Post 17: Alan the Reindeer

T'IS THE SEASON TO BE JOLLY
FA LA LA LA LAAA LA LA LA LAAAAAAAAAAA


The carol-caterwaulers were orally assaulting my homestead with their senseless joviality, their defence against the blighty cold of Mighty-Blighty was simply a song in their throat and the love of Christmas in their hearts... with a decent sized dose of ear-rape for those unfortunate enough to be caught in their cacophonous crossfire.


I tried to revel in their festive warmth... but they hadn't seen the things that I had seen! I wanted to revel in their happiness, in their joy and their love, but my revelling attempt was equivalent to finding the coffee flavoured one when all you really wanted was an Orange one or those ones that are a bit like Minstrels...


Yes I had seen goodness, I had seen joy, I had seen beauty and the wondrous side of NATURE time and time over...

But I had also seen darkness, unthinking, unheeding, unfeeling, psychopathic, sociopathic, deranged and insane. I had seen the worst that this so-called God had to offer, and I must say, if they had seen some of the things I had seen, then these so-called Carol-singers heads would probably explode as naivety and innocence combined with the cold, calculated gloom of actuality...


Dark times... dark times indeed...


I finished off my whiskey and retired to bed...




A NEW DAY!
A NEW DAWN!

I skipped out of bed, too hell with the hangover! It was Christmas Eve and I was off to find a pile! All year I had waited for this, I set up camp on my roof, and waited for them to arrive, I watched out, I did not cry, I did not pout, Santa Claus was coming to town... and more importantly, he was bringing his Reindeer.


As night fell I looked to the horizon and waited for their jingly bells that heralded their coming...

It didn't take long. I had been exceptionally good all year round, and Santa always rewards the good boys first.


I am a VERY good boy.


And so, as Santa Claus creeped down my chimney I struck up a conversation with the Reindeer nearest to me, his name was Alan, he was a no-nonsense sort of Reindeer, and was fairly tired and not particularly forthcoming. He didn't appear to have a pile.

I was a mite crestfallen.


He looked so tired I offered him a mince pie... he declined... some Roasted Chestnuts... nope... After Eights, Dates, Salted nuts, Yule-log...


No. No. No. No.


"What would you like to eat Alan?" I asked.


"Cheese on Toast."


And so it became that another myth had been shattered, Reindeers liked Christmas food no more than I liked Carol Singers! I took Alan in through my front door (Santa was still worming his way down my chimney the fat bastard) and grilled him up a veritable feast of the finest moon-cheese on toast! 


I have never seen a Reindeer so happy. He piled them on his plate, then guzzled them like a kid with a bowl of custard! I packed him some more for his journey and then he gave me a warm hug...

And like a shot, they were gone, I poked all my presents, but as I am a good boy I didn't unwrap them yet. 


And then I retired to bed, content with my years work of pile-hunting... but I knew there was still a long journey ahead of me... My adventure into piles had just begun.


next year I would learn so much more.


But for now, MERRY CHRISTMAS AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR TO ALL MY FELLOW LOVERS OF PILES!!


Warning


Santa eats bad kids.

Post 16: Umit Hassan the Turkey

With frightening velocity I threw up my breakfast, all over Umit's feet.


This is the end of the story of this particular pile...


It started much like this, though I must warn you the bit about the chunder is the best bit.


Christmas approached me like a limbless man on a hillside of slick ice. Like most years I wanted a Turkey to eat on Christmas day. I have always been confused by achieving such things and got the wrong end of the stick somewhat as I found myself boarding a flight to Istanbul.

As I waved fairdy-well to cold old blighty I snuck a few shots of whiskey down my gullet and fell into a dreamless calm doze.


I awoke in Istanbul and set about finding myself a Turkey, I asked a man where I might find a Turkey. He pointed at his shoes and continued his journey.


I asked a young lady the same question. Again her answer was frustratingly oblique.


My entire morning was spent this way without any answer approximating much less than a riddle and much more than joke at my foreign expense.


Later that afternoon I limped across a shady looking man by a market stall.


"Excuse me good sir!" I beckoned "Where might one find a Turkey?"


With greed in his sneer he whispered in my ear: "Come with me my dear, come come, have no fear"

Behind him I trotted, my tired feet felt clotted, the air smelt quite rotted and I hoped soon a Turkey would be spotted.


