NATURE WATCHED

Did you see Nature Watch the other night? It was all about my fellow chimpanzees and how dashed clever we all are and how - breathless hush - we have even learned to use tools. Frankly, I thought it was all a bit patronising.

They showed you one of my "brothers" poking away at an old log so that he could feed off the creepy crawlies inside. Big deal! Give me a decent Black and Decker and leave me alone for a couple of hours and I could build Stromboli a DECENT bookcase. I'm sick of looking at the rickety thing he's got at the moment. It's hardly a fitting home for Dickens, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Zola, Mickey Spillane and all the other literary greats.

Later in the show the scientist chappies gave these monkeys at Edinburgh Zoo a film camera in a shockproof case to see what they did with it whilst, at the same time, making much of the fact that our D.N.A. is 98% the same as yours.

With that sort of percentage and a decent budget,they could probably have got a better end result than the people who make Emmerdale! All of this prompted me to wonder what percentage of MONKEY D.N.A the people who make "Live From Studio 5" and the "Wright Stuff" posess.

98% of human D.N.A. eh? I'll bet that you are all shifting nervously in your seats at the moment because if we had 98% of your rights you'd be in serious schtook. We'd be competing with you and yours for jobs and housing, wouldn't we? We'd be cheaper to employ than your average Lithuanian.

You'd see us everywhere. Delivering your post, serving up big Mac's in the local McDonalds or taking your fare on the good old No.37.

Just imagine us moving in as your next door neighbours. Just as you and your family and friends were enjoying your BBQ on the one hot day in Summer we would be up the tree in our own garden cackling, gesticulating and waving our backsides in your direction. Well, what do you expect when Carlsberg Special is so cheap?

Worst of all, imagine the look of horror on her loving Papa's face when some little Britnee or Chelsee brought her latest agile, if hirsute, beau home to meet the folks saying, "yeah, he ain't much to look at but he's "murder on the dance floor" an' he can spin round on his head faster than any of 'em others".

Relax, folks, relax. As you were. It'll never happen. A number of things stand in our way at the moment but for the sake of brevity I shall mention just three. We're short,we're hairy and we're bandy legged.

McDonald's? We couldn't reach the counter. We would have to sit on it.Health and Safety would never stand for it. Well, you wouldn't want your tray sharing space with a monkey's behind, now would you.

A postman's round? Leave it out! With these legs? It takes me all my time to cross the circus ring.

Mind you, from what I have seen of bus conductor's, we might be in with a shout there.

I can't help feeling that our day will come though. You have seen Planet of the Apes haven't you? HAR! HAR! HAR!

p.s. If anyone out there has a Black and Decker I'd still like to have a bash at that bookshelf!

NEW YEAR RESOLUTIONS

It has been brought to my attention that certain shortcomings in my behaviour need to be addressed and so, with Stromboli looking over my shoulder, (he means well) I commit my New Year's Resolutions to paper:

1. I shall not feel obliged to eat all the unsold toffee apples at the end of each day.

2. I shall not bite the hand that feeds (literally).


3. I shall not water the plants in other people's homes (metaphorically).


4. I shall not drop my spangly shorts and "moon" at members of the audience - even if they have been throwing things.


5. I shall not pick the spangles off my spangly shorts just because I am bored and have nothing else to do.

6. I will sit still while the nice make up lady combs my parting and puts on the Brylcreem.


7. I will not eat the Brylcreem.


8. I will finish things once I have started............


Wait a minute Stromboli has just gone out to see the Boss about something. Just time for me to nip out and fill up on toffee apples. It was a slack night to-night. There's probably tons left. Anyway, what sort of resolution is it if you can't break it? Eh? Eh?



Happy New Year to all my fans! A big sloppy kiss to you all!
P.S. did you know that because of my extra wide and elastic
lips I can kiss at least three people at a time - not that I
ever get the chance.

Cheery,

Marcel

CIRCUS MONKEY REVIEWS THE B.B.C.'S "BIG TOP"

I have been out of action with a bad case of groin strain these past few days (that bl**dy tricycle again) and have consequently been watching far too much T.V. for my own good.

