(Esc)ape(ology)

Of all the great apes, orangutans always look like they are having the most fun. With the possible exception of the dwarf breed that spends its days balancing precariously on David Caruso's head, as it is inevitable that they absorb some of his relentless grump. The cheerful demeanor is primarily to do with their habit of wandering around waving their arms about like an amused child with learning difficulties whilst simultaneously looking like they want to kiss you. The song and dance routines are also contributory. Now we've all seen 'Rain Man', so it comes as no surprise that despite appearing delightfully retarded, they are also pretty clever. Take this chap, who short circuited his electric fence with a stick then hopped over it and started piling objects against the next one in order to make his final escape. Alas that's when the orange one's main character flaw kicked in. Laziness. He just couldn't be arsed any more. So back he went, waving his arms around like he'd won the world-cup.

Imagine if Steve McQueen had been that lazy. "Nah it's alright fellas I'm just going to go back to my cell, bounce my ball a bit and wait for dinner. You go ahead. Good luck Gordon"
"Thank you...oh fuck".

They're not all like Karta though, here is a particularly enthusiastic fellow called Ken who would escape from his enclosure purely to have a wander around the park looking at the other exhibits. King of the minglers you might say. He became so popular that he had the ultimate accolade bestowed upon him: his own range of bumper stickers. Amazing how much more adorable you seem to other species if you can stop yourself from ripping their faces off. I bet Travis the chimp is kicking himself.

St Bono the Tedious

Poetry, like any artform, is open to interpretation. One man's meat is another man's poison. Or maybe that should be one man's Ratt. Either way, they will probably disagree over some works of art. The reason I bring this up is because on May 13, Radio 4 will be broadcasting a poem about Elvis Presley, written by Bono in 1995. In true 'is it art?' debate fashion, some people will like it and some people will not. Specifically: the world will hate it, seeing it for the maddening bullet-point biography that it is, whilst Bono will gurn his best chin-touching-forehead smile and continue lighting his farts with hundred dollar bills, congratulating himself on having polluted the airwaves with lines such as 'elvis the pelvis, swung from africa to europe, which is the idea of america.'

How has this happened? Surely not even the most ardent U2 fan would read this and think "that'd make bloody good radio". You could get the same level of entertainment by being tied to a chair with razor wire and having radioactive leeches deposited onto your naked eyeballs. Or by watching 'Katie and Peter: Stateside', which is a lot less messy and you get the added bonus of watching her dead, botox-paralysed face trying to express discontent at Peter Andre (who looks the same now as he did in the early-nineties, ie: clumsily carved from wax by a blind man with no hands). You might also get to see her son, Harvey, who she keeps 'under wraps' due his various disabilities.

Here is a picture of her blending in, in order to keep him 'under wraps':




Although granted it does look like she's either

a) trying to subtly steal someone else's baby,
or
b) attending a party where all the dips are secreted in the hair of disabled children.

I can't decide which, so I will opt for mystery option c, which is the slightly more realistic 'about to unnecessarily nag an offscreen Peter'.

Someone is Gay

It's taken a long time, but finally the star of 'Top Gun' has come out as being one of them gays that you've heard so much about, and it must be true for I read it here (careful now the article contains nudity, so by looking at it you risk corrupting your delicate mind with the knowledge that people have nice wobbly bits under their clothing). Isn't that exciting. No really, isn't that EXCITING! Someone's gay! Hooray for news!

They best part about this story is that now Top Gun is now even gayer than it was before. Which is an awful lot. Top Gun is so gay I was surprised not to find deleted scenes of bathroom towel fights in the dvd's special features, only removed because Tom Cruise's alien chums threatened to change the temple locks. Not that this made it any less homo-erotic, the director (Tony Scott, fact fans) can't let five minutes pass without having his stars give each other a nice sweaty cuddle, and I would be surprised if the phrase "you can be my wing-man any time" hasn't been etched above at least one glory-hole in the past 23 years.

Speaking of which, exactly who came up with the idea for glory-holes? Do they drill the hole themselves or is it already there, perfectly penis-sized. Was someone sat on the toilet one day and heard a voice from the neighbouring cubicle saying:
"Oi, mate, stick your willy through here"
"Why?"
"So it can go in my bottom"
"Cool!" [unzips trousers]
It's a very bold move to stick your winkie through a hole on the offchance that the person on the other side will want to do something with it. Assuming you get a good fit it must look like a fat pink slug embarking on a career as a gymnast. Why was there ever debate over gays in the military? I would gladly entrust the security of our country's borders to someone that is brave enough to entrust the safety of the stiff one-eye to a total stranger that may or may not cut it off with a sharpened toilet roll. Picture the interview:
"So, Mr Humphries, we've looked at the results of your entrance tests and I have to say, we're very concerned"
"Why?"
"You have no experience, you have no strength, you have no speed, you have no stamina, and worst of all...you're one of the gays"
"Is that all?"
"I could go on but frankly don't really see the benefit. Can you honestly tell me that you have a single quality the British military would benefit from?"
"I merrily post my penis through walls, unconcerned of the possibility that I may be left with nothing but a tattered flap of blood-soaked skin"
"Blimey. You're in".

