Dear India Lopez
I received note of a particularly unflattering review of my opening night at this year’s Comedy Festival. This is fine. Comedy is a hugely subjective art form and you are entitled to your opinion. The best comedians in the world, past and present, have all received and still do receive, negative and unhelpful reviews from writers, who feel it is their duty to put their opinions out there.
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Ladies and gentlefellow, my Comedy Festival show starts next week- here is the pitch…
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My name is Sarah Harpur. I am 29 years old. I am 5’3” and have feet that are wider than they are long. Like a Welsh-Mountain Pony, I am stable on rough terrain. Unlike a Welsh Mountain Pony, I can not carry a 16 stone man on my back over said rough terrain.
Once upon a time, I had a website named after me. It was named after me because I paid for the site and bought it with my own pocket money. I loved this site. It was the place where my half formed, embryonic thoughts developed and grew into beautiful two-headed babies with facial hair and a penchant for cheap vodka. Yes, my children were abominable to some, but they had a right to exist. Some people loved my freakish kids as much as I did.
One day, two years later, I could no longer use my email address that was attached to my domain. To cut a long story short, I did not receive forewarning of my domain’s expiry and it was purchased legally by one, Yoshio Kanazawa.
My website was now written entirely in Japanese. It looks lame as. See?
What has become of my website!
Perhaps the most irritating thing is my old domain is valuable only to me. I would understand the desire to purchase my domain if it was ‘freep0rn.c0m’ or ‘buyonlinecrapforcheap.com’; but my site was based on my name and identity as a human and writer.
Maybe Yoshio Kanazawa incorrectly thought my site got a lot of traffic. Yoshio was wrong. Yoshio could not be more wrong. If Yoshio dressed up like a baby, wore giant nappies and was raised by a house cow, he could not be more wrong. The most traffic my site got was the day it was mentioned in the Sunday Star Times in July 2010. That day, the high point of my online publishing career, saw the site receive a whopping 232 hits. That’s right. THREE figures. Yoshio, you ass, you are barking up the wrong tree.
WordPress suggested I purchase ‘myownwebsite.org’ or ‘myownwebsite.net’, but the confusion that would create would be astronomical. It would only serve to divert traffic to the legal-stealer of my domain, while I got the honour of owning the inferior version of my own domain. WordPress, my friends, you underestimate the level of revenge I seek.
Yoshio Kanazawa did not respond to my polite and heartfelt requests to buy back my site. Yoshio Kanazawa may not even exist.
Yoshio Kanazawa may have purchased my site legally, but there are many things in life that are perfectly legal. It does not make them moral, fair or even good. That domain was a product of MY idea, my intellectual property. And it has not been protected. It pisses me off. Yoshio Kanazawa took something of mine, and it is causing me headaches and eye-twitches.
Yoshio has now forced me to buy the narcissistic domain of http://sarahhharpur.com . I didn’t want to do that. He has left me with no option than be a cheap, self-promoting, self-promoter. He has taken my name, and made it a star of a SHIT website.
Well Yoshio. I have many plans for legal revenge. The first starts here. You purchased my identity. Now I have purchased yours. www.yoshiokanazawa.com is now MINE. It is going to be the crappest website in the world. Dedicated to all things legal, but shit. Just like you, Yoshio Kanazawa, you evil mastermind.
I am determined to cause Yoshio some seriously mild inconvenience. The shit website will be a tribute to Yoshio Kanazawa and other shit things in life.
Thank you very much for your support. Love from Sarah, AKA, DJ Big Sez
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I found this short story I wrote a couple of months and it made me smile. Here is the epic saga of ‘Doug’s Hole’.
Douglas sat on the front step, and held his sunken chin with his finger and thumb. He looked at the puddle on the lawn and wondered if last night was just a dream. Did Genghis Khan really sit on the edge of his bed last night? Did the Mongolian warrior, with his modern hair-cut, gently touch the side of his clammy face and demand that a tunnel be dug from his lawn through to China?
Normally, Douglaswould have discounted such ridiculous memories as manufactured, but the angry rash on his left cheek very specifically indicated that someone with poor hygiene from the past had been in contact with it.
