Pt 2: The safari begins

The safari begins

Finally the day dawned. A subtle sense of dread permeated the Brogency. Offset only by the traditional anticipation the staff had for a night they could completely let their hair down without fear of reprisal. Even the clients knew this. In fact many welcomed this event as an opportunity to do the same. Well, except for the year we had a cage in the middle of the room with a crazed barber who shaved pictures of Che Guevara into people's skulls throughout the evening... That made things a little difficult the next day. Nothing worse than the CE of a large and influential public service agency in a photo opportunity with his minister sporting a back half moon hairstyle featuring Che that he was completely unaware of. How he was blissfully unaware of it was solely down to the Absinthe he had virtually bathed in during the evening. Needless to say, all of the images were shot face-on.  

Adrian disappeared at lunchtime, claiming he had 'things to do'. Apart from Julie, our Group account director and I meeting with one of our blue chip clients in the afternoon to discuss their social media strategy, things were relatively clear. 

At 4pm, Sean our resident copywriter, popped past my desk with a question that I now wish I had paid more attention to. It concerned a phone call he had received earlier in the afternoon from an international number. The line had been quite crackly so he had only got about 30% of the message …and what he did get was in thickly accented english. Russian english. The thrust of the conversation was best described as… well… random. And what Sean did manage to catch consisted of terms like: 'the owl', 'Basel 35', 'vapor vector'  and 'soft cock'. A trifle odd, granted, but due to my headspace being rather distracted by the meeting I had had with Julie and our blue chip earlier I didn't make the connection that was so obviously staring me in the face. Well, not so much staring as shining a bloody great spotlight into my eyes. 

I blame the blue chip. I mean it isn't everyday that you walk into a $1 billion turnover corporate client's office to discuss their social media needs only to be confronted by a series of questions more akin to someone grappling with the finer points of eastern philosophy. There are just some life issues that social media will not resolve and I take great umbrage at being asked what the Tao of Flickr is or whether Instagram can lead a horse to water, make it drink and enable it to see the light. For fucks sake, I create needs and desires for people to buy stuff. I can't help them find themselves.  And Instagram sure as shit is not a vehicle to find God. Any god. Or at least not one with a gun and a beard.  The best I can do is sell them a mirror or a phone with a screen camera… Suffice to say the meeting ended at an impasse. 

Anyway, so I noted Sean's concerns, parked them and didn't think about them again until Jesus started walking amongst us. 

The event was due to start at 6pm, quite early for a Xmas party, but due to the logistics of getting people out to the ass end of the 'Wai'… we had no choice if we wanted people to be back in town by… well… Xmas. 

Participants were to meet at the Railway station to begin embarking procedures. The first of which involved the aforementioned Veuve and some very decadent canapés. Clearly this didn't fit into the theme for tonights evening of frivolity. At least not directly. Later, I realized it was all part of Adrian's plan. It was a fundamental baseline for our trip.

The carriage looked amazing. All 60's and 70s retro chic - it looked like an Airstream caravan on rails, inside and out. To this day I have no idea where Adrian had managed to find the bloody thing. He said he had chartered it from KiwiRail, but I have my doubts. I suspect it came from the collection of some Greek magnate who gapped it and settled on the other side of the world when their home country went to hell in a souvlaki. 

Six pm came and went. Everyone was seated, standing and generally meandering in the carriage drinking the Veuve and making introductory signs of carousing. At 6.15 the conductor made noises about the train having to leave. Unfortunately we were still waiting for Adrian and the bugger wasn't answering his phone. I was a touch underwhelmed by this, as his entourage had apparently arrived. An entourage that consisted entirely of blondes and one stunning red head. This was not alarming on its own as Adrian was well known for his 'liquid charm'. No what was alarming was that they all stood well over six feet tall, were seemingly well versed in the vagaries of quantum physics (as I had found out when I overheard one discussing super string theory with her neighbour) and had figures that would make politicians cry. So to speak.