But he had got the wrong end of the stick as well and he just tried to sell me drugs.


Frustrated by this time wasting excursion, I made my excuses and with 50 kilos of Grade A smack taped across my stomach I waved fairdy-well to the Turkish land of Turkey and was soon back in Blighty.


I drove out to a farm in the Essex countryside where the kindly farmer sold me a fine Turkey for the princely sum of £22.99. 


Whilst wandering around the Turkey farm I met Umit Hassan. I enquired as to whether he had a pile and he showed me around the back of his shed where neatly piled up were a pile of rather rotten looking giblets...


and with frightening velocity I threw my breakfast up all over Umit's feet.




Warning


Some piles stories just aren't as good as others.

Post 15: Geldof the Ibex

As Christmas creepily approaches I feel I should shine the torch towards what many people within the popular press are now classing as YULEPILES!

I happened upon my first YULEPILE whilst gallivanting gaily ‘pon the Alpinic peaks of the Alps.

From afar I spied a bright twinkly light and caught up by the distant yodelling of Christmas carols echoing across the foothills, the foolhardy romantic within me began to believe it to be a celestial body casting a theological net of Godly light over the snowy mountain caps.

I skipped after it, leaving my imported Sherpa sweating and gasping in my wake as he struggled to keep up with my greater levels of fitness, although, in his defence, he was carrying a lot of stuff.

After summiting a summit I gazed across a rocky valley and realised I had been mistaken, I was not following a Messianic calling to bestow gifts at the feet of a newborn leader of men, but was being guided t’ward something far more holy… It was the cheese-moon and its' sparkly reflection glimmered off of a carrot that formed the nose of the uppermost snowman of a pile of snowmen!

A veritable YULEPILE of the most magnificent proportions.

I think you’ll all agree!

I was gobsmacked with joy, ending the current cycle of Despica-piles that had depressed me so, I was now heartened and awash with happy goo as if I was bathing in a bucket filled with happy.

So taken-aback was I by the glorious pile of snowmen, that I had not initially noticed the animal that had created them, but there, standing proudly against the night sky, stood a bearded Ibex, almost as in awe of his creation as was I.  

Warning

Snowmen are by turns glorious and evil. By day they can seem peaceful and sedate, but when the full glare of the Alpine moon meets their dark-coal eyes, they will often kidnap unassuming young boys and force them to witness their psychotic killing sprees as they spread fear and death amongst the lands of Europe.

Thankfully when placed in a pile. This will not happen.

Post 14: Morris the Ostrich

I couldn't just sit idly by and await my Nobel Peace Prize could I? I had to get back out there. I had to find my next pile!


I drove to Somerset. I fancied some cheese. Somerset is a good place to get cheese. I bought some cheese.


But then something caught my eye.


Right next to the cheese-farm was a ginormous Ostrich-farm.


Filled with Ostriches!!


They were engaged in such frivolity! racing each other and flapping around.
In one corner two studious looking Ostriches were playing chess in another some young Ostriches were practising their alphabet and all the old ostriches were smoking pipes and talking about slippers.. on first glance this Ostrich farm seemed a halcyon utopia of Ostrichey goodness...


But I've never been one to trust a first glance, after all the difference between a first glance and second glance could be this and this.


I wasn't falling for that again...


So I afforded myself a second glance, and that's when I saw it... 

A breakaway group of Ostriches had gathered in the farthest right corner of the field. Half a dozen Ostriches milled about looking shifty, their heads were shaved, Germanic Punk music blasted from a nearby ghetto blaster and their necks were webbed with sinister looking ink-art.


I had heard about the notorious Neo-Nazi Ostriches of Cheddar Gorge... But I never thought I'd see them.


I sidled closer until I noticed what they were gathering around, they were taking turns reading from copies of Hitler's autobiography: Mein Kampf.... in fact they had loads of copies of the same book!! A VERITABLE DESPICAPILE OF MEIN KAMPF'S!!!



I was appalled by this behaviour and could not help myself releasing a huffy little hurrumph...

It was heard by all, and the Ostriches instantly discarded their hate-lit and began bashing their heads into the soil.