Douglaswas a logical man, his thoughts tumbled forward with ease, never diverting off his linear brain-staircase. He worked in computer programming. He believed in cause and effect, he believed in gravity; now, he believed in the words of a dead ancient warrior. Douglas reasoned that his mind did not have the capability to imagine such an event, therefore, it was fact.
The sweat in Douglas’ hands was sucked into the wooden handle before it had a chance to exit his pores. He was stuck to the spade. He had never done any ‘man jobs’ before. Digging a hole to China would definitely be categorised as a ‘man job’. He was nervous, but surprisingly exhilarated by the brute masculine force and strength that would be required to complete his order.
A track was forming in Douglas’ sodden front lawn. Douglas was prowling back and forth in his black leather work shoes. The tread in the rubber soles filled up with mud. Traction was no longer a feature of these shoes. Douglas slipped. His arms were pre-occupied with the spade. They were not there to break his fall. He landed heavily on his rear. “Rhythm!” he yelled, forDouglas did not swear. He theorised that the cathartic release others felt when swearing had nothing to do with the inflammatory word itself, but the vowel-to-consonant-ratio. He saw no point in swearing and substituted cuss-words for words with minimal vowels. Douglas was a logical man, but logic can not be applied to all things, especially the euphoric high that follows the over announced use of the words ‘fuck’, ‘shit’ and ‘cunt’. The smugness Douglas felt was intense, but was merely a nicotine patch compared to the head rush of smoking a four letter word. ButDouglaswas a logical man. To him, feelings and emotions were as manufactured as Windows Vista. He was logical, but had a lot to learn about humans in general.
Douglas slowly peeled himself from the Douglas-shaped crater in the earth, still grasping the spade. He let go of it with his right hand to answer the phone ringing in his back pocket. The phone was dirty. Douglas was more disappointed than he would ever admit.
“Hello,Douglas speaking?”
“Douglas! Are you OK?”
“I’m fine.”
“Oh good. But you are not at work. We were worried.”
“I will not be at work this week. Or next week. Something came up.”
“Is everything OK?”
“Yeah, I just need to dig a big hole.”
“OK. I’ll tell Simon you are sick…”
“Not sick. Digging a hole.”
“Yeah, but you have never used a sick day…”
“I’m not sick.”
“OK Doug. Good luck with the hole?”
“Thanks Chris.”
Douglastucked his tummy, then his phone, back into his pinstriped pants. He looked at the puddle in his lawn. He began to dig.
Doug dug.
Douglasthought of the wonderful globe in his lounge that sat quietly next to his dusty book shelf. At 4.01am that morning, he had placed a pin into his current location. Fiji. At 4.02am, he placed another pin in his destination. China. He calculated the angle in which he should be digging. He was delighted to see that he would not have to tunnel through the core of the Earth. He had read reviews of the Earth’s core on Lonely Planet and he did not care to visit. He was also delighted to see the just how bigChinawas. Though he had no intention of making a mistake, there quite a large margin of error. This made the onerous task seem slightly more friendly. The task did not seem so friendly in it’s actual execution.
A spade, when in motion, is heavier than Doug predicted . The prickling in his arms was foreign to him. His brain was the only muscle he had used in excess since he was twelve. He grunted and was surprised by the animalistic noise that escaped the throat of such a logical man. Looking down, he saw a hole. Looking up, he saw a row of children that had accumulated. They were sand dumped by ocean currents on a coastal spit. He did not care for their attitude. He did not care for the way in which they encroached his fence’s personal space. He did not care for the way they taunted “Ginger! You digging to China?”
He was digging to China. Modern Genghis would reward him. That was logic. He dug until the growing deposits of humans on the edge of the earths crust were out of view. Good.
He dug for seven days and seven nights. He did not stop. He did question this quest, but he did not stop. His muscles grew stronger with each dig. His muscles did not tire, so this was not logic.
He stopped.
He looked at his sweaty biceps, they bulged obscenely. They had ripped through his computer programmer’s shirt. No shirt could contain muscles this size. That was physics. They shone in the moonlight. Doug had never cast a shadow like this before. His silhouette was magnificent. His pinstripe pants hung loosely off him. In seven days, he had developed the physique of a super hero.