I must say I did like "CASH IN THE ATTIC". You know, that's the cosy one where kind hearted folk sell off all their bits and pieces to buy a state of the art wheelchair for an aged relative. Of course you also get the selfish sods who blow the kids' inheritance on an overpriced round the world cruise but, then again, what did the kids ever do for them!

I've got to say, though, that I've seen enough naked middle aged ladies to last several monkey lifetimes (Gok Wan's "HOW TO LOOK GOOD NEKKID"). I have news for you, my supercilious oriental friend, I have always looked good NEKKID and I am well into my middle monkey years.

One morning while rubbing my tender groin (an image you could probably have quite happily got by without. Sorry!) I thought that the Simian race had actually taken over the airwaves but it was just Matthew Wright, a big eared, loud mouthed twerp with a rubber mug, just like those hooligan bonobos I was neighbours with back home, hosting one of those interminable daytime Talk Shows.

You know the kind. They always have a panel of z list celebs of no obvious great intelligence who, by virtue of the fact that a television camera is trained on them suddenly become expert on all the rich panoply of human affairs. Proper bl**din little Oracles of Delphi - and I don't think!

If you want a worse example of talk T.V. (oh you do? do you. You little masochists you!) may I direct you to LIVE FROM STUDIO 5, which goes out in the evening, or, as I call it, AN OIK AND TWO SLAPPERS. A little hard? A tad too cutting? Well, watch it and tell me I'm wrong!

I'll save the best till last - O.K. I'M BEING FACETIOUS. The B.B.C. are trying their hand at family entertainment again. Just out of interest, why do their Press Releases always make Family Entertainment sound like an Orwellian concept - straight from the Ministry of Laughter?

Speaking as a circus performer myself I have to say that it is not very realistic.
It's too colourful. Our establishment is a monument to the faded and the grubby. What's not faded is usually stained with some unidentifiable substance, or another, of which soup is the least problematic.

It's too glamorous. Amanda Holden's legs? Pleeeze. Apart from the divine Mariella, who is so far above us that she is not really part of this shambles, the owner of the best legs around here is Montezuma, the Circus Horse.

There was one note of reality, though, that clown who put the ferrets down his trousers. I could see Beppo, our chief mirth maker (O.K., I am being facetious again) doing that. The only difference being that he would not be doing it for the benefit of his act but for idle curiousity.

Actually, when you think of it, THAT'S funny!

SOMETHING ABOUT PETTIGREW (PART TWO)

You may remember that we left our hero, and future owner of this circus, Algernon R. Pettigrew, making his way into the fair city of Edinburgh after being left to his own devices by the Raggle Taggle Gypsies because they were sick and tired of having to scour the Greenwoods for him every time he got lost.

He found lodgings at the "Bide A Wee" Guest House run by Miss Agnes Flotsam, an Edinburgh landlady (of whom it was often said...... but never, ever proved!) who was kind enough to feed this waif up and wise enough to leave him to his inner turmoil - as long as that turmoil didn't involve a lot of noisy crying which would upset the other guests.

After a day or two he felt fit enough to face the world - even that bit of it called Edinburgh - and so, on a fine Spring afternoon he strolled through town, buying a lottery ticket on his way.

Then, that same evening, as he watched T.V. with Agnes Flotsam, he found that he was now a multi-millionaire ex sandwich board man. His eyes lit up. Who needed sandwich boards now. Who needed all that running through Greenwoods anyway. He was sure that was the quickest way to catch Dutch Elm Disease.

At the news of Algernon's good fortune, Miss Flotsam let out an involuntary whoop, apologised and left the room carrying an empty biscuit plate.

Our dancing rover sat staring at the T.V., like a hypnotised rabbit trying to make sense of his new reality.His new position in life was a little daunting but it was certainly more exciting, than squirrels, strange flowers and trees with bark in the shape of a human face.(see previous posting for enlightenment).

