The Perplexing Profession of Penguin Phil

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Read the first instalment in the Penguin Phil series (The Philosophical Passtimes of Penguin Phil) here!

A long time ago - 7 months and 20 days, to be exact - in a galaxy not so far away - to be precise, this one - there was a penguin. A penguin called, as you might recall, Phil. So, for several reasons (mainly species and name) the penguin, called Phil, came to be known as Penguin Phil.

When we left our hero - because Penguin Phil was a hero, amongst penguins at least, no one really remembers why; most penguins are, in fact, heroes - he had decided to leave his home, and seek a job! Because, Phil (a penguin) was not fond of his home. Sure, if you liked snow and fish, it was heavenly, but Phil, despite his love of fishing, was a vegetarian. He also had a great dislike of the colour white - a dislike not at all helped by the fact that he was, at least, half white. Because he was a penguin. Called Phil. Phillip to his mum, who is, as you might've guessed, also a penguin. Called Phyllis.

So Phil set off one morning, on a snowmobile, because - after, oh, a foot or so? - waddling tires you out. And, you may remember (I'm sincerely hoping you do remember all of this), Phil was asthmatic. He rode and rode (for penguins cannot fly. Unlike puffins. Damn puffins. Remember, penguins hate puffin. And Phil was a penguin) until he reached the far right of the South Pole. Here, Phil was stuck, there was a sea in front of him. Phil was a penguin, of course, so could swim, but really, it is rather cold, you know. So, Phil, using all of his penguin prowess, stood there. For three months. Nothing happened. Phil, a penguin, despite the notoriously good patience of his kind (penguins) got bored. So he swam. Like a penguin. Called Phil.

When Penguin Phil arose, on land, like the proverbial sea Pokémon arising for a battle (but not Magikarp. Magikarp sucks.), he was a litle warm. Phil had swam to Australia, which is, as you may realise, quite a bit hotter than the South Pole. Phil, a penguin by nature, and, indeed by all the other stuff, was rather toasty. So, Phil waddled (alas, Australia was sorely lacking in snowmobiles) to the nearest shop, and bought himself two ice packs. Phil had no money, per se, but he did pretend to be the penguin off Happy Feet to get free stuff. He duly held the ice packs under his flippers, sandwiching them in a familiar chill.

When Penguin Phil, now lovely and cold, waddled (alas, the shop, too, had a startling lack of snowmobiles - or even shopmobility scooters) outside, he saw a man. Men, aside from David Attenborough, who Phil was quite familiar with, didn't frequent the South Pole. Because, men, much unlike penguins, like Phil, didn't like the cold. So this one, a tall, pink fellow with a beard and long hair, was an odd sight. Though, I quite imagine that he was more shocked to see a penguin, like Phil, emerging from the shop with two ice packs and a Mars bar - a rarity for penguins, like Phil, at home. The man said Phil was perfect, however, as penguins were just what he needed for his latest film. And, lo and behold, Phil was a penguin!

So, this is how Phil, a penguin, became the first penguin, called Phil, to get a job working on a live-action blockbuster. The man, not at all penguin-like, Phil had decided, who called himself Peter Jackson (a human, not the famous penguin long-jump champion) was directing a film called The Hobbit and needed something to keep the hat of a fellow called Gandalf (again, no penguin) straight. Phil, as a penguin, it turned out, was the right shape. Soon thereafter, Penguin Phil, in a snazzy little hat and mittens combination he'd bought (by impersonation), and Peter Jackson (the human, not the penguin) were flying over another (smaller) sea to New Zealand to film. Flying. Take that puffins!

Penguin Phil will return in the Puzzling Prosthetics and Peters of the Perplexing Profession of Penguin Phil!

