Wednesday, April 22, 2015
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.
Wednesday, April 15, 2015
The exciting news from America is that Taylor Swift is being pursued by two men. They aren’t literally chasing her, of course. The human male is not a horse, even though some can snort and whinny with the best of them. The rivals for Taylor’s fair hand are a sportsman called Sean St Leger and a record producer called Calvin Harris. The sportsman looks as if his head was carved from a block of wood, which may be part of his appeal. There is much to be said for a mate who can crack walnuts with his chin.
Will Taylor’s gallants fight for her favour in the time-honoured way? I’d like to see them square up like a pair of feuding silverbacks, fisting each other’s concavities, (but not biting each other’s testicles, which is what chimpanzees would do). Sadly, I suspect they will settle their differences in the modern metrosexual way by allowing Taylor to choose between them. It won’t be an easy decision. Those in the know say she hasn’t slept with either man, so she may as well toss a coin.
But maybe there’s another way. If Taylor is truly as chaste as they say, she could ask each contestant to demonstrate his skills by making love to a sex doll. She wouldn’t watch them herself, of course. The blush that would bring to her maidenly cheeks would be worse than sunburn. A panel of judges would evaluate their performance from behind a one-way mirror, giving points for agility, inventiveness and staying power. The doll herself would have no vote, but would receive a thorough douching after her ordeal. The judges I would appoint are Lady Gaga, Ellen Degeneres and Barry Manilow. It’s what we call a balanced hen coup in the jungle.
To those of you who think that Barry Manilow is a worthless old has-been, I have some stunning news to announce. The great man has recently married his long-time manager and partner, a gentleman by the name of Garry Kief. What, you never knew that Barry was gay? You should have asked. Why should he volunteer information if you don’t take an interest in his life? Fittingly enough, his “best man” was the actress Suzanne Somers, a close lady friend. It all goes to show that the old dog has plenty of waggle-power in his tail.
A more radical solution to Taylor’s dilemma would be to marry both her suitors. Before you dismiss the idea as flagitious and impractical, cast your mind back to a classic film called Paint Your Wagon. In that epic musical western, a pioneer lady was unable to choose between a pair of prospectors played by Clint Eastwood and Lee Marvin, so she married both of them. They soon came to an amicable arrangement where the husbands would visit their wife on alternate days or something like that. No different, in principle, from two buddies sharing a mountain bike. This was precisely the kind of pragmatic adaptability that enabled homo sapiens to thrive in the Badlands.
Wednesday, April 08, 2015
Elizabeth Hurley will be 50 this summer. If you ask me, she doesn’t look a day over 46. Those expecting a glorious jamboree to celebrate this historic event will be disappointed. Miss Hurley has revealed her plans for the occasion to a gossip magazine:
“I go to bed at 8.30 each night so it'll probably be something small and private with my family and maybe I'll do something wild and wonderful later.”
Could all those early nights be the secret of her regal beauty? I doubt it. The history books tell us that the Queen Nefertiti retired at sunset and aged like the Wicked Witch of the West. We jungle apes believe it’s the position you sleep in that affects your appearance. The healthiest posture for a gorilla is swinging in a hammock with the toes tucked below the chin. Upright humans, by contrast, should lie flat on their backs on an extra-hard mattress. The worst position for both humans and apes is reclining face down with one’s bum sticking in the air. That’s just asking for trouble.
I don’t know what position Elizabeth sleeps in, but I’d venture a guess that her pores get plenty of breathing space. Her skin is truly a marvel, but we shouldn’t let it distract us from her other qualities. I’m thinking particularly of her butt cheeks, which are due to appear on British TV. A preview of this pert rump can be found in an on-line newspaper, which also showcases her acting skills. Comment would be superfluous.
It probably hasn’t escaped your notice that Miss Hurley said she might do something “wild and wonderful” after her birthday. And if it has escaped your notice, I am now reminding you of the fact. I’m not going to waste your time and mine by trying to guess what she has in mind. There are too many wild and wonderful recreations in the solar system to guess what tickles Elizabeth’s fancy. I could probably whittle it down to 17 or 19 plausible alternatives, but what would be the point? We would still be groping in the dark.
Instead of indulging in such idle speculation, let me suggest an activity she could add to her shortlist. What I have in mind is a soirée with Tove Lo, the Swedish singer who recently described herself as a hobby lesbian. Miss Lo apparently has a boyfriend who does not object to her character-building pastime:
“We’re so good together and he’s very understanding,” she explained. “He gets it, so that makes it a lot easier.”
One wonders how he can live with the anguish. Be that as it may, a woman who likes to dabble in Sapphic diversions is most unlikely to refuse a date with Elizabeth Hurley. And if she’s not all talk, she should come up with something wild and wonderful to cap off the evening. There’s nothing wrong with playing at being a lesbian if you don’t have the gumption to take it up professionally.
