There Once was a Really Tough Penguin
who fancied a fight with a polar bear. The bear had to be named Kevin or it just wouldn't be the same, now would it. I'm surprised I had to remind you all of that. Don't you read National Geographic? Very well up on fighting polar bear names, is National Geographic. I know that and I'm British. Anyway.
The penguin, who was called Arthur, also read National Geographic. Well, he did sometimes as his subscription didn't always arrive. Those cheeky robbing albatrosses would nick his copy before he'd had chance to read it. They're bad for that. Just because they have that biiiiiig wingspan and those evil looking beaks they think they can do anything they want. Talk about attitude! Arthur didn't like albatrosses. Not even the cute one who wore the pink mini skirt and the heavy mascara. He was a traditional penguin and he considered such gaudy displays the sign of a trollop.
So. Arthur lived at the opposite pole to polar bears. BUT he'd read about them in National Geographic and so, he packed up some fish in a bundle and set off on his long journey.
Across the antarctic ice he went.
Into the antarctic ocean he glided, and swan and swam and swam.
Onto dry land at Tierra del Fuego he stumbled, clambering and hopping over rocks (for he was a rock hopper penguin, dontcha know) until he reached a road. He thumbed a lift. Well, that's not true, it can't be, can it? Penguins are not well known for having thumbs. There's a reason for this: they DON'T have thumbs. Hence them not being well known for it. Instead he had to flap a wing as only penguins can, in that stunted, barely flapping way of theirs.
Three weeks.
THREE WEEKS.
That's how long it took Arthur to get a lift. It was in an ice cream van driven by a cross dressing man named Gertrude. Conversation was, understandably, on the light side. There was Arthur, a penguin, and there was Gertrude, a man wearing a lovely gingham dress. Different people. Different worlds. They had nothing in common. Gertrude didn't even like to go fishing. The horror!
Arthur's journey took many, many months. He braved untold dangers. Dense jungles, crocodile infested rivers, freeways, byways, my ways, McDonalds, canyons, canons, cantons and cartons. None of these perils deterred our plucky, up-for-a-ruck bird. The only moment of doubt he had was when a girl scout attempted to sell him a cookie. The girl scout, in her uniform, resembled a vision in the penguin race memory of their Creator, Grandus Penguinus Kickarsius. So filled with terror was he on seeing this representation of his God that he considered going back home. But no. The vision of Kevin the polar bear was too large in his mind, the impulse to fight the beast too strong.
At length, Arthur noticed that the weather was turning colder. He had crossed into a country that the humans called 'Canadia! Home of the Mounted Beavers!' (Or was that 'Mounties and beavers? Arthur's english wasn't too good.) Thje cold winds came and the frozen tundra replaced the softer, more forgiving soils of the more southerly countries. It was polar bear country!
Arthur set to work. Mark I eyeball. That would do it! He walked and walked. He looked around him. He stopped for one of his (now smelly and very old) pre-oacked fish. He walked again. And carried on until CLONK! He walked inot a big warm mound of snow. Hang on. WARM? He stepped back and saw the mound of snow rise to its feet. It was a polar bear! A real, live, genuine polar bear!
Arthur pulled himself up to his full height and looked the polar bear dead in the eye.
'Oi, polar bear! Is your name Kevin?' he saisd in his high-pitched, penguin language.
'Blimey, this penguin's making a right old racket,' though the bear, 'I'd better shut it up fast or I'll never get to sleep.' He reached out with a huge paw, plucked Arthur up from the ground and ate him with a single gulp. Poor Arthur. If only he had known that this was Kieran the polar bear, and his cousin was named Kevin!
FIN
The penguin, who was called Arthur, also read National Geographic. Well, he did sometimes as his subscription didn't always arrive. Those cheeky robbing albatrosses would nick his copy before he'd had chance to read it. They're bad for that. Just because they have that biiiiiig wingspan and those evil looking beaks they think they can do anything they want. Talk about attitude! Arthur didn't like albatrosses. Not even the cute one who wore the pink mini skirt and the heavy mascara. He was a traditional penguin and he considered such gaudy displays the sign of a trollop.
So. Arthur lived at the opposite pole to polar bears. BUT he'd read about them in National Geographic and so, he packed up some fish in a bundle and set off on his long journey.
Across the antarctic ice he went.
Into the antarctic ocean he glided, and swan and swam and swam.
Onto dry land at Tierra del Fuego he stumbled, clambering and hopping over rocks (for he was a rock hopper penguin, dontcha know) until he reached a road. He thumbed a lift. Well, that's not true, it can't be, can it? Penguins are not well known for having thumbs. There's a reason for this: they DON'T have thumbs. Hence them not being well known for it. Instead he had to flap a wing as only penguins can, in that stunted, barely flapping way of theirs.
Three weeks.
THREE WEEKS.
That's how long it took Arthur to get a lift. It was in an ice cream van driven by a cross dressing man named Gertrude. Conversation was, understandably, on the light side. There was Arthur, a penguin, and there was Gertrude, a man wearing a lovely gingham dress. Different people. Different worlds. They had nothing in common. Gertrude didn't even like to go fishing. The horror!
Arthur's journey took many, many months. He braved untold dangers. Dense jungles, crocodile infested rivers, freeways, byways, my ways, McDonalds, canyons, canons, cantons and cartons. None of these perils deterred our plucky, up-for-a-ruck bird. The only moment of doubt he had was when a girl scout attempted to sell him a cookie. The girl scout, in her uniform, resembled a vision in the penguin race memory of their Creator, Grandus Penguinus Kickarsius. So filled with terror was he on seeing this representation of his God that he considered going back home. But no. The vision of Kevin the polar bear was too large in his mind, the impulse to fight the beast too strong.
At length, Arthur noticed that the weather was turning colder. He had crossed into a country that the humans called 'Canadia! Home of the Mounted Beavers!' (Or was that 'Mounties and beavers? Arthur's english wasn't too good.) Thje cold winds came and the frozen tundra replaced the softer, more forgiving soils of the more southerly countries. It was polar bear country!
Arthur set to work. Mark I eyeball. That would do it! He walked and walked. He looked around him. He stopped for one of his (now smelly and very old) pre-oacked fish. He walked again. And carried on until CLONK! He walked inot a big warm mound of snow. Hang on. WARM? He stepped back and saw the mound of snow rise to its feet. It was a polar bear! A real, live, genuine polar bear!
Arthur pulled himself up to his full height and looked the polar bear dead in the eye.
'Oi, polar bear! Is your name Kevin?' he saisd in his high-pitched, penguin language.
'Blimey, this penguin's making a right old racket,' though the bear, 'I'd better shut it up fast or I'll never get to sleep.' He reached out with a huge paw, plucked Arthur up from the ground and ate him with a single gulp. Poor Arthur. If only he had known that this was Kieran the polar bear, and his cousin was named Kevin!
FIN