Julie strongly suggested that we just leave Adrian behind which would have been well within the bounds of reason, given there were five carriages of fare paying passengers in front of us wanting to get home after a busy week. And after a not insignificant amount of pressure (particularly from the conductor who happened to be our super human account lady Audrey's …brother) I relented and we departed for the wilds of the 'Wai'.  

Adrian joined us somewhere between Lower and Upper Hutt. Winched down from a helicopter no less. Straight onto the carriage roof, down through the skylight (closed) and into his entourage's waiting arms. An entrance previously only reserved for a Bond.  I don't want to know how many regulations were broken. But the helicopter was black and there were no markings …so I am figuring it would not have made any difference if any agents of the law had seen it anyway.  

Adrian's entrance was only the beginning of the madness. I don't know how he did it but he managed to time his entrance to some insane psychedelic trance track from the 90's which thumped its merry way through the clearly upgraded sound system within the carriage. Accompanied by strobe lights and dry ice. It was not unlike his failed entrance to a Brogency Monday morning meeting six months ago. Only without the gorilla suit and way more successful. I think this was mainly due to his entourage who took their cue and started pulling the Pussy Cat Doll moves  to the beats that were streaming throughout the carriage.... 

Along the way, as we were clearly distracted by Adrian's entrance, a Serbian looking DJ had also appeared in the corner… complete with vinyl jacket, Aviators and massive straight-from-the-engineering-rooms-of-Jesus earphones. He looked like he had fallen through a time warp. Only his music was undoubtedly the latest thing spinning on underground European dance floors …reminiscent of 80's Kraftwerk but with flavors of Oakenfold's Fluoro label - punctuated by Latino rhythms. Granted, a mishmash, but for some reason it worked. It even made Colonel Hough wiggle his hips. Much to Julie's consternation, as she was having a serious discussion with him at the time and could have sworn that he had a strange twinkle in his eye at the very moment he 'wiggled'. (Later we would term that particular move 'the Colonel'. It was written into the Brogency's constitution for future generations.)

The floor started glowing at about this time and a few pygmies, sorry - Children of the Forest, appeared in the corners - just out of sight and to stimulate the cones in our eyes, (this was for deliberate effect according to Adrian who had whispered quietly into my ear that he would "take things from here" …for some reason I wasn't too worried about it.).

As we entered the tunnel through to the 'Wai' the Veuve was withdrawn to be replaced by smoothies. According to Adrian this was to cleanse our wearied souls before entering 'Rarapaland'. The journey through the tunnel was to be exactly that …a journey. Again, for some reason, I didn't seem to care about how I was rapidly losing control of the situation. None of the senior staff seemed to care very much either. Julie was playing Twister with a couple of Children of the Forest, Kath - our head designer was talking up a storm with one of our art clients and Baz - our new media guru was showing some of our grads how to 'offline the bird' - whatever the fuck that meant. 

Pt 1: Christmas time for teddy bears

Christmas time for teddy bears. 

It was Christmas. Usually this was a time of celebration and excess in the ad industry... and for The Brogency it was no different. Except for one thing:

There was always that little niggle in the back of your mind that something mind-shattering was about to happen. Some idea that Adrian, our creative director, had cooked up in the back of a Valiant, alongside the ubiquitous lined pocket mirror and rolled up hundred dollar note. An idea that would be manifested in all its sordid glory. An idea that would scar the collective psyche of the Brogency, forever.

There was good precedent for this niggle you see. Precedent such as the year Adrian decided it would be a fabulous idea to lace the punch at our client Xmas party with Ecstasy. This resulted in carnage from the seven levels of hell that haunted us for weeks. Carnage such as our media buyer getting naked with her team and Gogo dancing on the cutting tables. It ended with her kneeling and simulating fellatio with Adrian - who was dressed as a Wookie. All while our guest charity client from the Salvation Army, Sarah looked on in horror… 

It was awesome only because of the potential to destroy our relationship with the Sallies for eternity. Poor lass, she was so traumatised she drowned the psychedelic nightmare image of Adrian lit by strobe light - in the punch. Adrian …arching his back, mouth wide open and bellowing Wookie talk, whilst surrounded by a harem of naked men and women on their knees... 