Then it dawned on him that Miss Flotsam had been away longer than was strictly necessary to replenish a plate full of "Jammy Dodgers". He was just thinking of getting up to look for her when she burst back into the room, a vision in pink chiffon, the scent of "A Night In Tangiers" wafting all around her and carrying a plate of little pink and yellow cakes which she set down before him on the coffee table.

"Can I interest you in a Fondant Fancy, Algie?", she said in a voice quivering with desire and marinated in Gordon's Gin. "The'yre very moreish."

She licked her lips lasciviously and fiddled with her under wiring suggestively and, for good measure, she fluttered one false eyelash so vigorously that it fell into her mug of hot chocolate.

Algernon was finding that life was suddenly becoming so much more interesting. All of life's pleasures - even the forbidden ones - were being laid before him on a plate. Oh, he sighed, with guilty pleasure. Guilty pleasures, guilty, guilty, guilty, pleasures.

He eyed Agnes' swelling bosom and the curve of her hips. It was his turn to lick his lips now. It was all there, just in front of him. All he had to do was reach out and take it.

So our hero reached out and........picked the pink Fondant Fancy nearest him!. Then he picked another and another. Then he fell asleep in front of a repeat of Holby City and Agnes retreated to the kitchen and sobbed her heart out and didn't care whether the other %^@~~~** guests heard her or not.

Miss Flotsam was disappointed in a sort of Olympian way at the failure of her seduction attempt. Coming second to a fondant fancy is hard even for the most philosophical of women and the nearest Agnes had come to Greek Philosophy was the kebab shop owners musings on Edinburgh's local business rates.She was not a quitter,though. After all there were multi millions at stake if she could hook this "slippery little minnow".

Next morning there was an extra sausage on his plate at breakfast and she had taken the trouble to stuff his mushrooms with some delicacy, or another, which on questioning, she was slightly evasive about. Algernon was suspicious. Even his stint n the Greenwoods had not taught him to trust mushrooms. Things could go either way with mushrooms.When Miss Flotsam went pack to the kitchen to get more toast Algernon saw his chance and stuck them down the back of the settee, hoping that by the time she found them he would have moved on to pastures new.

On the day that his winnings cheque cleared he sought refuge from Miss Flotsam's attentions at an afternoon performance of the circus which had just arrived in town.

He had never been to the circus before and was absolutely enchanted. Then, it suddenly dawned on him. Here was the family he craved. This was the biggest and best family in all the world and, what was even better, was the fact that if he owned it and was paying the bills they could not leave him behind. Why, even if he got LOST they would HAVE to look for HIM.

Without wasting another second he went to his bank and came back in a couple of hours with a suitcase full of money.

He burst into the owner's luxury caravan and demanded to buy the whole show "lock, stock and barrel".

He fully expected to have to haggle but five minutes later he was the proud proprietor and the slippery little sod of an ex owner, whose character I have already given you, had burned tyre marks into the grass outside the caravan and was already history.

Pettigrew sat down on the couch with a contented sigh. Was it all a dream? He pinched himself. No, it wasn't! He was home, home at last.

Just then the door flew open and there stood N. Osferatu, the circus business manager/accountant/sword swallower. He was not a happy man, but then he never was.

Still, that's another story!

Our last picture shows the aforementioned Mr. N. Osferatu in one of his better moments.


ONCE AGAIN, WE DEDICATE THIS POSTING TO THE SUBLIME HARRY LANGDON, CINEMA CLOWN EXTRAORDINAIRE!

SOMETHING ABOUT PETTIGREW (PART 1)

I thought it an opportune moment to start an occassional series featuring some of the Dramatis Personae of this travelling "Circus of Dreams" and where better to start than our proud - if often perplexed owner - Algernon R. Pettigrew.

He took over the circus shortly after I arrived myself and is generally regarded as a decent sort, if a little child like and naive. He is certainly an improvement on the previous incumbent of whom it was said, "if he entered a revolving door behind you, he'd be waiting for you on the other side, ready to pick your pocket".

