The Hippopotamus And His Hippapotamissus (Part Two)

© 2012 David Jasmin-Green

“What the hell are you doing here?” the hippo said from a prone position on the stained double mattress that was the only item of furniture in his sleeping pod. Without much success he tried to hide the mountain of used tissues on the floor as a not even remotely bemused looking moose mopped his sweating brow with a damp J cloth. “Don't do that, please – it's comforting, but you'll lift my French Polish.”

“What sort of a question is that?” Blodwen snapped. “Isn't it obvious? I've come to find you and drag you home by the ear, you hippopotamissus deserting bastard!”

“Aah, I see. I must say that seeing you was the last thing I expected. How did you find me?”

“It was hard, but nowhere near as hard as you might imagine. I searched high and low across your known haunts without success. I never stopped searching for three bloody years, in fact, and then I simply fell back on my feminine intuition - you gave the game away, didn't you, because you always used to say you'd bugger off to the dark side of the moon for a bit of peace and quiet when the kids were getting on your nerves. I've put the groceries away, love, had a quick sprint round with the hoover, done the washing up and scrubbed the fridge out with Domestos. What was that huge, green and orange mouldy lump at the back? This place is filthy.”

“Hmm,” the hippo grunted. “Thanks. So what are the taffs doing with a space craft? You haven't explained that yet. I suppose they nicked it from a tourist, resprayed it and changed the number plates. ”

“Oh, that. It was big news a week or two after you vanished into thin air, after you left me with six kids to raise as a single parent, you complete tosser, as if raising moosapotami isn't bloody hard enough.”

“I'm, er, sorry. What can I say? I just couldn't take it any more. I was sick of the the arguments, the constant shouting and slamming of doors, and I guess I must have had a breakdown of sorts. No, I might as well tell the truth, I was just a selfish old fucker. You were about to explain the mystery of the technologically advanced taffy wankers – I'm brimming with anticipation.”

“What is it with your hatred of all things Welsh? You sound like I must have sounded on the fateful day I wandered into your wigwam in the middle of the Gobi bleeding Desert. I explained that I wasn't overfond of the Welsh in a roundabout sort of a way because of my Welsh grandpa, who was a bit of a - well, he was a nonce, the dirty old fucker. Imagine my surprise when I followed you into your bedroom, when we had our first lovely kiss and cuddle and finally exchanged names.....

'Dafydd – fucking Dafydd?' I screeched. 'You seriously expect me to drop my expensive Marks and Sparks lacy knick-knacks for a mahogany hippo-fucking-potamus called Dafydd Davies? What sodding planet are you on? I hate the Welsh, you complete cunt – which part of that statement can't you get your fool head around? The next thing you'll tell me, I suppose, is that you're a bloody bible-basher!'”

“Ha!” Dafydd replied. “I despise all things Welsh, even my own detestable Welshness, I'm embarrassed to say, which is why my stage name was 'The Mahogany Knob of Africa.' I can't explain the reasoning behind that philosophy convincingly, sweet pea – I couldn't then and I still can't. Well, I suppose I could try. It's about bloody time you had some sort of explanation, isn't it?

I guess I denied my Welshness because I ached to escape from my rather unglamorous roots, I wanted to make a fresh start and all that. I've had time to think now, though – and after much deep contemplation I've decided that I want to go back to my roots rather than avoid them.

My hatred is unreasonable, I know. I've tried to get over it all my life, but it lingers, it hangs over my head like a ravenous Jabberwock threatening to swallow me up, and it refuses to go away. The only race I hate more than the Welsh are the bastard Germans – the Welsh are angels compared to those cunts, but that's because they murdered my grandparents during the war.....