The night ended with her having a torrid liaison with Lewis - our mild mannered but very large dread-locked cleaner, who hailed from West Africa. 

Last I heard she had given her faith away and was pursuing a life of hedonistic glory in fetish porn.

The Sallies didn't answer our calls after that. We were listed on their burn list along with all of satan's minions.  

Fucking Adrian.

So, it is fair to say that this year 's festivities were greeted with more than a bit of trepidation. A great deal of trepidation in fact. All the staff were on edge, just waiting for that moment when the bottom dropped out… of everything. 

That said, Adrian fucking excelled himself with the invites and logistics for the party. It was to be held offsite (thank god) at an old aircraft hanger somewhere in the Wairarapa. He had charted an old Silver Star carriage from the Wellington to Auckland route in the 70's and had somehow managed to convince Kiwirail to attach it to the Wellington - Masterton train. It was so out of the box I suspected his Russian mates had a hand in it, like everything exotic he does - from tigers in glass cages (long story) to the ridiculous amounts of cocaine he always manages to rustle up. 

The invites themselves were pure genius. None of us can figure out how he did it. When asked, he just smiled in that maddening way of his and whispered… "'t'is magic my dear friend, magic!" 

Dick.

They were chocolate flowers you see, with the most delicate petals - not roses but fucking fuchsias. Fuchsias. I mean who does that? And not only were they fuchsias, they were fuchsias with pollen - gold pollen that when shaken out of the fuchsia somehow fell on whatever surface in the shape of letters. In short - the invite  ...an invite made from fucking fairy dust. Amazing. 

The client list for our wee soirée was not as simple as an invite made from fairy dust though. Oddly.

We had to balance our penchant for hedonism with a serious effort at thanking those which made Adrian's excesses possible. And there were a necessary few of them due the nature of those excesses. Careful selection was required due to the delicate nature of some of our relationships. Not to mention a shift roster for our 'suits' to charm these delicate clients in ...what we called the 'Not in there, it's too serious' room - which generally resulted in more than a few horses being traded. Veritable stallions in fact.

Then there was the question of catering, libations and other accoutrements. These we left to Vicky, our office manager - whose claim to fame was that she could literally pull a rabbit out of a hat. Any hat. No shit.

This year's menu had an Eco theme. Wild food, organic alcohol (except for the sparkles which had to be Veuve.... Adrian's sole request) and pygmies. Or as Adrian called them 'children of the forest'.  I had a suspicion that we were courting trouble with the pygmies, particularly since there weren't any that I knew of in the Antipodes. Which meant they were coming from somewhere else ...and that didn't bode well. Even less well if anyone with an Eastern European accent was involved.

A week out from the soirée things were quiet. This bothered me. It was going all too smoothly. Worrying. Very worrying. Adrian was completely on form, pulling the most outrageous creative from his nether regions. Creative that was as inspiring as it was effective. It was so good, the industry was in tatters... No one could keep up!

However, most concerning was Adrian's ego. It was as close to normal as I had ever seen it. It was like he was on drugs - which was impossible ...as Adrian was always on drugs, which lead me to believe that things were about to go troppo in a fashion that would make Marlon Brando's white sepulchre in Apocalypse Now look like a seven year old's tea party.

My premonition of impending disaster proved to be vastly undercooked. What was about to happen was to become myth and legend, not mere history...

In hindsight, I should have guessed. There were clues everywhere if you knew what to look for. The first clue was the location... An aerodrome. A private aerodrome with an enormous hanger. A hanger that we were using and that had, somehow, been transformed into a variation on James Cameron's Pandora. The only thing missing were the Nav'i and I knew they weren't coming because there were pygmies, and there were no pygmies on Pandora.