I attempted to beseech to the giant stupid-looking birds, to teach them about love and compassion, about sharing our World with every RACE of MANKIND and every SPECIES of BIRDKIND and ANIMALKIND.


We should accept and celebrate our differences and grow and learn from these  to become better people and do GOOD on this earth. I explained how I had caught the Taleban and how everybody was now friends, all thanks to me, Robert Ian Cooper, Pile-Hunter, Adventurer, and all round good guy.


But they weren't having it.

Their heads remained firmly buried in the sand.


Ignoramus Ostriches.


I despaired. 


I despaired at their single-minded hate.


And I despaired at such a compoundingly obvious metaphor...


and then I went on my way. I had some Cheese to eat.


WARNING


Do not eat giant slabs of mature cheese as though it were an apple. This is bad form.

Morris, just one of several Fascist Ostriches found in Cheddar Gorge

Post 13: Oh the Deer

I wandered lonely as a cloud, lost amidst piles of thoughts about piles that effervesced around my mind like angry bees.

As I scuffled over hills I sought answers from the machinations of my mind, I sought justification for my work from a higher power.

Why was I trekking all over the World seeking out the darkest most secretive corners of the minds of animals? What good was my quest doing? Was the world really better off?

Was it a better place thanks to the knowledge that Megalomaniac Tortoises piled franchised lego-characters?

That sociopathic Crocodiles piled pirates?

That drunken but hospitable Penguins piled tiny fishies?

I was struggling to think of ways to make the answer "yes". How did my pile-hunt help either MANKIND or WILDLIFE?

Completely shadowed in self-doubt and depression about my superfluous pile-hunt, I perambulated despondently over hills...

I was being guided by a merciless meta-narrative, I knew my next pile would be a Despicapile. And this made me quiver with nerves. And maybe this was what stoke the flames of this crippling self doubt

I had got myself lost deep within the HILLS OF ENGLAND when I heard a far off bleatgrunt, and despite my general lack of enthusiasm I couldn't resist the pathological urges that guided my every step and I scampered off in the direction of the sound....

There, on a hill opposite me stood a resplendent Stag, his giant antlers erect like a two Peter Crouches dancing proudly against the horizon as he butted his way merrily around the hill...

And behind him, there, plainly for my eye to see...

WAS HIS DESPICAPILE!!!!

On spotting it I quickly ducked behind a bush! I couldn't believe it!

 I had found the Taleban!!!

This Deer, this majestic, swarthy beast, had the most controversial pile I had ever seen!

I rang the police.

Within moments police helicopters surrounded the hillside and the CIA  efficiently rounded up the Taleban and carted them off to some cosy gaol.

I received a stirling handshake from the head of operations and a Ten Pound Book Token!!!

But the best thing I received was a reaffirmation of my faith. Faith in my Pile-Hunt. 

By doing what came naturally to me: By hunting

ANIMALS

and their

PILES

I had uncovered the Taleban and therefore ended THE WAR ON TERROR!

Everyone had become friends again.

All thanks to me.

WARNING

A Doe is a Deer (a Female Deer) but Oh is not female and very very proud of his masculinity.

Post 12: Davy the Crocodile

The time had come for me to leave these fair shores and the relative safety of the farm.

With my hairy ginger toes I stepped gingerly into my Super Happy Fun Boat and set my compass to 

WEST

 and my mindset to 

ADVENTURE

I had heard about a species known as the GREAT BIG CROCODILE and how this, the most DANGEROUS animal on PLANET EARTH, had colluded with the most DANGEROUS members of MANKIND to form a deadly alliance...

A PILE-ALLIANCE (Piliance) OF TERROR

I much desired to witness what could possibly cause such fear in the hearts of so many MEN, WOMEN and WILDLIFE-KIND the world over... and so set off on this intrepid adventure to begin a new cycle of my journey

This part of my journey would become known throughout ENGLAND as Animals and their DESPICAPILES!!!!! And it is not for the faint hearted.

Here I will search deep into the darkest hearts of the world's most evil creatures!

I swiftly found Davy the Crocodile,  and I tracked him through the mangrove swamp where he resided until I happened upon a discarded boat...

not just any boat...

a pirate boat!!!!