Wednesday, April 01, 2015
The English actress Gemma Arterton says she will never live in the USA because Americans can’t tell when she’s joking:
“I always struggle when I'm over there because people don't get my sense of humour and they think I'm being serious all the time,” she explained.
I know how she feels. The African jungle is full of animals that don’t know when gorillas are joking. I’ll never forget the time I called a hippopotamus a fat cunt for blocking my path to the mangrove swamp. It opened it jaws so wide you could have put a microwave oven in its mouth. I had to climb up a tree and whistle through my teeth to convince it my remark was meant in jest.
The English sense of humour has been misunderstood by more truculent creatures than hippopotami, of course. Tom Jones has bittersweet memories of his first encounter with John Lennon, which occurred when the Beatles were rehearsing for a TV show. As Lennon walked on stage, he noticed Tom sitting in the studio and felt obliged to pay his respects:
“How are you doing, you Welsh poof!” he cried.
Tom responded to this affable greeting by calling John “a Scouse bastard” and inviting him to continue his enquiries at close quarters. It’s a good thing that Tom’s agent was on hand to explain that the Scouse bastard was trying to be funny rather than casting aspersions or questioning preferences.
The big advantage that Americans have over the English is that no one mistakes their earnest remarks for frivolous ones. A team of American scientists recently proposed that gold worth millions of dollars could be extracted from human dung. Had English scientists advanced the same theory, no one would have taken them seriously – the tabloid press would have mercilessly mocked them and their idea would have been roundly pooh-poohed. This explains why wacky inventions are far more common in the USA than Britain. The nose-hair trimmer and the nipple clamp are both of American origin.
Now, the American scientists are not suggesting that anyone can shit out a goldmine. The amount of gold a single human could produce in an entire lifetime of defecation would not be sufficient to fill a tooth cavity. However, sifting the sewers on an industrial scale could theoretically generate a bar of bullion every week, which would repay the US national debt in 100,000 years. That doesn’t come close to the gold rush of 1849, but it’s nothing to be sniffed at.
Perhaps Gemma Arterton has been hanging out with the wrong kind of American. I recently had a look at the amazingly silly tweets of Shia Lebeouf, and it’s difficult to imagine him taking anything seriously. His Wikipedia biography also reveals that he dated an English actress called Carey Mulligan for over a year, so perhaps he has a taste for haughty and sarcastic women. I don’t make a habit of playing the pander, but in this case it looks like a match made in heaven.
Wednesday, March 25, 2015
Gaga gets hitched
So Lady Gaga is getting married. I don’t know anything about her fiancé, but I predict the marriage will fail if he possesses an iota of machismo. The merest morsel of manly pride must be crushed like a pomegranate seed if he’s going to succeed as Gaga’s official bed-warmer. That’s the way it has to be when the queen bee elopes with a drone. He should get into the habit of thinking and acting like a lesbian in a man’s body. If he does that, he might yet make a good fist of it.
Gaga herself is as happy as a lark, fluttering around the globe with a gooey smile on her face, like a fairy princess whose frog has just turned into a prince. When Taylor Swift tweeted a few wistful words about Gaga’s enviable predicament, the bride-to-be reassured her that “your prince charming will come”. She must be suffering from the giddy vapours to write such drivel.
Now I don’t deny there are real-life examples of a successful marriage between a show-business queen and a beta male. Some time ago I discussed the nuptials of Kate Winslet, who had pledged her troth to an oafish-looking swain called Ned Rocknroll. If anything he was an omega male, yet Kate recently praised him as the perfect husband:
“I have a wonderful man in my life who is so incredibly supportive that makes it possible for me to have those experiences,” she said.
The “experiences” she refers to were related to her movie career rather than any kind of kerfuffle in the marital bed. Be that as it may, the couple had their first child on 7th December 2013, a son whom they named “Bear Blaze”. No boy should have a father whose name is sillier than his own.
Maybe the secret of their blissful union is that everyone knows their place. Ned is so far down the pecking order that he doesn’t bother trying to compete with Kate, meekly accepting his role as concubine and comic sidekick. One can imagine him happily strumming his electric guitar in the playroom while Kate is in the lounge, discussing her next film with the moguls of Hollywood. It could actually be a similar type of relationship to the one Paris Hilton had with her pet chimpanzee.
Let’s hope Miley Cyrus learns from Kate’s experience. Her romance with Patrick Swarzenegger is currently on the rocks because he was photographed canoodling with a floozy. The blighter is now begging Miley to forgive him, but the episode should have taught her that he’ll never be a suitable consort. His famous name has given him the delusion that he’s someone of note, rather than a superficial young rake of no distinction whatever. He’ll constantly be trying to compete for the limelight if Miley accepts his suit.
Will another Ned Rocknroll come along to give Miley the unconditional service and succour she requires? If not, she may have to marry her butler.