Unless....

The second clue was the Eco theme. Organic produce, aka food for hippies. Things like carrot cake, Humus, PikoPiko, roasted nuts with Paprika and a non dairy smoothie bar. 

The third, Adrian's choice of music, which had a distinctly 60's theme, including such gems as the 13th Floor Elevators, the Doors, the Animals, Pentangle... All complemented by ambient sounds reminiscent of  Mike Oldfield's Tubular Bells.

Last up was the bus. Not just any bus but a bus that would not have looked out of place in North Africa.... Or India. There were more beads on this puppy than in a gypsy village.

In short we were hopelessly fucked.

The RSVP's mounted. We had as close to a 100% response rate as you could get without offering free trips into orbit. I mean, seriously, if this had been a direct mail campaign we would have been world fucking famous. But it wasn't and we weren't... yet. The prescience behind that statement was almost unbearable.

Even the Sallies were coming, thanks to some serious brown-nosing by our posse of religiously inclined (at least on the outside) suits. Young, cleanshaven and hungry. But not Mormon-like. The Sallies wouldn't have worn that. No sirree....  How they convinced them to come was beyond the ken of any normal human.  We were to be blessed by the company of Colonel ET Hough, a very senior and puritanical member of Gods army. I figured that all and any shenanigans should be kept to a minimum when in his presence, which was to be largely confined in the "Not in there, it's too serious' room". Especially if any Wookies were in evidence... And without any shadow of a doubt he had to be kept away from the punch.

In fact, I was seriously considering buying a swathe of drug testing kits to ensure that all food and drink was clean. Instead I decided to use the principle of isolation and keep Adrian well away from anything that could be imbibed until it was on the floor, so to speak. As it happened neither option would have made a world of difference.

The Brogency

Mondays were generally the worst. I mean it wasn't like we had enough problems dealing with the start of the week… like all human cogs in the urban wheel of consumerism.  It's just that Adrian, our resident 'off the wall' creative, had a tendency to take Mondays, somewhat brutally, from the real…to the sublime. Fuelled, in the majority, by the last vestiges (if we were lucky) of a chemically enhanced weekend. 

He was a genius but more than a little loose around the edges. Indeed, one of Adrian's halcyon moments was his personal contribution to the Legalise Marijuana debate, which consisted of chartering a DC10 from an old Vietnam pilot and flying it over the central and east North Island to randomly distribute five tons of enriched hemp seed... 

The police didn't like that very much.

Adrian's descent into madness was a bit like watching the ink on a keyboard disappear …slowly and with an immutable sense of impending doom - each passing moment leading to loss …and confusion.  

This Monday was no exception. 

The wip started well. The bagels were warm and the coffee so thick you could eat it with a teaspoon.  We were working our way round the room, each agency warrior explaining what they were up to for the week. Yet fifteen minutes in, thirty seconds was all it took to relegate all that had been said, unceremoniously, to the mists of time. 

First the lights went off, plunging us into that that particular brand of twilight associated with the beginning of a week. Then a strobe light began flicking its actinic fingers into our Mondayed eyes …and dry ice began curling its way across the floor. All to the dulcet tones of an old Chemical Brothers song... 

'Oh Jesus, here we go again' John, the resident suit muttered. 

A rather drawn out crescendo ensued and everything in the room stopped. The strobe ceased, plunging the room once more into darkness. Within seconds, a flash of light so bright it would have put Aliens to shame struck our already overloaded pupils, and the smoke miraculously vanished like it was being sucked out by an industrial vacuum cleaner... powered by fan from an aerospace wind tunnel, (unfortunately, this was not outside the bounds of possibility with Adrian). There in the middle of the room, curled in a foetal position, a bit like when Arnie appeared in the second Terminator movie …was a gorilla. 