I was almost unbelieving that the rumour-pile was turning out to be true, it took me no time at all to locate Davy's Pile, no doubt I was aided somewhat, because they were all piled high on his dastardly osteodermic back!!! 

SOMALI PIRATES!!!

Loads of the blighters, lording it up with their peg-legs and cutlasses and profane parrots and filthy bottles of rum... they were extraordinarily happy sailing aboard Davy's coarse back, and together a reign of evil was being executed on the Mangrove Swamp. 

The more I looked the more I saw the results of their destruction all around: featherless Herons lay shackled to the Mangrove trees, Fish quivered in fear beneath bigger fish who already lay speared by the treacherously stumps sawn off the feet of innocent flamingos... A benign lizard was slumped, begging on the side of the swamp, his whole livelihood taken from him by the pillaging cretinous pile of pirates... Something had to be done about this outrage!

However, I didn't fancy being taken hostage and having my Super Happy Fun Boat stripped of all it's goodies, so I made a hasty exit and sought out my next DESPICAPILE.

WARNING

Never dip your hat or talk awhile to the crocodile smile of a smiley Somali pirate piled 'pon a crocodile's scaly wily dorsal. 

Post 11: Smasher the Sheep

Remaining upon the farm I wandered up into the hills to gaze upon the bleached woolly beauty of the tyrannical farmer's flock of Sheep.

My eye was particularly drawn to one lusty looking Ewe who went by the name of Smasher. Something about her took my fancy and I idled the entire afternoon gazing upon her as she ambled listlessly from hillock to hillock; gouging herself on chomploads of fine British grass and occasionally plopping out the odd tiny pebble-dash of poo that grenaded from her posterior and careered gently down the hillside towards me (hidden of course, in a cunning disguise).

After hours of this Smasher had clearly eaten her fill, and she gave a short melodious bleat to signal the beginning of playtime.

From her ornately carved play-box Smasher extricated a neat pile of Slinky Toys, and began nudging them down the slopes of the lush knolls with the kind of gay-abandon one usually only finds with toddlers and the very very simple.

There was no complex explanation behind this as we all know that sheep do love a good play, and what is more fun than a Slinky Toy? Especially when one resides mainly upon a fine British hill.

As the sun set; Smasher returned her Slinkies to her ornately carved playbox and retired with her fellow Sheep to a small bar at the foot of the hill. I was denied entry on account of my footwear (It was a Hooves and no trainers dress code). So I listened enviously from outside as the Sheep drank and laughed their night into an ovine-gasmic climax.

WARNING

Slinky's are not suitable for use as masturbatory aids.

A wonderful Sheep and her toys

Post 10: Emilio the Pig

Being a pile-hunter can veer from one extreme to the other. 

After my tropical island experience I now found myself on a muddy British farm, face to face with a pig.

The specifics of how I got here are barely worth a mention, but needless to say I was no less excited about the pile I discovered alongside this common barn animal as I was with the exotic piles kept by the Pandas, Tortoises and Hamsters of previous weeks. After all my motto is:

PILES  MAY VARY IN HEIGHT AND DENSITY 

BUT THEY ARE ALL EQUAL IN MY HEART

I met Emilio the Pig by his sty, he was a happy pig: gloriously pink in the ruminative afternoon sunshine. He was also a lot more open with his piles than most animals, and without any reservation he led me straight to his pile of poofs.

Now Emilio was not a homosexual pig (although there was strong evidence that leant him towards a metrosexual bent) and a Poof in this instance is one of those fluffy things you take in the shower with you that maximises the bubble potential from your soap or showergel.

Emilio loved to be clean and he smelt as sweet as the Woolworths pick-and-mix counter, but he was given a very low weekly ration of soap by his vindictive farmer. So he needed to make every bubble last, and that was why he had so many poofs at his disposal.

I joined Emilio for a plate of Spaghetti and we spoke to each other about the state of the nation, he was sceptical about some recent Government decisions but felt there was plenty to be positive by and objected to some of the doom and gloom being peddled by the media.

 He then politely made his excuses and went into his sty for a shower.

I did not peek.

WARNING

Do not lick a pig. Even if it smells like candy. It is like licking a pork-scratching made from scouring pads.

