A tribute to a very naughty gorilla. Plus death and euthanasia.
It’s been a funny week though we don’t seem to have spent much time laughing. Yesterday was good though. ‘The wife’ and I had a little lie in and then met up with Abigail Frottagepot, his ‘the wife’ and roughly two thirds of their ‘the kids’. I guess we had the option of heading towards their nearest overpriced, middle class, aspirational commuter town with some historic features but instead they came to our overpriced, middle class, aspirational commuter town with some historic features. Once we had fought past the legions of Crew gillet wearing, massive pram pushing tossers, we ate at Wagamamas. Which was what it was. Abigail was desperately trying to hide his upper/middle class background by wearing a Hackett rugby shirt with an Aston Martin sponsorship logo. That’s why I love him. Meanwhile our respective ‘the wives’ were both charming and pleasant. It’s almost like they had done a course on how to be an excellent ‘the wife’. Oh how we laughed as ‘the kids’ commandeered the iPhones and played their little hearts out, without feeling the need to interrupt. If that’s bad parenting then it’s good enough for me. They are lovely, by the way. They occupy 3 places in the tiny league of children I can bear the company of. Anyway, we had a lot to discuss. Let’s see.
- Harambe’s last stand. You may not know Harambe by name but he’s the huge fuck-off gorilla that made the mistake of getting over familiar with a 3 year old at Cincinatti Zoo and was duly rewarded by having his prominent backside blown seven ways to shit. I know, I know, the kid was in danger and vulnerable etc, but let’s remember that Harambe didn’t ask to be at the zoo, whereas Billy Joe Jim Bob the Third and his feckless mom paid good money for the experience. The mom isn’t being charged with being a cock-eyed fucknut but she should be. Or better yet she should be dropped into the rabid wolf enclosure with a sign in wolf talk saying ‘never stop eating me’. Don’t worry Abigail, that time you lost one of yours at London Zoo was totally different. This discussion led to us talking about the guy who tried to commit suicide by jumping into the lion pit at Santiago Zoo. What a fucking idiot. Anyway, poor Harambe. If he’d been Rolf Harris he would have just got a stern prison sentence.
- Brexit. Oh sweet merciful lord, I’ll do anything you ask, convert from atheism or watch Coronation Street, if you’ll please just put Brexit to death. I’m sick of hearing about it. I will vote and I also know how, but if there was the option I’d rather vote that Boris and Gove and Farage and Cameron and George and Jeremy all be covered in fresh salmon paste and made to wrestle 6 ravenous grizzly bears. The last one to still have testicles wins. Let’s hope it’s a bear because they’re far less likely to lie through their teeth or tell us that if we leave the EU there’s a 47% greater chance that our kettle will explode next Thursday. Or that if we stay in the EU we’ll have better access to the blossoming Latvian prostitute industry. All bollocks. So was the smug looking ‘LEAVE’ (you? gladly, cheerio) t-shirt wearing old gimpster we walked past. Did he make the slightest difference yesterday? Did he fanny.
- From out of no-where came the death list. Never done it myself but this is where you and some chums make bets on which famous people will die in the next 12 months. Brucie came up pretty fast and was quickly followed by Prince Philip. I like the Prince but I don’t like it when they say he can’t attend some event and is resting as a ‘precaution’. One day they’ll have to come clean or perhaps they’ll say he was injected with double adrenaline, slapped round the face 14 times and given emergency defibrillator treatment as a ‘precaution’. He is very old.
- Euthanasia was our next topic and as ever was the source of anger and mirth. In roughly equal measure. I think we all agreed we didn’t want to leave this earth as a dribble and the lingering smell of urine. Let us finish it before the rot sets in. The problem of euthanasia is of course how to control it. Beyond that only a total cretin would suggest that it’s not the right thing to do in the right circumstances. We thought there could be a way we could help. The memory is a little hazy but it went a bit like this. Some kind of robot could be brought into your room to mop your fevered brow and empty your bedpan using gloves on sticks. Then, when the time was right, it could deliver the fatal dose or pop a bullet in you or send in some lions (oh no, that’s suicide!) and then set light to you. Abigail’s ‘the wife’ then suggested the back wall could open up and your burning corpse would be fed at a medium pace into a central furnace, as Gary Barlow sings a medley of forlorn hits. Your ashes could then be posted to your relatives within 7-10 working days. Alternatively, and for a small charge, you could have the ashes scattered for you from a bridge over the M4, perhaps just before Swindon. There, problem (not remotely) solved. But at least we tried. Politicians really should start coming up with these ideas more often.
- I’m afraid death seemed to linger in the air as we slurped the last of our noodles and discussed a cup of coffee that never materialised. News had dropped of Muhammed Ali’s death, hardly a surprise but certainly a sad moment. What makes me upset is the way the news just fuck it all up and order in a great bit heaving sack of worthless tributes to show that they, the news, really care. I had no problem with Muhammed Ali; great bloke. He was a funny guy, a social firebrand and in a fight situation could be described as ‘handy’. Watching him in his later years being followed by huge groups of hangers on was also sad but what I really, really, really don’t need to know is what David Cameron thought about him. Other boxers and close friends and relatives can pay tributes but just the odd one. Before you know it you could be hearing tweeted tributes from all kinds of irrelevant people: Toya Wilcox, Steve McFadden, Wolf from Gladiators, Jet from Gladiators, Stuart Hall, Gary Busey, Lorraine Pascale, that horrific twat from the MoneySupermarket advert. And when they’re all done I really, times 10, definitely don’t give a fuck what Brenda from Carlisle or Adam from Dunstable think. Why would anyone? It’s all just time and space filling rubbish. If you want to pay tribute to the greatest boxer the world has ever known then show some of his best stuff, shut up and let people pay their own silent tributes and think their own silent thoughts. Then discuss them in Wagamamas.
There was one other thing on my list. It just says ‘Hebron couple’. Any ideas ‘the wife’/Mr and Mrs Frottagepot? There you are, all done and I feel better for getting that off my chest. Farewell Harambe, I didn’t know you personally but I imagine you flicked shit and picked nits with the best of them. This is a tribute to you. I was rooting for you all along.
G B Hewitt. 5.6.2016