Well, actually, we suspected it was Adrian dressed as a gorilla, but you never can tell with him. It could very well have been a real one.  Purloined from one of his Russian shipping mates. 

Now, a gorilla would have scraped in on its own, in the grand scheme of things,  but Adrian had somehow also managed to fit the gorilla into his favorite Armani suit, which was now looking more like a cheap prop from a chinese kung fu movie. Not only that the Gorilla was cradling a goldfish bowl filled with blue and green M&M's which it then started throwing into the air, catching them, somehow... in its mouth.

"Morning all! What a great day this is going to be!" announced the gorilla round a mouthful of splintered candy and chocolate. " Who's up for a game of chess?" 

That was when things just got a little bit too much for Audrey, our accounts lady. Who, while appearing to be the nicest person in the world to the uninitiated, had a temper like Gordon Ramsey on speed. Fuck with Audrey and your days were numbered in fractions. 

[Our clients knew and respected this, we never had a bad debt and all of them paid on time. Some even in advance.]  

So, Audrey gently settles her cup on the chair, takes a slow breath, gets up and walks slowly toward the gorilla in the centre of the room. We all shrink as far as possible into whatever corners and voids we can find.

"You know Adrian" says Audrey, in a quiet and measured voice, (clearly designed to lull us all into a false sense of security.) "I start the day at 6am. Badly. Each morning I am woken by my kids dancing in the lounge to either High Five or the fucking Wiggles. I get them breakfast and I haul my husband's sorry ass out of bed so he can catch his train. I make the kid's lunches while drinking a cup of cold coffee... 

"I drop my children off at school while doing my hair and makeup in the car mirror. I get to work and I…" (it was about now that the volume began to rise) "…look forward to engaging with adults, with people who don't speak in pidgin english and can hold a conversation for longer than 30 seconds before saying 'I want'! …I look forward to talking with people who have something useful to contribute to my reality. With people who don't smear their lunch over their faces! I consider it to be about the only thing that keeps me sane in the domestic circus that is currently my home-life. It is something that if I didn't have… I would spend my evenings rocking in a chair and pulling my hair out strand by fucking strand. It is something I value more than food. More than sex and more than soap. So, I ask you, with the greatest of respect… what in the great name of Fuck are you doing!!? Have I mistakenly taken the wrong turning this morning and ended up having breakfast in a ZOO Adrian!?!  

"No. No I think not. 

"I have turned up for work expecting to get some sense from others about what they will be doing this week. This in turn will allow me to plan my days, safe in the knowledge that they WILL turn out according to some semblance of consensual reality! Not a scene from a deranged after party that maybe your lounge on any given fucking night! Adrian… I do not have time for this… get the fuck out of that ridiculous suit, sit down and try participating in this discussion like something approaching a sentient, if not sober, human being… or I will rip those M&Ms from your hands and shove each and every one of them up your arsehole before feeding you to Henry!" 

(Henry was our resident studio dog. He was awesome. Everyone loved Henry. He was normal in every possible way except for one slightly disconcerting fact. He had a thing for women's underwear. We had to warn our female clients in advance, never to go to the toilet without first checking for Henry…) 

There was an awkward silence. 

With a crack, the gorillas head fell off revealing Adrian with Sunday morning hair.  "Jesus Auds. Sorry... I suppose if you put it that way... Would you like a cup of coffee?" 

It was about then that I grabbed my coffee and ran for the studio. 

I can still hear the screams. 

Belief

Been reading a lot about personal growth lately. It is amazing that even in the plethora of stuff out there, so much of it reinforces the sort of behaviour patterns that seven year olds have. The sort of behaviour that is learned when you are making sense of a very foreign and weird world from the eyes of a self absorbed child ('cause without the benefit of experience and wisdom, they are the only eyes they know). The common belief that others keep you from being the person you are is exactly the same as a four year old saying that the parent made them upset - that they made them feel a certain way.