Emilio and his Poofs

Post 9: Bertie the Baby Tortoise

From the hugging-Panda highs to the Village-obliterating-Magpie lows and the muddling mediocrity of the Fishpile-Penguin inbetweeny bits: The Great Pile Hunt was becoming a truly memorable experience...

I was feeling more than a little exuberant after my derring-do-escape from China (a tale not for this Blog).

And now I found myself face to face with the most endearing little tyrant I had ever seen! (this happened just before I made it home to my cup of tea)

Yes, even more endearing than this cuddly little fella.

Whilst jetting home on my Super happy fun boat, I passed through a small archipelago of glorious tropical islands. Stopping off for a Mojito on the most scenic of them all, I soon found myself under the enthralling control of the island's baby-faced dictator.

His name was Bertie.

And he was a young, cute and exceptionally evil Tortoise.

And he ruled the Island (Bertie-Island) with an iron-fist.

The fact that the Bertie-Island had very little in the way of other residents did not appear to deter Bertie and his megalomania; and as his esteemed prisoner I was given the guided tour of his Bertie-Island.

 He showed me his dungeons (caves with very smelly fish in them),  the sharp sticks in which he would impale the heads of dissidents (in fact the decaying remains of particularly stubborn coconut still festered), and the stocks where he would embarrass any fool who committed a crime against the laws of Bertie-Island by drawing penises on their foreheads.

Bertie-Island had three laws and these are what they were:

1. Bertie is in charge so everyone else should just shut it.

2. There is no designated bedtime. Just impromptu nap time.

3. Don't sit on Bertie.

I found it curiously simple to obey these complicated laws and maintained the illusion to Bertie that I was indeed his prisoner. Before long his guard was lowered and on one of his Royal Bertie-Island tours I trailed him and soon spotted him playing with his pile.

A small pile of Darth Vader Lego-Men..

Ignoring the implausibility of 5 identical Lego Men washing up on one tiny islet, I reasoned logically that his pile was inspired by Bertie's desire to be an all powerful leader, much like the great Sith-Lord himself, he sought to crush his enemies and lead with fear and an iron fist.

I imagined it also reflected the lost child who still lived inside Bertie's sad orphaned shell. And maybe his longing for a Father figure, someone to give him that firm Masculine hand to guide him through life's many travails...

Someone like me... perhaps?

So with this Cod-Psychology neatly sewn up, I quickly sketched Bertie and his pile of little Darth Vader Legomen and made my getaway on the Super happy fun boat. 

The last I saw of Bertie he was shaking his fist at me as I sailed away, cackling like a maniac.

WARNING

Bertie was a particularly mature little Tortoise, but the general rule is that Legomen are a choking hazard for little Tortoises, supervise any little Tortoise who is playing with a Legoman at all times.

Tyrannical Tortoise with his toys

Post 8: Wang Chen the Cuddly Panda

The Circus left town and I must admit I began feeling blue. I wanted a hug.


SO I WENT TO CHINA TO CUDDLE A PANDA BEAR!!


Now most people know that Pandas are dying out,and before now nobody knows quite why that is, it is a bonafide mystery, like the Bermuda Triangle, the Rickmansworth Frost Pocket and the longevity of the "musical" career of Razorlight.


There is one thing that everybody does know, and that is that Panda Bears just love a hug. In fact, any given Panda, when faced with a choice between a nice Roast Bamboo with all the trimmings, or a big fat hug...


Will choose the hug every time.


They can't help it, it is exactly as (housewives favourite and quality songwriters) The Destiny's Child once sang:


I don't think you ready for this jelly
i don't think you ready for this jelly
I don't think you ready for this
Is my panda too Huggylicious for ya babe?


Now if The Destiny's Child are taking the time to be singing about the huggaliciousness of a Panda, then I think it is pretty safe to say that it is very very very huggable indeed.


So with this in mind I got on my super happy funboat to China and went searching for a Panda to cuddle. 


China is of course very large and most of that space is filled up with lots and lots of people. Because of the overpopulation of MANKIND in this area, they do not really allow any WILDLIFE to live there


The exceptions are the ever-dwindling amount of Panda Bears and a few dragons here and there (for the tourists). It is not the best place for my intrepid adventure by any accounts, seeing as that relies entirely on WILIDLIFE to be a success... but like I said, I really wanted a cuddle.