Algernon was born to a travelling rat catcher and a mother who was, well let us just say, "well travelled". Times were tough when little Algie arrived in the world but, as well as his rat catching work his father had just started a side line in organic sausages and, not to be outdone in the entrepreunerial stakes, his mother toured the dockside bars of their hometown singing bawdy songs and selling kisses to sailors who did not seem at all "put off" by her glass eye and missing front teeth. She was one of the few among us who could truly say (to paraphrase the song)that she'd seen what the boys in the back room would have - particularly as she was the one thatgave it to them. As long as they paid for it she didn't care!

Algernon was a fey, dreamy child and while his peers were playing games during the break, he could be seen staring up at the passing clouds. It was during these childish reveries that his dinner money was invariably stolen - so he was a fey, dreamy AND skinny child!

He left school with no qualifications other than a gold star for being in charge of Miss Winterbottom's Spring Bulbs in Primary 7.

A succession of jobs followed. He was briefly employed putting holes in doughnuts at a local bakers but he left after a couple of weeks complaining bitterly about it being an empty experience.

Being fey and dreamy and forgetful was not much help in his next chosen occupation for, after the third time of finding himself in the High Street without a stitch on because he had forgotten to put his clothes ON AGAIN, he was fired from his job as a life model at the local Art College.

It was third time lucky though. He answered an ad. placed by an Oriental Carpet Merchant who was holding an exhibition of his wares at a prestigious nearby Hotel and needed a Sandwich Board Man to tell the world about it.

Algernon's ability to walk up and down half a dozen streets over and over again, stand motionless at strategic street corners for half an hour at a time in the wind and rain and go for a very long time without needing to go to the toilet stood him in good stead.

Soon he was advertising everything from hats to holidays and carpets to car doors and he would have jogged along quite nicely too if some jobsworth on the local council had not decided that sandwich boards were an Elf and Safety ishoo. Overnight sandwich boards were banned from the town.

Algernon was distraught. He took to covering his old round and standing motionless on street corners with his arms held out to mimic his missing sandwich board.

No-one is exactly sure but it's reckoned that it was about this time that he came into contact with a representative of the Raggle Taggle Gypsies (you know, the ones that "laughed and sang as the Greenwoods rang") who suggested that a spell with them might help him to see the world afresh.

Well, young Algie saw a good many Greenwoods and did his fair share of laughing and singing in them in the next few weeks. The whole experience did him a power of good. It really took him out of himself. It was a real tonic and much better than expensive therapy. There was just one problem.

Algernon had a bad habit of getting distracted as he danced and skipped his way through the woods with his merry companions. It might be a flower he had never seen before, a squirrel, or a peace of bark that looked like someone's face - the result was always the same.

As the strains of "a hey and a ho and a hey nonny no" drifted off into the distance our hero would be staring like a hypnotised rabbit at whatever had taken his fancy this time.

A half hour would go by before his Gypsy host's would realise he was no longer among their number and then a great "hue and cry" would echo through the trees until he was safely back in the bosom of his adopted family.

After the umpteenth time this got to be rather wearing for the Gypsies. You can't really blame them. After all, it takes away from the joyous sponataneity of the "laughing and singing" bit if you have to break off to launch a full scale manhunt every so often.

One morning, thinking it the kindest thing for all concerned,the Gypsy Folk rose extra early and left him asleep under a tree on the edge of a wood near Edinburgh.

Rosie, the pretty young girl in charge of the tambourine had formed quite an attachment and she brushed away a tear as she looked upon the baby faced troubador for the last time.

She knelt down and gently placed a four leaved clover in the breast pocket of his jacket, blew him a kiss and then parted forever. It would be quite a while before the words "hey nonny no" passed her lips again.

When Algie awoke. He ran through a gamut of emotions: mystification, shock, panic, anger. One moment he had a family and the next he did not.He wondered what he had done wrong and knew in the bottom of his heart how much he would miss them all but he knew he would miss Rosie most of all. Never to hear the jingle of the little silver bells around the edge of her tambourine again was a terrible prospect.

