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

Post 5: Jimi the Hamster

I was now a much happier pile-hunter and I decided to exchange one extreme location for another and went on a quick visit to the Desert of Africa to spy ‘pon the notorious Hamster colonies that live deep amongst the dunes within the colourful shanty-burbs of slapdash Bedouin shacks.

Hamsters are not easy to see in the sand, as they are sand coloured and very small. However I enlisted the help of a local tribesman and it wasn’t long before I knew the tricks to finding a Hamster in the wild. This essentially involved shredding some paper and rustling it enticingly until one of them showed up to take it back to its Bedouin shack.

I have long believed the supposed fact that a Hamster stores all its shopping in a handy pouch behind the jowls is A MYTH. I was keen to back this theory up with EVIDENCE and report back to MANKIND my findings; I intended to prove that Hamsters use shopping bags just like the rest of us.

I knew my ground-breaking research into piles would be all I needed to gather this evidence and crack this conspiracy once and for all.

And I was not mistaken.

After 46 hours in the desert, alone with nothing but a twix for sustenance and my cunning disguise for clothing, I soon spotted Jimi the Hamster on a faraway dune.

Jimi was ambling along in that slightly homosexual way that Hamsters tend to amble, I was not surprised to note that he had his cheeks puffed out wide as he continued to perpetuate the lie. For any passers-by: it did indeed look as though his jowls were full of small insects, foliage and torn up bits of toilet roll…

But I knew better.

Aside his fluffy frame t’was a pile of Bags for Life, purchased for 5p or 10p or 15p or 25p or 50p from an array of Popular High-street Stores, Supermarkets and Hot Beverage outlets.

Despite his brazen deception I was impressed by Jimis’ Environmental consciousness. There are many animals whom have no interest in the Environment and continue to litter with non-bio-degradable materials. 

Jimi clearly loved NATURE, but his very existence was built around a lie, I was somewhat confused about how I felt about Jimi, but ultimately decided that a wrong and a right will balance itself out so I remained as thrillingly indifferent towards Hamsters as I had ever been.

Happy with another pile-hunt well done, I left the desert feeling both smug and special and went back home for a sandwich and a Yop.

WARNING

Bags for Life are a great way to look after WILDLIFE, but they can be a false economy. Be sure to use a bag for life ONLY when appropriate to your needs! You could not, for example, carry a Washing Machine home in a Bag for Life. It would just break and then you would have to buy another Bag for Life.

Jimi the Hamster and an array of bags for life. Drawn in the Desert of Africa

Post 4: Malky the Macaroni Penguin

I was at a low.


An all time low.


I had to get away, as far away as I could go.

So I jumped on board my super-happy-fun-boat and went to the Antarctic.


Initially whilst there I embroiled myself in the local customs, getting to know the different kinds of snow, fishing through little holes in the ice and observing weather. 


I had a lovely little break from WILDLIFE, but I knew my mission would have to start up again eventually, so after one month I reluctantly set out into the Icy wilderness to meet my destiny: The Macaroni Penguin...

HE WAS NOT BEST PLEASED TO MEET ME


News of my pile exposés had travelled fast through the bird kingdom, and I had already gained a somewhat unwanted infamy. Birds were being more vigilante than ever about secreting their piles and I realised I would have to gain some trust before I would witness a pile in the coldest place on earth, I put on an extra pair of gloves and, attempting to shed my clear distrust, I took on the role of seducer.


I spent 6 days with Malky the Macaroni Penguin, where, despite a fairly aggressive welcome, we soon became firm friends, this was due to the fact that I wrote him poetry (available on request) and massaged his wings with a technique of which he was unfamiliar.


Finally he took me to his home and to his bed.


Where he tied me to the bedframe.


And made me some soup out of regurgitated fish guts.


Malky liked me now, but he didn't trust me. Not yet.


On Day Six Malky failed to secure my rope, unfortunately (for him) wings are not really ideal for tying knots.. and I'd also been slowly weakening them with my massaging technique.


 I released myself with Houdini-like skill and by adopting a cunning disguise I managed to trace his journey miles through the barren desert of snow.


Eventually my patience paid off and I spotted Malky with his pile... shockingly it was...


A pile of fish


Anti-climactic? Yes. A Relief? Oh Yes!!!


Malky's predictability had reaffirmed my faith in WILDLIFE. Giving me a new zest for the mission I hurried back to his little home, enjoyed one last messy night with him and his friends and set off back to civilisation, eagerly anticipating my next animal, and my next pile.


I was now sure not all WILDLIFE was evil. I was a happy pile-hunter again.


WARNING


The Antarctic is cold. Wear more than pants.


Side note: It is with deep regret that I failed to exploit my time with the penguins by discussing further their war with the whales.