China suddenly seemed less appealing. Modern Genghis suddenly seemed less abominable. Doug wondered if a ginger man with the body of a God and the mind of a calculator would ever truly fit inChina.
He started to climb the walls of his self-made ravine. The sounds from the human deposits grew louder. He could hear helicopters and film crews. Lights flashed. He kept on climbing. He pierced new layers of sound. More details emerged. He could feel the rumble of anticipation as he was borne from the sodden ground. The crowd cheered. Women gasped. Men watched the women gasping. They would have resented the effect he had on the ladies if they did not wish to be him so badly.
Douglas threw his sodden clothes into the crowd. He threw his business card to the most attractive of his lady friends. He strutted inside his house. He left the media to battle for story angles.
That night, Modern Genghis sat on the edge of his bed. Doug was not afraid.
“Genghis. I am not digging toChina.”
“I know man. You weren’t meant to.”
“Then why?”
“You know why. Look at your sweet abs. The world is yours. The destination was irrelevant.”
“I get it, Genghis. Thanks.
The next week Doug went on 6 dates with fiercely attractive women. To this day he is still a computer programmer, but maintains a strict exercise regime.
No matter what happened in his life from then on, Doug had dug that hole. It did not go all the way to China, but it was still pretty impressive.
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The long and winding road to Edinburgh 2011 has turned out to be a cul de sac. At this stage last year, things were still very much up in the air but I had many sponsorship irons in the fire. There were many variables, some known unknowns and even some unknown unknowns. But alas! This is not the case for Sarahtron 4million this time around. This year I was super organised, ahead of schedule and on top of my many proposals, synergies and begging letters. Which means, last year I had no idea what good fortune/dividends lay ahead. But this year, I know my goose is cooked. And it’s a pet goose, so it’s even more sad. Poor Jonathan Goose. My solo one-hour shows are off the beaten track. I am not based on or creatively inspired by any other comic. I don’t pick up the overflow of a sold out Ricky Gervais gig or the straggling late-comers to an already started Sarah Silverman performance. My new show, Immortal Combat, takes you on a surreal, sometimes creepy, always good-natured, multi-media journey through my thoughts on Immortality vs Legacy. This sort of comedy does not sell itself. I have consistently been met with either wide-eyed confusion or enthralled, engaged macabre-loving rapture. This means the walk up appeal to these shows can be less than others. I am careful not to sell or advertise my shows as something they are not. So if a Hen party of 20 drunken women/beasts roll up to a comedy club with two shows billed: One promising tales of debauchery and jokes about people from Lower Hutt OR some smug hot yoga enthusiast asking you to enter into a “Willing Suspension Of Disbelief” whilst speaking to you from the future, dancing to Kate Bush and singing about her dead Dad; I don’t see that $300 coming her way. The people who like and support my live shows do so with huge enthusiasm and massive encouragement. I am aware, however, that it is not everybody’s cup of tea. And that is absolutely fine. But I will not change what I like to do and how I like to write. I like my material. I have faith in it. But being different costs. Festivals are a struggle for all acts. I have heard of wonderful performers selling out their run at festivals and STILL losing money due to inflated venue hire, marketing costs, travel (especially if it is outside of NZ), accommodation and living expenses, registration fees and time away from the inescapable ‘day-job’. Edinburgh was to be my fourth festival for 2011. Adelaide Fringe was in March, Dunedin Fringe (where I won Best Comedy) again in March, NZ Comedy Festival in May; and then Edinburgh in August. That’s a new marketing run for each festival. Travel, accommodation, living expense etc. x 4 and we are only half way through the year. This is why sponsorship, Creative NZ funding and corporate support (thank you Mojo Coffee) are so integral to getting shows seen. The industry is filled with capable, talented and brilliant performers, but not necessarily the spending power of a public who can support them monetarily. Janet Jackson said “The best things in life are free.” Thanks for that, Janny (we are pretty good mates, I can get away with calling her that); A good laugh is free. A joke. That’s free. But getting your bloody show to a festival is not free. It costs, Janny. It costs money. And lots of it. It costs tears. And frustration. And self doubt. I have been cavalier in my comedy career since it was born just over three years ago, here, in Wellington. I have brought shows to every corner of NZ, to Australia and to the Daddy of all festivals, Edinburgh. But this year, after three wonderful, tearful and exhilarating festivals, I have run into a brick wall. And it hurts my face. I just can’t make Edinburgh work without sacrificing too much of later in the year. Time I have set aside for creating. Working on scripts, next years show, a book. Time that I would then have to spend temping in the Department of Labour paying off the four or five grand I could potentially lose by shutting my eyes and just boarding that plane to Edinburgh. I have made an executive decision. This Lion/Human hybrid will retire to the cave lick her wounds. This ‘lioman’ will come back stronger, safe in the knowledge that although she is missing the greatest festival on the planet, that although her award winning show will now not get it’s UK airing it deserves; she is not condemning herself to 8 months in admin to pay for one folly. I have done Edinburgh and it is wonderful. Am I disappointed to not be going this year? I am gutted. I am as gutted as Drew Barrymore when she was in the first Scream film and was hung from a tree, then actually gutted. But there comes a time when good sense must prevail. With a glossier mane and shinier teeth, I’ll be back.