Fear This

Jane Moore is upset. Being a columnist for The Sun newspaper, it takes a lot to make her upset. Still reeling from the death of Jade Goody (whom she almost certainly never called a pig in previous columns), she has now had suffered the indignity of a security guard not laughing at the suggestion that she may be compelled to stab an MP in the face with a metal nail-file. Although she’ll try not to, and her word is her bond. Not only that, but she’s “a white woman”, and never has a white woman ever even considered posing a risk to anyone. Just ask the parents of the children Myra Hindley buried in the moors, or anyone that had tea with Rose West and later found themselves supporting her patio.

Clearly reeling from Jade’s death, she is still struggling to cope as she forgets herself for a moment, providing a quick recap and risking electrocution as her tears wash over her laptop, before pointing out that Jade’s mother is also having a terrible time. Having lost her daughter*, she is dealing with it in the only way she knows how: by telling staff at Gatwick airport that she has a gun in her bag. There’s nothing wrong with that of course, it’s completely acceptable to sane persons such as ourselves. Not for the airport staff though, oh deary me no. Those po-faced “Stasi-style drones” searched her bag. The outrage! The gall! Why are they so de-sensitised to something as hilarious as deranged hags with firearms, swinging one lifeless limb at your chest whilst the other presses twelve rounds of white-hot death to your temple? You couldn’t make it up. It’s political correctness gone mad. Thank god we have The Sun to keep things in perspective.

So heed their advice. Why can’t we all just get along? Nothing really matters does it, not terrorism, not stabbings and most definitely not racism. Let’s just ‘ave a laff. Vote for your Page 3 Idol. Go to France for a pound. Make yourself some toast while you’re having a bath. Nothing really matters. Most importantly, whatever you do, make sure you ignore the “left wing loones” [sic].



*I am aware that this remains a tragedy.

Steering Clear of Pig Puns

These aren't good times to get out of bed. Even walking home has become an extreme sport since you might get caught up in some enthusiastic opinion-sharing, in which case you have to run away for fear of being forcibly persuaded to the ground and dying of internal bleeding. Not that you will necessarily, you might die of a simple heart attack. Possibly brought on by the surprise of not having internal bleeding. A fellow could be forgiven for wanting to go on holiday.

Holidaying is a risky business though, mostly because you'll risk (more) death from swine flu. What is swine flu? I found this helpfull diagram on the BBC website which explains it for those who think 'swine' is simply someone that comes from Swindon:

I can feel smug vegetarian faces bearing down on me already, suggesting that if I had spent less time eating pigs/cows/chickens then they wouldn't insist on retreating to their barns with chemistry sets to create new and terrifying ways of ruining our summer with germ warfare. The cows' attack was the worst of course, infected as they were like bovine suicide bombers. However they weren't counting on the farmers' secret weapon: disinfectant-soaked straw. "Drat" they mooed as they were herded into fields of burning cattle, from which the press gave us images that resembled a holocaust illustrated by Gary Larson. Now the pigs have unleashed swine flu upon Mexico (soon the world) and we don't know what we're going to do about it so we'll all just have to stay home and eat grass that still smells faintly of sunday roast.

Of course, it's really not all that bleak. If it was, then the following wouldn't be true:

Blue are reuniting for a summer concert.

I know. Brilliant. Is it Christmas? It must be because I can't remember the last time I felt this lucky. More grass?

A Real Bronx Cheer

I hear that Whoopi Goldberg has officially left the acting profession, citing reasons of "not having any fun". Having witnessed the horrors of 'Sister Act 2: Back in the Habit', I can quite understand.

Have a Bon Day

It is often said that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Not it would seem if you're a billionaire rock star with a global herd of fans, all blissfully ignorant to the fact that you've been sleepwalking through your last five albums, and who even merrily trotted to the shops when you decided your own songs were so great that you would record them all over again on an album of self-congratulatory covers ['Bon Jovi Threaten Legal Action Against Tribute Band'].


The reason I bring this up is the depressingly low esteem that they must hold their fans. After all, they are apparently so off-the-ball that they will look at a group of ladies standing beneath a different bandname and think they are in fact the tired bunch of denim-clad New Jersey escapees that they have worshipped since Tommy and Gina first held on to what-they-got, simply because they are singing the same songs.
With different voices.
And different faces.
And with uteruses.
I suppose they think Hercule Poirot would have had difficulty picking out members of Depeche Mode from The Saturdays, and giving the slightest consideration to separating the members of Aerosmith and Run DMC from Girls Aloud and Sugababes would be enough for him to topple from his fictional perch. Perhaps this is why Kylie Minogue has never covered Ace of Spades.