Malky unknowingly posing with his pile of fishies

Post 3: Maggie the Magpie

I must admit following my duck revelations I wasn’t feeling too happy about WILDLIFE and I suppose (in hindsight) for my next project I was looking in the wrong place to sway this dark new opinion. My initial euphoria surrounding my groundbreaking animal-piles discoveries had turned into a somewhat glum disconsolation and I spent around four days drinking myself into cold oblivion with a mind-altering concoction of Bacardi Breezers and Sugar Free Red Bull.

After a while I sobered up, smartened up and put on my best shoes and set out into the woods to track the Magpies.

I was to rue this decision.

For a long time Magpies have been one of Earths most renowned purveyors of piles, responsible for this pile, this pile and this pile here. I knew I wasn’t cracking a mystery here, and it came as no surprise that my Magpie of choice (Maggie: So named because of her time spent at the Magdalene college in Oxford) had some shiny trinkets in her pile.

She had clearly stolen these from naïve village folk and I could only imagine the ripple effect this must have had on previously idyllic rural societies:

 The Lady of the Manor loses her brooch and starts an outcry, she calls on the chief butler to find the culprit, and it only takes a matter of time before all fingers point towards Pip, the scruffy street-urchin stableboy with a big heart but grubby cheeks and a really annoying lisp.

Pip is soon ostracised and chased through the village by the MENSFOLK whose usual calm demeanour has been overtaken by an inexplicable bloodlust. All of Pips protests fall on deaf ears as the posse (armed with pitchforks and sporks) capture him and hang him from the sorry boughs of a great oak tree.

They beat him with sticks and acorns as if he were a ragged piñata and only as he draws his last breath do they hear a sound like laughter from above, and there they spot Maggie (the well-learned but morally void Magpie) Sqwarking with mirth as her piles of stolen jewels gleam and glitter beneath the Hunters Moon…

The blood of Pip remains on the hands of the MENSFOLK for all eternity, and what was once a proud and illustrious hamlet soon will crumble, wither and fade. Before long the crops have wilted and the once fine manor house has fallen into scabby disrepair, the local inn shuts its doors and the guilty MENSFOLK move away to the Cities, hoping that the noise and pollution of the big smoke will forever distance them from their guilty secret…

Most will be dead within a year. Suicide probably.

Do not look upon Maggie’s pile as a thing of beauty, for it represents all that is sick and wrong with the world, a smelted collusion of the evils intrinsic within both the world of MENSFOLK and the world of WILDLIFE.

WARNING

Please take this as a lesson and don’t leave your valuables on unguarded windowsills, Magpies only need a moment for you to turn your back….

Maggie the Magpie in a fine old Oak tree with her ill gotten gains. Yes that is a Christmas bauble there. Maggie stole Christmas.

Post 2: Dolly the Duck

For my next study I concentrated on a member of the wildlife family who lives a little closer to home, the Great British Duck.


Not much is known about these mysterious creatures, they swarm in to our rivers and ponds in their thousands, speaking to each other only in French, brazenly mating in public and mysteriously flying off to China each year to gather fresh strains of Flu.


Because of this evil within their feathery genes, the common British pastime of feeding ducks has become less and less common, and all too often these elegant yet dastardly creatures are left to fend for themselves, often forced to look beneath the waves for creatures of the deep to eat. 


Something had to be done.


I wasn't there to witness it, but I have been reliably informed that the EMPEROR OF THE DUCKS called a duck meeting and all the other ducks agreed to his despotic new doctrine. This is when ducks started loitering around the backs of supermarkets and bakeries, and when MANKIND was not looking they would thieve as many loaves as their little bills could snaffle, storing them in their little duck houses.


I spent many hours following Dolly the Duck until she led me to her illicit bread shelter - which housed 6 loaves of Hovis wholemeal bread. Piled with such care and neatness, Dolly was evidently proud of her kleptomania, scant regard given to the baker whose children would go hungry that night.


After sketching Dolly with her pile I left swiftly before the ducks uncovered me in my cunning disguise. After witnessing the majesty of Bobby the Whale, my faith in animal-kind had received a bludgeoning as it became apparent that the dishonesty involved in some species would force me to take a fresh view on the so called innocence of WILDLIFE. Over the coming days I would make further discoveries that shine a torch on the unchecked criminality rife amongst so many of 'Gods' beautiful beasts and birds.

WARNING

For any ducks reading this, you must realise the folly of your actions, the excess litter created by the bread-bags and sticky tie-up things that tie up the bread bags and stop all the bread falling out is rendering your homes uninhabitable. Think about what you are doing. Stop stealing from the common baker. You will soon be left hungry AND homeless.

Dolly the Duck, unknowingly spotted on the River Ouze