WJ

The Philosophical Passtimes of Penguin Phil

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Penguin Phil was a penguin. Obviously. Also, his name was Phil. Likewise obvious. Penguin Phil lived in the South Pole, for, as I’ve mentioned, he was a penguin. Called Phil. As David Attenborough has time and time again showed, the South Pole was not an overly pleasant place to live; it was indeed overtly cold. So, times weren’t always easy for a penguin. Especially ones called Phil. For Phil, who was, as I’ve laboriously stressed to you, a penguin, had asthma; asthma is trait rather unbecoming of a penguin. Such as Phil. As penguins need to waddle and swim and fish and whatnot, indeed, one could say, that the life of a penguin was a rather active one – not to say on par with that of an Olympian, but compared to a sloth for instance, they were practically Michael Phelps. So, as you can see, asthma was hardly a benefit to a penguin like Penguin Phil. Although Phil wasn’t in as poor a state as he might’ve been if he was something other than a penguin, a puffin for example. Although it was a great annoyance to penguins, particularly Phil – because he had a drink problem – that they remained perpetually grounded on terra-firma, whereas puffins could fly and glide and swoop as they wished, Phil couldn’t deny that he was hardly a prime candidate for that excess movement. For he had asthma. And was a penguin. Called Phil.

Life is rarely easy for penguins, including and especially Phil – because he was after all a penguin. Called Phil – especially when one lives in the South Pole. The snow is all consuming, the cold is all engulfing and, to be honest, there’s not really a lot to do. For penguins, of which Phil was one, don’t have electricity – as they have no means of building or inventing, as they have no hands, merely flippers, as they are, you must remember, penguins. So Phil, a penguin, couldn’t idle away his hours watching TV or playing on Assassin’s Creed (which was a shame, as, despite being a famed asthmatic, Phil was a fan of free-running) so he had to otherwise occupy himself. Phil was quite content to whittle away his hours, sitting in front of his igloo – for the very best penguins, like Penguin Phil, do of course live in igloos – contemplating many a thing: why is Pi such a long number? What colour does a Smurf go when you choke it? And what is the meaning of life? Phil was a contemplative penguin.

Yet, one day (Penguin Phil didn’t recall which, because penguins aren’t overly good with dates. And Penguin Phil was a penguin. Called Phil) contemplating was no longer enough for Penguin Phil. That day, of which Penguin Phil didn’t recall the date (because he was a penguin. Called Phil) was the day that he decided he was going to get a job. And that’s where this story ends, but the story of Penguin Phil goes on

Penguin Phil will return in the Perplexing Profession of Penguin Phil!


WJ

Life

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The following is based on a true story.

2011 has been a year, not unlike any other, yet distinct; for good and for bad.

It's been a year of ups and of downs; a lot of things have happened to me, not all of them very pleasant, or happy.

I've fallen in and out of love, I've made and broke friendships, I've lost family members and I've cried. Yet with each tear I've learned: life is a long, hard trek, filled with pain, yet what we live for is the moments of joy and of love that define us. The people we love and the memories we keep, not the people we lose and the future we may not have.

I questioned many a time, what sort of God could allow this pain? Several a time I've felt like death, I've felt pain like I never knew I could, my heart has physically ached.

I don't drink, but several times in 2011 I've wanted to, I wanted to, to use the trite saying, drown my sorrows, to give my liver a kicking, because I just didn't care about life anymore. But then I remembered, for all that I've lost and all of my sorrow, there's infinitely more that I still have, and that can make me smile.

Through all this, I have been comforted by Job 1:21: "the Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord." Atheist, theist, agnostic or whatnot, these words, to me, explain life: every day is a gift, and if, from time to time - this year time and time again - we suffer, or we lose those we love, or we cry, we should be comforted by the life we've led and the life we will lead. By the people we love, and loved, and the relationships we formed - ever lasting.

Life hurts. But that's life.

WJ

Tis the Season

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I don’t want to seem cheesy – but did I ever tell you about the day I learned the true value of Christmas? I thought I mightn’t have. 

I recall it was Christmas Eve, some year or another, I don’t remember all of the details, nor all of the setting, but the result, I remember with great fondness.