This article is number 5 in a series of ten originally published on http://humorous.co.nz
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Today it is one month till the opening night of my show at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. I say night, but my show is at 5.30pm, it is more of a daylight thing. But there is no shame in having a daytime show. Edinburgh is light till 11.00pm during August. Last year I had a 2.30pm slot, which meant my show attracted people who needed something to do after lunch or time to kill before the show they ACTUALLY wanted to see began. So compared to that, 5.30pm is a primetime slot!
At this stage, my inbox is inundated with special ‘artist only’ advertising deals. When you consider that tens of thousands of artists will be coming to the festival, these deals are not so special anymore. I am pleased that I have been to this festival before, as I now know that to spend hundreds of dollars to promote ones show could possibly be the biggest waste of money since the electric bread knife. During the festival, Edinburgh is at saturation point with thousands of hopefuls desperately trying to herd some of the millions of tourists to their show. The Royal Mile and surrounding streets are caked with discarded flyers, brochures and leaflets. Every wall is plastered with posters. And a poster may only see the light of day for half an hour before another one is slapped on top of it.
Edinburgh may be the biggest fringe festival on the planet, but that is in no way a guarantee that your show will get seen by the right people, if any people at all. I am told that the average number of people to a show in Edinburgh is 6. That’s right, six. How’s that for living the dream? The bad thing about small crowds is that it can be awkward for all concerned. The performer is embarrassed that more people did not come to their show. The audience members are embarrassed that they chose to come to the show with only 2 other people in the crowd. It takes a while for the comedian to accept the fact that a spattering of giggles can be the best to hope for; and for the audience to accept that their horrific laugh has no place to hide in this small forest of people. When that happens, everyone chills out a bit and the more intimate shows can be a lot of fun. The good thing about a small crowd in broad daylight is that it makes you appreciate a full house of jolly drunk people in the dark.
At this stage I am still waiting to see if I am even able to get there. A couple more declines of my proposal lie opened on my dining table and dotted through my inbox. I don’t like my fate being left to the goodwill of others. Especially in this financial climate. The prospect of me spending a month in Europe in the summer, while I know is extremely hard work, does not evoke feelings of empathy in others. If I was blind, with a terminal disease and a hungry puppy, people might feel more charitable, but at the moment my plight does not really warrant a symphony of violins.
I am trying to stay busy. Ordering flyers that may never be handed out, looking for flats in Scotland and handing in my notice to my landlord. I have lived in the same house for five years now, and in two weeks I am moving out. Only time will tell if I am moving to Scotland to rub shoulders with the biggest names in show biz; or to a cave in the country, licking my wounds and concocting plans to create a new breed of sheep.
