Beware the guys of march

For Hans and Hermann, Eric and Dora, Wendall and Cass, Silo and Roy and countless other couples across the globe, “March of the Penguins” has become the long walk to freedom.
Meanwhile, Charley, Left-Arrow, Diagonal-Line and Six-Point have returned home, crestfallen. Or would have if penguins had crests. The four hetero females had been brought from Sweden to Bremerhaven Zoo in Germany to lure local males away from gay relationships. But Hans and Herman and two other Humboldt couples “showed no interest at all,” sighed zoo spokesperson Heide Kuck.
Ms. Kuck defended the zoo’s efforts to “turn” the gay Humboldts. “The central question was, were they gay or was it simply a lack of opportunity? We now know the penguins were gay.”
The issue of homophobia in relation to the penguin world was brought into focus by the sensational success of the wild-life documentary March Of The Penguins.Christian commentators saw its depiction of the dedication and affection of mating penguins in the Antarctic as a celebration of family values and a refutation of evolution.
But the attention it focused on the sexual habits of the species has served also to reveal the incidence of homosexuality among the charming, flightless Spheniscidae.
The zoo-keepers of Bremerhaven had been sorely perplexed by the Humboldts’ refusal to breed until they realised the males had paired off. Last year, two of the pairs spent months sitting on stones, as if they were eggs.
“They did seem rather devoted to one another,” said Ms. Kuck. “But we had to be sure.”
Meanwhile, Edinburgh Zoo has denied rumours that Eric and Dora, two male King penguins living together, are to be split up. “There are no plans to move them, and they show no desire to change the arrangements.”
Generally speaking, seduction and intrigue are the order of the day among the 22 male and 10 female African black-footed penguins at the New York Aquarium in Coney Island. The females have taken advantage of the gender imbalance to indulge in spectacularly promiscuous behaviour. “They will casually dump their partners for single males with better nests,” says shocked (or not) keeper Stephanie Mitchell.
Wendell and Cass, however, both male, have been completely devoted to each other for eight years. “In fact, neither one of them has ever been with anyone else,” says Ms. Mitchell. “They are just so content.”
Reports that Wendell and Cass keep the neatest nest in the aquarium are dismissed by Ms. Mitchell. “They poop in the nest,” she says. “Hey, they are penguins.”
Over at Central Park, Silo and Roy, male Chinstrap penguins, have been in an exclusive relationship for four years. Last mating season, they hatched an egg together and have fostered a chick.
“They got all excited when we gave them the egg,” said Rob Gramzay, senior keeper for polar birds. He’d taken an extra egg from a young, inexperienced couple. “They did a really great job of taking care of the chick and feeding it.”
The attempt to turn the Bremerhaven gays was abandoned after progressive groups protested to mayor Joerg Schultz against “this organised and forced harassment by female seductresses.”
Reports now reach me that German Christian fundamentalists are preparing an intervention by Exodus International, an evangelical organisation which uses the power of Jesus to “re-programme” gays.
“It won’t work,” says Barry Duke of the Freethinker. “Penguins have no interest in religion.”
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Turned out I was wrong to assume that hardly anyone knew about B.H.Calcutta (Failed)’s grandfather fighting at the Battle of Vindaloo.
“I knew that,” Liam Gallagher, secretary of Derry Trades Council, chastised me as we emerged from the January meeting.
Another member was even aware that devotees of the Eyeballs in the Sky had put down a Trotskyist rebellion.
I’d suggested in a local newspaper the previous weekend that these were arcane secrets, known only to a tight-knit fellowship of Perishers fans. But it appears the tight-knit fellowship was teeming.
B. H. Calcutta (Failed) – with Marlon, Maisie, Wellington, Boot, Baby Grumpling, Tatty Oldbit, etc – featured in the best strip-cartoon ever, bar Doonesbury. The Perishers originated in 1958, began running daily in the Mirror in 1961. I’d contributed an obituary for their creator in the Derry Journal. Maurice Dodd, 83, had collapsed at home from a brain haemorrhage on New Year’s Eve and died in hospital the following day without regaining consciousness. An appropriate, merciful way to go.
I discovered The Perishers when working as a tree-transplanter for the Greater London Council in the 1960s with a bunch of mad cockneys who would while away an afternoon’s wet-time lolling around in our hut in Epping Forest acting out favourite Perisher scripts. Best time of my life, ever.
Maisie could detect the rustling sound of a bag of sweets being opened at a hundred yards range and appear instantly at the elbow of the owner: “Need any help with that paper bag?”
Tatty Oldbitt was a woman of loose skin and looser habits who, interviewed by B. H. Calcutta (Failed) about her colourful life, offered the opening gambit, “I don’t know ‘ow many ‘ot dinners you’ve ‘ad...”
Boot was an Olde English Sheepdog (“Hairy in front, Hairy behind, Hairy in body, Hairy in mind”), bound to his master Wellington by bonds of elastic and regarded as a god by religious crustaceans. His worshippers dwelt in a rock-pool at the seaside where The Perishers went on holiday every August. Each year, Boot would amble along to the rock-pool and gaze into the water. To the crabs, his eyeballs seemed as gigantic orbs, miraculously appearing above them at the same juncture every year. Quick as you could say “Organised Religion”, a high priest had emerged, who alone could interpret each year’s manifestation of the Eyeballs in the Sky.
One year, the Eyeballs were late (Wellington had lost the train tickets), which emboldened Trotskyist crustcaceans to doubt the supernatural nature of the Eyeballs and challenge the authority of the Eyeballs’ sole representative in the Poolivese. Fortunately, B. H. Calcutta (Failed) located the train ticket, the Eyeballs belatedly appeared, the rebellion collapsed, and the loyal crabs celebrated their deliverance with a lusty rendition of their anthem.

“There is something up on high which looks down on you and I,
The Eyeballs, the Eyeballs-in-the-Sky.
It’s the cosmic peeping-tom
And there’s nowhere to hide from
The Eyeballs, the Eyeballs-in-the-Sky.”
B. H. Calcutta (Failed) was a bloodhound who’d lost the olfactory sense when a pachyderm who’d ODed on curry-powder exploded during field trials for his sniffing certificate. Still, he had the glory of his grandfather, RSM and mascot with the Bombay Ducks, to fall back on for solace.
I havn’t even mentioned Marlon’s entrepreneurial flares.
Ah, the days of dope and glory, lustily, chorally, singing “Jerusalem” in our Transit van at five am, “Dendrologists are Go!” stencilled on the side, forest floor carpeted with crunchy snow, the A1 Caff in imminent prospect, and a fry-up with The Perishers to pore over.
“Oh papadoms they were crackling,
And biriani fairly flew.
But the Bombay Ducks, they stood their ground,
At the Battle of Vindaloo...
Their tongues and eyeballs steaming,
The enemy withdrew.
They ran like ants, and shed their pants,”
At the Battle of Vindaloo.”