No one makes you do anything. No one keeps you from being anyone. No one else is to blame. It is always a choice you make, a belief you have, a projection you create. This belief becomes your reality. A very good friend of mine summed it up the other day: does the belief you have serve you? If it does then good... use it, if it doesn't then let it go. It doesn't have to be right, or wrong. It just is. But remember, belief creates your reality, it sculpts your perception. You can't force it on others. The best thing you can do is hack your reality through belief to be the person you want to be. Not the one that you think others want you to be or the one they think you are. Look at what you can give to the world not at what you can get from it. In short, be free.

And always, always remember that each day is a meer blessing, another drop of water on the extended tongue of Suricata-the-wise, master of the multiverse in all its forms...

On the beauty of cars

This is a short essay on the attractiveness of those four wheel mechanical things we call cars. It is based on a series of observations, about these enigmatic forms of transport, that were made over a period of five days in their natural habitat - the Monash Freeway, Melbourne, Australia.

First, a few words about the habitat:

The Monash Freeway is an ideal environment for observing both the behavior and physical characteristics of cars. This is for a number of reasons, the least of which is that they spend an inordinate amount of time stationary.

It gives you plenty of time to look and take notes.

On occasion you can also see them moving at pace, although this is rare and they are generally followed by other cars with flashing lights, which can be confusing …and often ends with flames and screaming people.

But I digress. Please note I make no apologies for what is about to follow:

I'll start with those icons of Australian motoring history: Ford and Holden. Despite the recent victory at Bathurst by Ford, which gives the make a certain amount of vehicular social capital. I think it is fair to say that the Holden Commodore trumps the Ford Falcon on the carwalk in-every-single-way. The Ford Falcon is ugly. Not drop your glass and start screaming ugly (unlike the version from about three years ago that had a rear end like an elephants arse). But still ugly.

That said, it wasn't always this way. It didn't always hold the prize for 'least likely to succeed' and deserve relegation to that forest giant of aesthetic train wrecks - The Fugly Tree. There are also some mind shatteringly bad looking Commodores around. Bruises on wheels. Cars where you wonder if the designer was even human and if they knew how to wield a pencil like a pencil and not like an axe. If Holden hadn't recently been face palmed by design brilliance, their vehicles would be consigned to the lower limbs of the Fugly Tree for eternity. I mean, right now, even the Commodore station wagon looks pretty cool. Unlike the Falcon one - which looks like a fucking hearse.

Usually this sort of beauty in a station wagon thing is limited to luxury cars like Audi and BMW.

Next up are the SUVs. I was going to wax lyrical about the mid size cars but that would take too long as there are just too many - most of them bad. Points of note are that the Holden Cruz is a disaster on wheels and climbs (and believe me it can, it looks like an Orangutan) to the second limb of the Fugly Tree. The Ford Mondeo flails around at the bottom rooting for truffles and the Nissan Pulsar, Toyota Camry & Prius and Honda Accord… well they just make you want to cry. They also look much the same. Like they were designed by robots. Blind robots. With egg beaters for hands.

Back to SUV's… The Holden Captiva is funny. Really it is. It makes you want to laugh because it looks like a Manatee - you know that seal like thing that swims in the Amazon - the Ameoba with fins? Well that's the Captiva. The Ford Territory looks like a car that contains policemen - even if it is lime green. You don't want to fuck with a Territory. They are mean. And there are lots of them around over here. My one is dark blue and has tinted windows. It also has a roof rack and a grill in the back. I have fun in the back blocks of regional Victoria by flashing my lights behind bogans whilst driving up close behind them. I watch them panic, stub out their joints and pull over. I drive past at pace, but to make them feel better I throw them vouchers for a full body wax at Leo's.

