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
