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 do. You can’t expect a buxom diva to take it lying down.

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// posted by Gorilla Bananas @ 00:00 23 comments

Friday, March 04, 2011

The Great Condom Robbery


The Japanese are furious about the theft of a shipment of 700,000 condoms from Malaysia. Apparently, they were an extra thin variety, designed for heightened sensitivity in the oriental todger. I don’t blame them for being upset. You can’t deprive Japanese men of their battle helmets without causing them to howl savagely and unsheathe their ceremonial swords. The perpetrators, if caught, should be publicly sat on by sumo wrestlers until their flesh resembles sushi. You’ve got to make an example of such rogues to deter future outrages. 

I wonder what the thieves intend to do with the stolen merchandise. 700,000 seems too many for private use, even if the gang were all Brazilian. But attempting to sell them on the black market would play into the hands of undercover policemen, who spend entire careers waiting for such opportunities. They must have devised a clever use for them that no one has thought of before. Never underestimate the ingenuity of condom bandits. 

The silliest alternative use for condoms was suggested to me by a tourist from Birmingham, a city in England renowned for inhabitants who talk mildly amusing twaddle. He said they’d be a vital accessory in a naturist resort. 

“Let’s say I’m in a nudist colony,” he explained. “It’s only a matter of time before I see an attractive woman who gives me a stiffy, which would be pretty embarrassing when I‘m naked. Putting a rubber on it would protect me from staring eyes.” 

“It’s not exactly an effective disguise, though, is it?” I replied. “Everyone would know what was inside.” 

“That’s beside the point,” he insisted. “When a woman does aerobics you can see the shape of her body inside the leotard, but it’s not the same as watching her doing it with her tits hanging out.” 

“You have a very sharp mind,” I said, ignoring the obvious flaw in his argument. “I hope you’re putting it to good use in Birmingham.” 

I listened politely as he told me about his job as an electronic organ salesman. 

If you don’t want to use them as balloons or face masks, the next best thing to do with surplus condoms is recycle them. My friend Smacker Ramrod, the circus vet, said the rubber in them should be used to make the gloves women wear when washing dishes. (Men wash dishes too, but few of them are gay enough to wear gloves while doing it.) Rather than hiding their origin, he said they should be marketed as ‘made from recycled condoms’. 

“Do you really think that would be an attractive selling point?” I asked. 

“For most women, no,” replied Smacker. “But there’d definitely be a niche market among the sexually-liberated ball-breaker demographic. They’d buy the gloves just to differentiate themselves from prissy women who think it’s dirty to touch anything that’s been in contact with a man’s dick.” 

It’s a pity his idea wouldn’t work for the stolen Japanese condoms, which have never been in contact with a man’s dick. 


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// posted by Gorilla Bananas @ 00:00 26 comments

Monday, April 09, 2007

Aladdin and the Genie

The story of Aladdin is a classic – one of those inspiring tales that revolves around its leading character. I refer, of course, to the Genie of the Lamp. An invincible demigod with the booming voice of Brian Blessed, the Genie is built like a gorilla and capable of almost any feat. Yet he is devoted – utterly devoted – to the service of whichever buck-toothed yokel happens to polish his door knocker while he’s taking a nap. I suspect he was the role model for that stick-in-the-arse butler played by Tony Hopkins in Remains of the Day.

As for Aladdin, he has all the makings of a shrewd little tyke until he sees the Princess Badroulbadour and falls for her like a skittle in a bowling alley. These pubescent princesses are always irresistible to the fairytale hero, but any man of the world knows that getting hitched to a teenage girl is a dicey business. Hopefully, in the fullness of time, she will ripen into a lissom yet curvaceous beauty. But what if she eats like a hog and swells into something resembling a sumo wrestler? Frankly, the whole thing is a game of Russian roulette.

The evolution of her personality bears thinking about as well. A man may find the sweet giggly maiden who won his heart mutate into a frightful old battleaxe who throws saucepans at his head. According to Dr Whipsnade, you should never consider proposing to a woman until she’s at least 23, so you have an idea of how things are developing. The querulous tone of her voice, the pudginess of her face and neck, the rate at which her bottom is expanding – these are the metrics that must be closely monitored.

Aladdin marries the princess, nevertheless, wowing her dad with basins of jewels, and the newlyweds move into a stupendous Genie-built palace. The golden boy is promoted to commander of the king’s armies, while his wife stays at home and bakes cookies. The princess maintains her figure and everything seems to be going well. Then along comes the tricky old wizard, offering new lamps for old, and mayhem ensues with much wailing and gnashing of teeth. When people blame the princess for this debacle, I always thump my chest in annoyance. One thing I can’t abide is unfair criticism of the housewife. How was she to know that the lamp was a weapon of mass destruction in the wrong hands? More to the point, why did that bonehead Aladdin leave it lying around the palace instead of locking it up in his safe?

In Aladdin’s position, I would have simply forbidden the Genie from ever returning to his brass bolthole. “Genie,” I would have said, “it’s time you moved out of the studio apartment and into family accommodation. You’ve been a bachelor for too many centuries. Give Barbara Eden a call, take her to the pictures and pop the question. Build yourself a little cottage in the palace grounds and settle down to raise a brood of little genies. Patrol the estate and keep the gophers in their holes. And if you happen to see a tricky old wizard lurking about suspiciously, kick him in the nuts and send him on his way.”

Although the Genie changes his loyalties far too easily, he does teach us that there’s no shame in being a domestic. Gorilla Bananas is not too proud to serve drinks in the bar of the safari camp. I don’t need the money, but I do it anyway for the dignity of honest toil. All that matters is that you work for people of good character who won’t involve you in immoral or unnatural acts. Don’t whore yourself to any seedy old reprobate just because he rubs your lamp.

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// posted by Gorilla Bananas @ 08:18 45 comments

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