Eventually, he realised he could not sit in the woods forever. They were damp with dew and he did not want a flare up of the old trouble again. He had enough to deal with as it was.

Reluctantly, he rose from his woodland bed, yawned and made his way into the fair city of Edinburgh.



THIS POSTING IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO THAT SWEET CLOWN OF THE EARLY CINEMA - HARRY LANGDON

A RISING STAR, THE BRIGHTEST STAR

Well,I must say, life is settling down quite nicely after all the recent alarms and excursions. The "box office" has recently improved, our incompetent Latvian juggler is actually managing to keep two or more of his plates twirling on their bamboo poles at the same time (a bit of a metaphor for life itself, when you think about it) and - oh yes - toffee apple sales are going stratospheric.
All these things are welcome, of course, but, to be honest, they are a little bit pedestrian compared to the latest development at this "circus of fools"........Stromboli and I are in love!
No not with each other. Not in that way at least. I know showbiz types say that any publicity is good publicity but I could do without ending up on the cover of some obscure magazine dealing with the more unsavoury aspects of inter species behaviour and I am not talking about Hello magazine either.
The big snag is that we have both fallen in love with the same divine creature. Of course the added snag in my case is that I have fallen head over heels for a member of another species.
On reflection, its not a problem really as my love is a purely spiritual thing. Love her? Why, I idolise her. I look up to her. I have to for she is Mariella, one half of the Circus' High Wire Act and she is on a higher plane than the rest of us - at an estimate I would say about thirty feet higher.
Of course, as you know by now, Stromboli is an honourable man and his love for this wonderful creature is pure, if a little confused by messages from the loin department. After all he is one of Adam's descendants. Thank heaven I am spared this torture.
She is wonderful though. I wish you could see her. Dressed in the purest white with some sparkling sequins dotted around her costume, she climbs step by graceful step, up to the wire and Stromboli and I and the audience wait in a breathless, expectant silence.
We are waiting for her to show us that the affairs of the world are of no more consequence than a speck of sawdust in the ring below.
We are waiting for her to show us that a human being can, at least for a brief moment, fly high above this tired, soiled old world untainted by it all. And she does. She does. Up there, there is one who is all white and shining and smiles.
One night - I think it was the night that I fell in love with her - I happened to look up just as she was smiling directly down at me. I remember thinking that if St. Francis of Assisi had a little sister she would look just like Mariella.
For a slender few seconds I imagined that I was up there with her looking down with pity and compassion on a world that had long ago lost its way and whose inhabitants were, at this very moment, looking up at us and hoping to be shown it anew.
Do I over romanticise? Do I guild the lily? Am I too sickly sentimental to be allowed to socialise with diabetics?
Perhaps. Perhaps. But I know one thing: As she comes back down that ladder to join us mere mortals again I find myself mouthing the last words from that beautiful book, the Great Gatsby,.........."Come back. Come back. O glittering and white."

The illustration above is of Miss Mariella on a visit to a local school. Amongst other things, she set the children straight about why it's not a good idea to run off to the Circus, even if your parents are very annoying!

I have had a missive from Melissa Crawley - Williams (not the Suffolk Crawley-Williams surely?) She asks me if I am an animal keeper. No dear, I AM a circus monkey. Its not a nom de plume. Also she risks my monkey wrath by praising those b****y M***k**s again. Still, as judging by her picture, she is an extreeemely pretty young woman, I'll forgive her.
By the way, was that a day at the races or do you just like big hats Melissa?
If I didn't have Mariella in my life you would be next in line for a bit of inter species worship.
Ooo stop me before you fall in love with me. TTFN. c.m.

LEAPING LEMURS! WHAT HAVE I DONE?