This article is part 3 of a series being written for and originally published on http://humorous.co.nz
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Tagged Bizarre, Comedy, comedy festival, ed fringe, Edinburgh, Edinburgh Fringe, festival, Harpur, Kiwi, New Zealand, Sarah, Sarah Harpur, satire, Standup
I am still waiting to hear back from my prospective benefactors in regards to getting to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival in August. I am an orphan, they: my wealthy uncle who is happy to pay for my upkeep, but is not interested in spending time or affection on me. I am Julia Roberts, they are Richard Gere. Except Julia Roberts is a comedian, and Richard Gere is an above-board, professional sponsor of legal and morally appropriate goods and services in the form of plane tickets.
At the moment, I have had enough interest from my potential sponsors to remain hopeful. But it has been a couple more weeks of extra waiting now, and I am in limbo. I do not know whether to start packing my suitcase, or start handing out my CV at Pak’n'Save Petone.
The waiting is starting to wear on my self esteem. I am wondering: Would they call me back if I had only emphasised my enthusiasm by putting a few extra exclamation marks in the proposal? I am wondering: if I was funnier, prettier, skinnier or richer, would get a returned call? Did I say something wrong? Am I ugly? Do I deserve love?
Not one to leave my fate in the hands of others, I have turned to other ways in which to raise capital for my journey. I had my first of two fundraiser gigs on Saturday night. It was with 2011 Billy T winner, Nick Gibb, in his home town. A chance for the Manawatu to support their success stories! A chance to see some award winning comedians! A chance for more exclamation marks!!!!
While the gig was lovely, a 200 seat venue with barely 40 seats filled does not pay ones way to the UK. While the crowd was amazingly supportive, enthusiastic and delighted, the profits would not even pay for a one-way flight to Palmerston North. I know this, because I just checked.
I was meant to have my second fundraiser this weekend in my hometown of Dannevirke; but with only 3 tickets pre sold, I decided to postpone it for a few weeks. Fundraising can be an expensive endeavour, and I refuse to walk away from a fundraiser where I walk away in a broker condition than when I started. I will drum up the Dannevirke New! Publicity stunts! Banners from Planes! People will come! Just not this Friday, it would seem.
So for now, I wait for the call. I will plan more plans and I will wait.
While I wait, I will work on my Edinburgh show. I like my show. I am proud of my show. It is original, it is clever, it is funny and I have worked my ass off on it. But it could always be better. I will nitpick, I will dissect and I will focus my energy on making sure that when I get to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, I have with me a show that deserves to be there.
Waiting is lame.
This article is part 2 of a ten part series originally written forhttp://humorous.co.nz
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It was this time last year and I had just booked my first flight to the UK. I was to attend the one fringe festival to rule them all. Edinburgh. And I was excited. As long as I had been a comedian, I had yearned to travel to the UK. The home of the BBC. The home of the best written, most original comedy shows on television. The home of chips and gravy.
But I had always had the same, seemingly valid excuse. “I can’t afford this”.
It was time to change tack. I paid my $800 registration fee, hoped for the best and stocked up on beans and pasta.
I was sitting on the plane, leaving for Edinburgh with only £300 cash to last 5 weeks in the UK (my rent alone cost £500), I got a phone call. The Max Foundation were awarding me a $2,000 scholarship to help towards my trip. Like any proper girl, this convinced me that I was ‘meant’ to be going there. And I cried. Shame.
Good luck came to me in the last minute, and my career is glad it did.
I performed my 1 hour show 19 times, amongst thousands of performers from all over the world. Some of them were world class acts. Some of them were university students. Some of them were yet to be discovered stars. Some were filthy carnies trying to make a buck on the Royal Mile posing as ‘Living Statues’. “Get a real job!” I would silently hiss at them as I handed out flyers to tourists who reveled in telling me how much they hated comedy, especially when performed by females.
Prior to this festival, I had performed my 1 hour show just four times. I got more stage time in a few weeks in Edinburgh than I had in the 2 years leading up to it. It was comedy bootcamp (except I was not getting sexy abs and a toned booty, I was growing an extra layer of insulation from my discovery of Ben and Jerry’s ice-cream as an effective cure for self doubt).
After three weeks of performing daily, in front of crowds from all over the world, even when I was tired, broke, emotional and fed up; I finished, feeling exhausted, yet bullet proof.