After four days canoeing on the Yellow River (you know what they say about Yellow Snow? Well the same goes for Yellow Rivers, don't eat them) I found a Panda colony and it wasn't long before Wang Chen crawled shyly up to me and asked if he may hug me.


I obliged with a delighted squeal and we spent six glorious hours in each others company, just having a cuddle. All my blues floated away into China's  clean night sky.


Lighting a cigarette and basking in a post-hugasmic bliss, I asked my cuddlepanion:


"Wang Chen. Why are Panda's numbers dwindling so rapidly, and what could I do to help?"
And Wang Chen replied:
"Well Robert Ian Cooper, because we live in China it is law that we must eat with chopsticks, we find this very hard as we do not have opposable thumbs, but we have no choice, forks and spoons are illegal in China. You could help by finding a way around the law that allows us to eat once more"


IT WAS SO SIMPLE! Why had no one realised this before now?


and I had the solution, I told Wang Chen about how all other animals had piles (Pandas were not aware of this due to the strong media-sanctions put in place by the Chinese Government that stopped news from other animals filtering through) and how Wang Chen and his friends should have little piles of their own, I then gave him a handful of Sporks that I had conveniently stored in my trendy shoes.


A Spork is neither Spoon nor Fork. It is the perfect legal loophole.


Wang Chen was delighted. Suddenly the laborious task of eating dinner was no longer such a chore! He and his fellow Panda-friends each made their own little pile of Sporks out of my plentiful supply.


We then had a great big cuddle and I went home and had ice cream.


WARNING


There is both a correct way and an incorrect way to cuddle a Panda. below I have created a five point guide to panda-hugging etiquette.


1. The Panda must approach you for the hug. NEVER hug a Panda without first being invited, this is akin to rape.
2. Never attempt to hug a Panda whilst it is mid-coitus with another Panda, this is complicated enough for them without you getting involved.
3. Never look at another Panda whilst hugging a Panda. This is taboo.
4. A cuddle is a cuddle, nothing more. If you want to have sex with a Panda then just tell him or her, don't disguise it in the pretence of a cuddle.
5. Never be the first to break from a cuddle, when the Panda is ready to stop hugging you, it will do so! Sometimes hugs can last for days so be sure to bring plenty of snacks.

Panda with Hairy leg. Note: trendy shoes.

Post 7: Elvis the Elephant

Delighted with my first days work at the Circus I returned the next day eager to advance my pile study with another exotic piece of WILDLIFE. I chose the king of all the land beasts: 

The Elephant.

And now, I must confess, for the first time on my journey,  things started to go a little weird.

Here is a brief Biography about Elvis the Elephant:

1984: Born in India

1985: Stolen from his happy family home by traders

1985-1990: Locked in a dark room for months on end, given only basic amenities and subjected to Psychotropic drugs and a disturbingly frequent dosage of CIA-sanctioned Coercive Persuasion videos.

1990: Released by the U.N and sold to the ANIMAL CIRCUS WITH LOADS OF ANIMALS IN IT

1990- Present: Trained to do handstands and travels the world wowing his sometimes obsessive fanbase.

Now, like any warm-blooded Human Being I must admit that I was rather distraught by his tragic life story, but on the other hand:

 HAVE YOU EVER SEEN AN ELEPHANT DO A HANDSTAND???

It's pretty much the most awesome thing in the World. Whatever unfortunate quirks and jerks of fate had befallen Elvis in his past that lead him to this moment, my own personal gratification was being severely topped up by the site of him standing on his front paws.

I was so chuffed with this that I nearly forgot to investigate his pile, but investigate I did, and this, my friends, is where the hunt for piles takes its VERY FIRST turn toward the strange. 

Up until now every pile was easily explainable. Elvis' pile, to be Frank, was not easily explainable.

Elvis had contrived to gather a small collection of tiny, all-singing, all-dancing, all-Shoop-Shooping Chers!!