Wednesday, March 18, 2015
An on-line magazine has accused Madonna of “ruining everyone’s childhood” by publishing a cartoon of herself smooching Snow White. I’m just glad the seven dwarves didn’t get into the picture. Madonna should beat the rap on the legal technicality that it’s impossible to ruin the childhood of someone who is an adult. Once you have grown up, your childhood is either irretrievably spoiled or irreversibly coated in sugar candy. Short of getting into a time machine and chasing down your infant behind, Madonna is powerless to influence the matter.
She might have ruined the childhood of actual children, of course. But I suspect that most kids have other things on their mind, like inventing a text abbreviation for the word “bodacious”. Perhaps the Disney Corporation should interview Pinocchio to find out whether he’s developed a taste for crazy dyke action.
A potentially more serious charge about the cartoon kiss was made in the following tweet:
“Urgh Madonna! Snow White was supposed to be a 14 year old girl! Wrong just wrong!”
It’s a fair point, but wasn’t Snow White also kissed by a prince after the dwarves had exhibited her in a glass coffin? No one ever accused him of molesting an underage girl, even though she was in a coma and unable to resist his advances. Furthermore, the prince rubbed salt into the wound by marrying her shortly afterwards. There’s no point condemning Madonna for a peck on the lips if the girl is being ravished in a royal four-poster. In Snow White’s position I’d be grateful for the diversion.
It would interesting to carry out a survey of fathers with teenage daughters, asking them whether they’d prefer to have their child deflowered by Madonna or a moody young fellow with raging hormones. Madonna may like to present herself as daring and outrageous, but she’s pretty sentimental about girls of a similar age to her own daughter. My guess is that she’d execute the operation with extreme tenderness and sensitivity. Lesbian sex can be a beautiful thing if no one is trying to prove she can outdo a man.
You’ve got to be careful how you handle lesbians, though. The BBC has been accused of deliberately killing off female characters involved in same-sex relationships. I’ve not watched any of the TV shows in which this allegedly occurs, but I can understand the frustration of dedicated viewers. It’s like being told that oysters are off the menu just when you’ve acquired a taste for them.
The facts regarding the lesbian cull appear to be damning, but I’m not convinced that the BBC is responsible. Its culture has been lesbian-friendly ever since ladies’ tennis started to attract high ratings. It saddens me to say this, but I suspect that many young actresses do not want to be typecast as lesbian characters. They fear that once the public sees them in that way, they’ll never be offered a part where Zac Efron wraps his tail around their haunches. Isn’t that why Jodie Foster kept her Velcro in the closet until she was too old to play the love interest?
Wednesday, March 11, 2015
He lived long and prospered
Silly Trekkies have been bleating and tweeting at William Shatner for not going to Leonard Nimoy’s funeral. Beam them up to the Bozo Asteroid. Mr Shatner had a previous engagement at a charity fundraiser and sent his daughters to the funeral instead. It was a logical decision that Spock would have approved of. I’ve not seen the Shatner girls, but I bet they’re a pair of lookers who are in far better shape than their pop. Had I been Leonard Nimoy, I would have given them permission to snort my ashes until they got high.
Now if Captain Kirk had not attended Spock’s funeral, it would have been an unforgiveable snub. I lost count of the number of times that Spock saved Kirk’s bacon by keeping a cool head when the captain was chasing alien totty. Furthermore, a party animal like Kirk could only have outlived a celibate Vulcan if the latter had fallen in the line of duty. “To fear death is not logical,” Spock would have said, before embarking on a suicide mission to save the Enterprise from being flushed down a wormhole into cosmic oblivion. He would still have worn a space diaper, because no bladder in the universe is controlled by logic.
We should not forget that Spock was half human, of course. Spock’s mother was a schoolteacher from Wichita Falls with a thing for pointy-eared dudes. His Vulcan genes must have been dominant, though, because he could do all of their tricks, including the telepathic face-palm and the knockout neck-pinch. He also possessed superhuman strength, because I clearly remember him kicking Kirk’s ass when they got into a scuffle. I thought he was an even-money bet to successfully defend his honour against a female gorilla.
Did Spock ever show his human half? The only time I can remember him doing so was during his verbal jousts with Doctor McCoy. I don’t believe a full-blooded Vulcan would have allowed himself to be goaded by the doctor’s obvious trolling. Spock’s desire to have the last word and show McCoy up as an irrational Earthman had a distinctly human tinge to it. They never quite got to the stage of exchanging “Yo Mama” insults, but the spirit and attitude were very much the same.
One last fact we should remember about Spock, which reflects well on the late Mr Nimoy, was that quite a few ladies found him attractive. Not all them, by any means – it was the bookish type of woman who seemed most likely to find his angular eyebrows bewitching. Here is a comment I got on an ancient post from a blogging author and mother:
“As a child, I watched Star Trek and privately worshipped Spock. His detached air and beautifully articulated sentences captured my nerdy imagination; his pointy ears, intelligent face and unconventional good looks didn't hurt a bit either.”
Her confession amused me and made me wonder whether Spock’s aloof style could be turned into a seduction technique. It’s got to be better than moaning with your mouth full.