I was heckled, had people walk out of my show, cry, buy me beer, and wear my ‘Dead Dads Club’ badge with pride. I made professional contacts, amazing friends and ate deep fried haggis. I drank at the same bar as Dylan Moran. I cried only 3 times on day 18. Apparently that is hard-core. Most people cry way more than that.
Edinburgh was a beast, but it did not smash me up and liquefy my bones as I expected it to.
It made me tough.
A year has passed and I’m going back. Armed with the knowledge of things I now know, I intend to make this years festival even better and more productive.
But this time, this year, I have not yet booked my ticket.
“Why not, Sarah? They only get more expensive by the day!”
Yes. I know this. But my pursuit of professional growth has cost me considerably. Money is a measurable language everyone understands. Let me get out the tape measure. Imagine a twenty-something year old Netballer supplementing their income with some temporary work at the Department of Labour. Now imagine that person having to spend over 50% of their net income on Netball shoes. That’s what I did (as you may have realised, netball shoes are a metaphor.)
I rely hugely on grants and sponsorship to get to festivals. For example, Mojo coffee have been a massive help this year and last; I am fiercely loyal and grateful for their support (I will drink Mojo coffee till my teeth have assimilated the same shade as their delicately roasted coffee beans).
I have not bought my ticket yet, because I physically can not. But do not fear!
I have spent the last few months working like an Orc (but a non-evil one) trying to hustle some flights. One by one my proposals have come back declined. But hope remains.
Yes! A seed of hope! I have my last proposal in the hands of the correct people. I sleep with my phone. I am awaiting a response-slash-miracle. I am Gandalf, I have done my bit, now it’s time to see if those hobbits come back with good news.
Till then, I will continue to tap my wizard wand impatiently, asking the same questions I ask myself time and time again- ‘Can lightning strike twice?’ followed by ‘Am I brave- or stupid?’ then ‘Why don’t I just get a job at the Department of Labour and do comedy as a hobby?’
This article is the first in a series of 10 written for The Humorous Arts Trust http://humorous.co.nz
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Tagged career, Comedy, Edinburgh Fringe, festival, flights, Harpur, humour, Kiwi, mojo coffee, Sarah, Sarah Harpur, sponsor, Standup
An Emperor penguin from Antarctica arrived Peka Peka Beach, Kapiti, New Zealand. Scientists are baffled as to how he got there. I am not. Behold the story of Nigel: Emperor of Emperors.
Photo by Ross Giblin / Dominion Post
Nigel, the Emperor of the Emperor penguins was a fair and just ruler. He abolished slavery, and banished the polar bears back to the Arctic. They tried to move to Antarctica due to the melting of their home, and while he had sympathy for them, he had degrees in both Ecosystem Management and Immigration Policy; and did not envisage their integration as being a harmonious one.
Nigel, whilst being fair and just, enjoyed the creature comforts that came with being the Emperor of Emperors in Antarctica. He had delicious food on rotation that was brought to him on silver platters by fit and naked penguins. The most attractive penguin ladies; highly symmetrical, demonstrating highly resonant procreation cries, were constantly begging to mate with him. He would never cheat on his wife, Donna, but the interest in him was very flattering and the confidence boost ensured he never acted out of insecurity.
He had a limitless supply of food collected for him. Great pride was taken in the foods preparation. The best and most attentive of his hunting team pecked the eyeballs out of all caught fish, as Nigel had an endearing ‘thing’ about eyeballs. He would not eat them. He was paranoid the fish in his tummy would witness the other fish digesting in his tummy and be traumatised. This belief illustrated both his lack of knowledge about the potency of stomach acid and the viewing capabilities of dead fish; but was simultaneously a fine example of his empathic nature.
Nigel was the youngest Emperor penguin in history to become Emperor. His youthful perspective was a breath of crisp Antarctic air. His ideas on the Minimum Wage Review were inspired. His mere presence created flow and disrupted stagnation.
Nigel was a thinker, a philosopher. However, he was flawed; flawed in a tragically beautiful way.
