watch them, which would be the behaviour of a roguish voyeur. Fortunately, my years of experience with female circus acrobats taught me what to do in these situations. Rather than intervening to settle the dispute, one must impose oneself as the referee.
The main rules to enforce in a catfight are as follows – no scratching, hair-pulling or pinching of the bosom flesh. Blows must be delivered cleanly to the fleshy parts of the body and biting is only acceptable if the face is being pummelled. Wrestling and slapping of the posterior are encouraged as forms of aggression less likely to cause injury or disfigurement. Coarse swearing or mean remarks are strongly censured.
A danger of refereeing such bouts, of course, is getting caught up in the melee yourself. Enraged women don’t like being chided by a gorilla and are apt to question his neutrality. My immediate response to such an impropriety is to hoist the combatants off the ground, holding one under each arm. I have always found that women are much calmer when their feet are airborne.
Labels: brawling, catfight, Manchester, peacemaking