Then there is the Range Rover Evo. My first question is: What the fuck is it and what does it do on weekends? It is a classic example of a confused car. It isn't a four wheel drive, it couldn't be. It doesn't even do puddles. And you can't see out of the back (which must be great for mums dropping their kids off at school - who can't see their little angels crying as she leaves them on the side of the road because she is late for Bikram). The X3? no 4, no 5… oh whatever… the Beamer - well it looks like a designer tank. It also looks like the Merc 350. Awesome if you are Russian.

Jeep? Well as someone quipped the other day when we were posing for a photo and the photographer said "someone make a joke so everyone smiles," and a guy piped up "I bought a Jeep" and we all laughed… that sums it up really. The yanks are selling them here so cheaply shops are giving them away when you buy dozen boxes of coke. The only good thing about them is that when you need parts all you have to do is look on the side of the road. There will always be a part - you know axles, wheels, diffs….

Landrover defender? They're okay - same as the Disco's. They look fantastic when not moving - which happens a lot.

Nissan? Well, you have the Patrol - which is sex on wheels …for guys with tools. And you have the X-trail. Its got an X because on a normal trail you'd be ringing the towie.

Then there is the Toyota Prado - a name which has always eluded me. I mean who calls a car a Prado? May as well call it a Soprano…. and the LandCruiser - which, well... thats another car for guys with tools.

As you can see this could go on for days. Days and days. Which is how much time I have spent on the Monash, looking at cars - quite simply because there is not much else to look at. Apart from their lights. At night you are surrounded by a sea of red. I have nightmares.

I think I might start taking the train.

Coloured Blocks

Today I saw what has to be a new low in first-world marketing. So low I figure the 'geniuses' that came up with the idea must be about one base pair away from rock shrimp.

The worst thing was that the ad was for those coloured plastic blocks we all know and used to love. That's right, Lego. Not any Lego mind you. Gender specific technical Lego. For girls. Better still, girls that want to save the animals. 'Cause you know, apparently that's what girls that take an interest in something other than dolls want to do - save poor defenseless furry animals.

The first animal was a Giant Panda. A Giant Panda that lives in the jungle. Awesome. Or at least according to the announcer who's painted the 'girls saving small furry animals' scenario with a voiceover like a barbie commercial...

That's right folks, it was a Giant Panda. An animal that having over thousands of years adapted to the mountainous rocky, dappled light habitat associated with the highland forests of China... now lives in a FUCKING jungle - along with all its happy go lucky friends.

Who'd have thought?

Oh... but it is in trouble and has got lost (really lost I reckon) so has to be saved by the Adventure Girls that fly in to rescue him in a pink helicopter.

A pink helicopter? Fuck me...

You know I have seen a lot of helicopters. Never seen a pink one though... I'm gonna keep an eye out next time I am in the jungle. I'm guessing I'll have about as much chance seeing one as seeing a jungle-dwelling Giant Panda.

Next up was a baby bear that got caught out trying to make its way across a rope spanning a river. That's right a grey bear that looks a bit like a Koala, that also lives in the jungle. A baby one. And look, the girls fly in and rescue it. Ooooh yaaay! They all give it a nice group hug ('cause that's what you do when you rescue jungle bears, hug them. Together). They climb into the helicopter with it and everyone flies off into the hills, to the sound of - well I dunno what ....some cross between Kenny Loggins and Pantera.

Thing is though, it was a baby bear. Now, I have a passing knowledge of bears, and generally where there is a baby bear, there is a mama bear. And mama bear is no where as cute as baby bear. In fact she is mind shatteringly un-cute. Cack your undies un-cute. Take baby bear away from mama bear, even if baby bear is hanging from a rope ...in the jungle ...across a river... and chances are the last thing you will see is your body being eviscerated by her claws of death, having just had your head ripped off your neck by teeth that make Dracula look like a pool boy.

But hey its okay! With modern genderless stereotypes its all about saving animals. You know, tearing them out of their natural habitat. Cause fuck 'em, we have to sell pink Lego helicopters.