My granddad was in London on business, apparently he was in a building that suffered a direct hit from a V2 rocket and all they found was a chunk of his tusk. And my grandma, bless her soul, died in Treblinka. She travelled to Germany to see her relatives in Berlin just before war broke out, despite all the warnings not to, the stubborn git. As you can appreciate it was impossible to smuggle out a two and a half ton hippo, whether or not the said hippo happened to be Jewish. Which she was, by the way. Man's inhumanity to man, man to animal, animal to animal, whatever – it all boils down to the same desperately sad result.

My mum spent most of the war in a little village called Fochriw, a typical South Wales mining village in the Darran Valley a few miles south-east of Merthyr Tydfil in Caerphilly. Fucking shit-hole it was, from what I remember of it, anyway. Tumbledown back to back houses, sheep all over the place and a filthy stream running through a valley full of rubbish and crawling with rats. I guess it's changed dramatically now..... Or maybe not.

She met my dad there, so when the war ended, what with her parents dead, she stayed. She was seventeen when they got married, and considerably less than nine months afterwards she gave birth to me. Dad worked down the local pit like most of the other menfolk. He started to drink heavily, and it wasn't long before the bulk of his wage was frittered away in the local pubs. I grew to hate him and all other Welsh folk, especially the men. Fuckers.....

I left home when I was sixteen. I worked with the circus for a bit until I found my feet, or my dick, in my case. Not long after I left they dragged my mum to an asylum, and dad wouldn't even tell us where she was..... The bastard died from blood loss before the ambulance could get him to hospital after some hulking great drunk threw him through a pub window in Brynmawr on my nineteenth birthday, though I doubt if he actually remembered that occasion, and mum died of pneumonia some ten years later. I never even went to see her, it was too painful, I guess, and I'll regret that for the rest of my miserable days.

I have a younger brother, Glyn, his name is. I never told you that, did I? A Welsh working class lad through and through, almost permanently as pissed as a fart, but he had a heart of gold. And hopefully he still has..... Do you know what? I'd love to see him again, if he's still kicking. That's all I want to say right now, poppet, otherwise I'll be blarting like a babba. You still haven't told me how the taffs joined the space race, by the way.”

“You saying your brother has a heart of gold reminded me about that before you did,” Blodwen said, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes. “As I started to say earlier, it was big news not long after you did your moonlight flit. Somebody opened up an old coal seam in a hillside in the Rhonda valley, a seam that was never judged commercially viable until the price of coal shot through the roof. After a few months of steady graft they found a nice, fat seam of gold in the rock below a deposit of nutty slack. They reckon the deposit is huge, easily the biggest ever uncovered in Europe, and it might be even richer than they think - only time will tell. That should explain why Wales has a Space Programme all of a sudden.

Why is it that we're plagued by coincidences? Who do you think I discovered was manning Boyo 16 when I approached Boyo International, the Welsh Space Agency, with a backhander and a sob story, asking for an illicit ride?”

“I really have no idea.....”

“The Pontypridd four. You know, Matthew, Mark (the one who tells porkies about being related to Neil Armstrong), Luke and John (the one who pretends he's Buzz Aldrin's great grandson) – they were the four bible-bashers that did a lengthy stretch in nick because of my shameless lies. They all did degrees in Rocket Science while they were inside, and a couple of them have PHD's in Applied Astronautics or something.

When the penny dropped and I realised who they were I spluttered my apologies – what more could I do? - but they were overflowing with acceptance and forgiveness, the silly fucks. Shit, how many cheeks do Christians possess? I almost said 'pious fucks,' just then, but as you'll realise in a minute it's entirely the wrong choice of words.

All they wanted from me was no-holds barred sex during the journey, with protection, of course. Can you believe it? 'We've done the time, now we want a taste of the sordid crime, you lying, scheming, still fairly attractive moosey bitch!' Mark growled, rather viciously for a Christian, I thought. I suppose they fancied a change from the monotony of constant sheep shagging.”