Troubled days and sleepless nights since my little diatribe last time. I keep seeing Meerkats everywhere, I am the haunted monkey of Pettigrew's Circus and, NO, that is not a new act on the bill
The other night, during the Act, I could almost have sworn that I saw one of the aforementioned in the audience wearing a smoking jacket. It may have been because my eyes were still watering after getting "the family jewels" in a twist after a particularly tight turn but I was equally sure I saw him draw his fingers across his throat in a cutting motion.
Then, the very next day, my dear friend and benefactor, Stromboli the Circus Strong Man,got a very strange phone call. Someone with a heavy Russian accent said to forget about finding cheap car insurance as that task would be a cake walk compared to finding my lifeless body after he and all the other "Ivans" had had their way with it. Mummy!!!!!!
Stromboli tried his best to calm me down. He is of the opinion that it was one of Beppo's (head clown and would be circus shop steward) practical jokes. Apparently he is one of this blogs followers - however uninvited. If he was behind it I'm not sure whether I am more surprised at the depth of his malice or the fact that he can read.
Now look, once and for all lets set the record straight. Meerkats are not that bad.
O.K. they are a bit annoying - sorry Ivan - but you have to admit they are great entertainers. Millions of T.V. viewers can't be wrong. Can they?
If you are looking for an annoying creature, look no further than the Lemur. They really are annoying. In fact, they are downright obnoxious. All that high kicking and leaping around for no apparent reason. What a total waste of energy.
They are like a bunch of demented Tiller Girls or Pan's People after too many cans of Red Bull. Imagine that lot invading your favourite Palais de Danse on a Saturday night. Trouble? There would be fur, teeth and toe nails everywhere.
The local Romeos (or Neds as they are often known) would not like it one little bit. The high kicking "lemur leaps" would, inevitably be construed as a pre emptive kung fu move and many cries of "Come on,if you think you're hard enough you furry b**t**d" would ensue.
Secondly, the same young men would be insanely protective of their young women (or hussies as they are sometimes known)Over the melee you can just hear the strangled cries.....the language of chaos and violence.
"Oi, "banjo eyes", are you molting on my bird?"
"Oi, you swingin' on me girlfriend?" Note the use of the word "on" and not "with". It's no mistake.
No, gentle reader, never invite lemurs to your wedding. As far as dancing goes, they just do not know when enough is enough. Heaven help the world if they ever get their hands on alcohol.
Oh, greeeeaaaat!!!!!!! I've just realised what I've done. Now I not only have a pack of murderous Meerkats on my heels, I've got the leaping lemurs too - and with those legs to propel them they'll probably catch me in half the time.
Look! Look! Let me try one more time to extricate myself from this diplomatic nightmare. To that end I shall tell a story against my own species - although admittedly, they were distant cousins.
Many years ago there was a beautiful little island in the Pacific Ocean. Developers discovered it and turned it into an upmarket and eco friendly resort. Everyone was happy. The natives, who had been having a particularly tough time of it got good jobs in the catering industry and hotel management while at the same time knowing that there beloved island would not become debauched or turn into a Blackpool with sun. The developers were happy as they could make a ton of money while still retaining the warm glow of eco harmony.
The hotels were all built, the airport runway extended, there were boats in the harbour and Prince Andrew and his latest paramour had booked for a whole month.
Then, a tribe of monkeys who lived in the hinterland in a part of the island that the developers had turned into a jungle adventure trail (eco friendly of course) made their presence known.
The natives had more sense than to bother with the interior (hot, sticky, murder on the sandals etc) and so the primate residents of this place had no experience in dealing with human beings. They took to dropping from the trees, landing on the shoulders of the unfortunate eco tourists and trying to screw their heads off, thinking they had found the best coconut on the island.
Some longhair professor came up with theory that the monkeys, who were heavily dependent on coconuts, deduced that a coconut that was actually walking around would have a bit more zing (and thus be better for them)than one that was just lying around on the ground.
Be that as it may, the resort never recovered. Prince Andrew never went back after his young lady was stretchered off with whiplash. Countless lawsuits followed and, so the story goes, the whole place is just festering away, like that town in the Brasilian jungle.
Oh no, I give up. That crowd of pestilential primates were related to the Bonobos who live on the other side of the river from the my folks. I can't even go home!
Sanctuary! Sanctuary! Has anyone out there got a small room I could use for a while?