Once again, I had neglected my present buying until the very last day, Home Alone and Elf had been playing since November, so my seasonal radar was thrown off and I’d lost track of the days – after all, it’s a season, what does the actual day matter? Or so I thought. Nonetheless, Christmas is nothing if not a time to empty my wallet into various shops and inundate my family with knick-knacks and clothing they don’t really need and don’t really want, so I headed down to the shopping centre, wrapped in all manner of festive garb: garish green and brassy red adorned my jumpers and hats and scarves and gloves, as I ambled outside and towards town, Jack Frost nipping at my toes all the while.

It has to be said, one dreams of a White Christmas, yet it’s rather hard to achieve through all the grey of society, and on top of the brash bright blues and reds and golds. It could have been snowing for all I noticed.

As I swung round the corner towards the main straight, walking down a tunnel of festivities, a street engrossed by tinsel, lights, fairies, trees and more, my goal was decided: it was present time. The insurmountable goal every year was, to buy as huge, gaudy and fantastic a present as possible for as little money as possible, yet I was perpetually draining my funds, exponentially, into indistinct stores selling indistinct tat, that, naturally, I had to buy. Headphones nestled in my festively cold ears, toddling down the street like an oversized, brightly coloured penguin, swaying to Slade, engulfed by Christmas, oblivious to the world, I saw him. That man.

Sitting on the floor, in front of some frosted glass fronted store, dreary, tired, with a straggly, sooty, grey beard, just spilling over onto his worn, tatty, dark red – although it might’ve been black for all the colour it brought – and a couple of old, mittened hands, grasping a lone carton of milk. Homeless. This was my conclusion. So, inspired by the message of Band Aid and deciding to Feed the World, I chucked the man a couple of pounds, awaited his “Thank you, sir” and “Merry Christmas to you” and waded off. If you take something from this story of mine: don’t judge a book by its cover, nor a man by his beard and coat. So, off I went, into the field of festive frivolities, in search of gifts.

I returned later that night, not all too late, but, due to the season, it was nigh-on pitch black. Now carrying the added weight of large, bright bags of indistinct gifts, I was toddling slightly slower than earlier, as I passed the same spot. As I arrived at the frosted glass once more, I saw no sign of the, presumably, homeless man; inclined by festive charity and curiosity, I did a slow, static circle, looking for the old, scratty gentleman. As I got about half way through my slow, shivery circuit, I spotted the man, tottering off, slowly, but with purpose, into a dark, desolate looking alley. Now, speaking from experience, dark, desolate alleys are rarely a smart idea when it’s nigh-on pitch black, and even more rarely when one is, presumably, homeless. So, spurred on by some daft thing that we call conscience, I also made for the dark, desolate alley.

Now thrust into a far more ambiguously threatening side of December, I wandered, along this, seemingly, unending alley, before I reached, nothing. I arrived at a dead end. The man had, apparently, disappeared. There was nothing around, save for one, lone, immaculately wrapped present. The ribbon sparkled, even in the dark, and I found myself leaning towards it, pulled by childlike fixation, I picked it up. I turned over the pure green label and read the message, addressed to me; “Thank you, sir, and Merry Christmas to you!” Shocked and intrigued in equal measure, I ripped it open, and was taken aback. Overwhelmed with catharsis and joy, I removed the small, teal kaleidoscope; the very one I had clamoured for as a child, the very thing I’d asked Father Christmas for. The very one.

As I heard a tinkling of bells, I looked up, just in time, to catch a glimpse of a bright shadow moving off towards the moonlit horizon. A bright shadow of an old, antiquated sleigh, pulled not by engine, but by a natural shine, a natural magic, helmed by an old man, with a new breath of life in him, with a straggly, grand beard, just spilling over onto his worn – by a lifetime of service and altruism – suddenly brighter, red – ever so red – coat, and a couple of old, mittened hands holding the reins. As I held that kaleidoscope of my dreams up to my eye, I saw things entirely differently.

WJ