“Aah, bugger,” Daffyd mumbled. “And I've been daft enough to remain faithful to you all this time. I actually signed up for a sequel to Debbie Does Dallas to raise a bit of extra cash for this gaff – they were thinking of calling it Debbie Does The Nile Delta - but I pulled out at the last minute because when it came to the crunch I couldn't do it. I never stopped loving you and you were always at the forefront of my thoughts even when I reached my lowest ebb, Blodwen.

When I saw the state of Debbie I was glad I turned the job down. She'd, erm, aged somewhat, you could say. Time isn't on any of our sides, I realise that, but Christ, she was rough - I'd sooner have rogered Sylvester Stallone's mother, and that's saying something. The same Debbie who did Dallas so deliciously looked like a leprous, malformed bulldog chewing a whole nest of wasps. Off a bank of nettles.....”

“Don't worry about it,” Blodwen smiled. “I'm not as thick as I look, you know, and not nearly as loose with my favours. I love you too, Daffyd, and you're the only man for me. Which is why I plied the crew's rations with LSD and spent an awful lot of money having a blow-up moose I Christened Cerys especially made, though of course I didn't tell the taffs that.

Why call her Cerys instead of plastic Petra or Rubber Rita, I sense you're thinking. Remember how you secretly fantasized about Cerys Matthews and sometimes dropped the unforgivable clanger of calling me Cerys under your breath when we made love, especially when you were approaching your vinegar strokes? 'You're fucking having it, Cerys, you cheap, slutty though thoroughly bewitching Welsh minx!' You dirty bastard, Daffyd.

So the taffs were porking a blow-up moose almost the whole time we were travelling here, and they were so spaced out that they genuinely believed it was yours truly. Most of the time I had to fly the ship myself, which was, um, interesting at times.....

I convinced them that I was Cerys Mathews and I was simultaneously heading their motley crew and filming a Celebrity Big Brother special; I convinced them that Hank Marvin, Simon Cowell, Barrack Obama, Beyonce Knowles, Madonna and her maj Queen Elizabeth the Second were hiding elsewhere in the ship as part of a Big Brother game; and, of course, I convinced them that rubber Cerys was me. Does that make sense? I had to live on Quavers, Vimto and chocolate biccies for the entire trip, the only foodstuffs we had that weren't spiked, which is why I've put on a stone and a half.”

**************************************************

“Shit. SHIT!” Daffyd said a little while later as he switched between several different windows on his PC. “The module has gone, long gone, probably, because I can't find a trace of it on the scanners. And Boyo 16 is on its way to Jupiter by the look of it, though I doubt if it has enough fuel to get even a fraction of the way. What were you thinking, Blodwen - didn't you stop to think how dangerous a skin full of LSD might be to a crew of men in charge of a spaceship?”

“What are you doing?” Blodwen said.

“I'm trying to get them on the radio.”

“Why?”

“In an attempt to avert certain disaster, you bloody fool!”

“Let me explain, Daffyd, please.”

“There's no time for that. Hello? Boyo 16, is that Mark?

“No, this is Luke. Mark's busy. He's eating his lunch. Or taking a crap. Or something.”

“This is Daffyd, the mahogany hippo from the dark side of the moon. Listen, who's in charge there, Luke? And where's your place in the ranking?”

“Cerys is in charge. Or at least she was, but I thought Mark dropped her off at your place for a shag. You're her boyfriend or something, aren't you? Matthew is in charge when Cerys isn't around, but he's busy too. I'm, er, fourth in the ranks, officially, which is sort of bottom, I suppose.”

“Well you'd better put John on, then, and make it snappy, because this is very important.”

“Hello?” a voice said a little later. “John here. I'm Buzz Aldrin's Great grandson, look you. How may I be of assistance?”

“Er, this is a rather delicate matter. You lot might have ingested a controlled substance, a psychedelic. LSD, in fact, I can't explain why or how right now. You probably don't realise it, but you've all unwittingly become mindless space cadets, and at this very moment you're heading for Jupiter and certain death.”