(Cher born Cherilyn Sarkisian on May 20, 1946 is an American recording artist, actress, director and record producer. Referred to as the Goddess of Pop, she has won an Academy Award, a Grammy Award, an Emmy Award, three Golden Globes, a Cannes Film Festival Award and a People's Choice Award for her work in film, music and television)

With a melancholy swish of his trunk Elvis explained to me that this song (The Shoop Shoop Song [It's in his kiss]) was number one in the pop charts when he was released from his psychedelic solitude, and now, whenever he saw a Tiny Cher nearby, he would collect it and keep it with him to remind him of that brief moment of joy he had once felt...

Naively believing he would be be free to wander the great plains of the World - headbutting trees, finding a mate (and then headbutting her), raising children and teaching them how to headbutt trees and headbutt their mates.. before dying an old and happy pachyderm with his family around him and a rerun of Last of the Summer Wine on his television set... 

Instead it merely soundtracked the beginning of a new chapter of his tormented life The chapter in which Elvis would be a handstanding elephant, a chapter which Elvis now believed would see him through to the end of his mortal coil on this Earth...

No wandering the great plains.

No headbutting trees

No mate

No child

No teaching the child to headbutt trees

No teaching the child to headbutt its mate

No bassy guffaws to the latest hilarious high-jinks of Compo and his pals... 

No...

Elvis just had his cage. 

His Handstands.

And his Shoop-Shooping Chers.

Poor bugger.

I shed a brief tear for Elvis. I really did.

But then I asked him to do another handstand for me, it really is the most awesome thing in the World.

WARNING

If an elephant sneezes whilst doing a handstand he is liable to crap himself. 

Elvis the damaged elephant and his pile of semi-naked evergreen diva's

Post 6: Bingo the Bear

Whilst in the Desert of Africa I got sunburnt on my nose and needed a few weeks remedial in order to nurse myself back to health. I was bored...

So it was with great serendipity that whilst in the depths of my ennui I began browsing my local newspaper for a happy-ending massage parlour and I happened across an advert for the:

 ANIMAL CIRCUS WITH LOADS OF ANIMALS IN IT

coming to town this very weekend!

Suddenly I was faced with the opportunity to study all manner of exotic creatures at close range and I didn't even need to leave town!

 I was so delighted I ate a celebratory waffle.

The weekend couldn't come fast enough, and when the Circus arrived I awoke at the crack of dawn and went straight to the animal enclosure. It didn't open until 6pm so I went back home and watched four episodes of House M.D and a Movie that was set in Spain and had Spanish subtitles.

I went back later on and had my first Circus-NATURE encounter. With Bingo the Dancing Bear.

For many of you the image of a dancing bear is probably one of exploitation but things were different with Bingo, he loved to dance! In fact he had even auditioned to join the Circus, in doing so liberated himself from his snowy existence in Vladivostok.

One of Bingo's favourite things was to fuse two different dance styles, as you can see from my detail drawing he has mixed Travolta-esque disco with the Can-Can.

He was quite the clever big bear.

BUT 

Things weren't quite as happy as they seemed in Bear-World!

A life on the road had taken its toll on Bingo and a sort of insanity had gripped him as every two-bit motel he stayed in merged together to form some sort of Muzac and Magnolia inspired terror-mind-crush.

Every day Bingo would dance happily to his adoring audience, but every night he would retire to his hotel, knock back 1.5 litres of Stoli and let the madness grip his powerful face.

Bingo would locate the Bible kindly left behind by the good people of Gideon's who just want to peacefully spread the word of God...

And he would nick it. 

Brazenly. 

Barebearfaced. 

Without a single moments consideration to the washed-up duster Salesman on the cusp of a nervous breakdown who would occupy this very room the next night.

The Salesman who would probably be spared by the soothing words of Mark's Gospel.

The Salesman who would be given perspective on his own problems by the sorry plight of Job.

The Salesman who would now believe that God had Forsaken him.

The Salesman who would end his lonely existence, electrocuted in a bath, in a Travel-Lodge, on the A5 just outside Leighton Buzzard.

I dare not scold Bingo for this, he was a bear after all and I was just a decidedly squashy member of MANKIND.

 In fact after twenty seconds of watching him dance I completely forgot what I was upset about, that Bear sure had some moves!

WARNING

Always stay at least 15 feet away from a bear, and stay within its eyeline. Even dancing bears are FEROCIOUS BEASTS and will crush your skull at a moments notice.

 And most important of all, never butt in when he is shakin' his thang!

Bear. Dancing