The Emperor thought about things to an unnecessary and sometimes unproductive level sometimes. He worried that his hunting skills were breaking up the marriages of shrimp, leaving the crustaceans widowed and morose. He also felt pangs of guilt, like never-tiring punches to his oily liver, about the orphaned squid left behind after every penguin’s meal. He knew deep in his lightweight, flexible bones that most of the antisocial and violent behaviour displayed by delinquent squid gangs was in correlation to the consumption of one or both of their parents. Social order was disorganised. The icebergs were getting tagged with squid ink obscenities. Even in the posh areas, crude scrawlings stained the ice and upset the ‘white levels’, which must stay at around 84%. Ancient penguins prophesised in caves that if the percentage of white dropped below this level, Antarctica would fall into darkness. They reasoned the creation of light was a chain reaction of reflections bouncing off the ice, back and forth, magnifying, and escalating to infinity. It was like a game of pool where momentum never wore out and inertia was powerless. No one had thought to test the validity of this theory. It was perfect logic for a penguin, therefore indisputable. No one had thought to question why a penguin would use a game of pool as an analogy, though it is rumoured that American scientists at Scotts Base have a pool table and are shark-like in their exploitation of penguins in their illegal pool tournaments.
Nigel felt levels of guilt that had no place inside the heart of a bird. His innate need for survival was in conflict with the other sea creatures need for family stability.
His constant worrying concerned Donna, who decided without consultation that he should seek help. After work one evening, she took him to what she thought was a counselling session at Josh and Tina’s spot in the valley. It was actually a mutiny-slash-intervention.
Pengy Ping-Pong, Deputy Emperor, was standing centre-forward of a large assembly of Antarctica’s noblest dignitaries. “Emperor, you are fair and just, but you worry far too much. We are concerned that your ability to rule Antarctica is being jeopardised by your humanistic thought processes.”
“I am a good Emperor.”
“That is disputable. Pingu saw you drafting up papers to open a Squid adoption agency, pairing up orphaned baby squids with infertile adults.”
“It will solve the graffiti problem.”
“Nigel, this is the exact bat-shit crazy stuff that is concerning us!” Pengy Ping-Pong was exasperated. He was next in line to the throne, but took no joy in receiving it this way.
“What is a bat?”
The penguins, black bowling pins in an icy lane, shuffled nervously.
“Donna. You tricked me.”
The shuffling increased. No one wanted to witness the quick corrosion of this marriage. “Nigel. I am so sorry. I didn’t know this was happening. I swear. I thought we were going to interpret squid-ink blots until you felt better.”
“And to think I turned down a threesome for you.”
“That hurts Nigel.”
“Donna, you are dead to me.”
Nigel the Ex-Emperor of the Emperor penguins could not face his narrow-minded community. He did not want to see another penguin as long as he lived.
He leapt into the ocean and swam. He did not look back, his streamlined form made sure of that.
He passed schools of fish. They darted in terror. This was not the legacy he wished to leave behind.
He was tired, he was hungry, but he would not shatter his resolve to respect a fish’s family unit.
The water got warmer. Too warm for a penguin. He continued. He would break free from the ways of the Penguin. He would become a man, a human man, where thinking is encouraged, and adopting other races was fashionable.
He landed on a beach in New Zealand. The ice was brown and whipped him when the wind blew. There was only 4% white. Yet not in darkness. Penguins had a lot to learn.
He thought of Donna as he tried to cool down. The brown ice was not refreshing and stuck to his throat. Donna. Was she really to blame? Of course she wasn’t. Sweet, simple Donna, who had aspirations of being a hairdresser ‘til she was swept into the foray of penguin politics. He forgave her. He sent his apologies with the winds that were bound for his birthplace. He would never return.
He ate a stick. He handed his life to the surrounding humans. He awaited his fate. He was not worried.
For the epilogue of this story, go to : http://www.stuff.co.nz/environment/5185989/Ailing-Kapiti-emperor-penguin-rescued#
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Tagged beach, Comedy, conservation, debate, Donna, emperor, emperor penguin, humour, Inspirational, Kapiti, Kiwi, literature, mutany, native, New Zealand, Nigel, ocean, peka peka, politics, Sarah, Sarah Harpur, warm
Sarah Harpur is an Award Winning Comedian and raiser of one human and a teenage cat. She has a lot of ideas. Some of them are good, most of them bizarre. This blog is also published through the View New Zealand Websites.
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