“No, no no no, you've got the wrong end of the stick. We've got the LSD problem under control. Can't think where that shit came from, but it's contaminated most of our food supply. I'd be grateful if you kept it quiet, boyo, because there'll be hell to pay if Mission Control finds out, and some poor fucker's head will roll. Personally I think it's sabotage - the piss-poor Scots or the spud-munching Irish, or even worse, the capitalist pig, cottage stealing, Wales invading English are probably behind the plot, the jealous bastards.

Just now we had to lock Mark and Matthew in the isolation cubicle, and they might have to stay there for a while - they were wandering around stark naked with massive hard-ons, and they were spouting some right bollocks. It's funny, Mark hasn't long dropped Cerys off, and he seemed all right then.....

They've got a big, blow-up donkey type thing with horns in there with them. Weird thing, it is, it's wearing lipstick and eye-shadow, it's decked out in kinky underwear and splattered with baby gravy. Freaky..... I don't know where they had it from, but they went into anaphylactic shock, our medical programme insists it was, when we tried to wrestle the bloody thing off them. 'Blodwen, don't leave me, I want to squeeze your lovely udders,' Matthew sighed, and I can't repeat what Mark said in case my mum's listening in on our transmissions. Right now we're using an obsolete frequency that Boyo International are unlikely to pick up, but my mum's a bit of a hacker..... Luke and I seem to be OK. We both have a series of inexplicable gaps in our recollection, mind, so we're carefully monitoring one another.

I know how it probably looks from your end, buddy, but we're not heading for Jupiter to check out its funky red spot and pretty gas clouds. We've picked up a distress signal from the lost Tesco space delivery van, it's a hundred and fifty thousand miles away, maybe a bit more, and we're off to rescue the check-out girl. She's suffered a massive blow-out of some description and most of her electrics are down apart from the radio, which works now and then, and the emergency life support system, which thankfully runs on an independent system. We'll be back in a few hours, so do you two want picking up, or what? If not we have another, much larger craft coming by in three, maybe four months time to start work on our new moon base.”

“Thank Goodness for that,” Daffyd said. “Do we want picking up in a few hours, Blodwen, or do you have other plans?”

“I want picking up, certainly, but whether or not you're joining me has yet to be revealed.”

“Er, affirmative Boyo 16, pick us up when you get back. Boyo..... Speak to you soon, over.”

“I already dealt with the LSD in the taffs' systems,” Blodwen said. “It was all sorted. Did you really think I'd left the poor fuckers to wander off into space enthusing about how beautiful the cosmos is, only to mistake the main control panel for the shit-house or to fall into a series of potentially murderous bouts of paranoia? I slipped them all an antidote shortly before I left. Luke and John are as right as rain, but Matthew and Mark might take another couple of hours to touch down.....”

“I'm sorry, dear,” Daffyd said. “Honestly I am. I just panicked, that's all, worrying about perils beyond my control and loss of life and whatnot. Please forgive me.”

“What?”

“I said I'm sorry.”

“I was married to you for twenty two years, Daffyd, in fact I still am, and that's the first time you've ever apologised to me, even when it's clear that the blame rests entirely on your shoulders, even when it's blatantly obvious that you've fucked up big time. That means there's hope for us yet.....”

“I only left you because you hated the sodding sight of me, and your hatred was rubbing off on the kids,” the hippo said, bursting into tears.

“Hated you? Me? The way I saw it, it was you who hated me, sunshine, nearly as much as you hated your offspring. Or maybe that wasn't the real problem. Maybe the real problem was the way you insisted on stretching the ever growing distance between you and your needs and the needs of me and the bloody kids – you were too wrapped up in the sorrows of the poor old, hard done to mahogany hippopotamus to worry about the plight of your hippopotamissus and your six moosapotami..... Oh, come here, you soft, fat lump, and give us a kiss. We've got an awful lot of shit to sort out, you and I.”