On Tickling Manatees

The appeal came via a phone call from his agent.

'Stephen's at a loss as to what he can do,' explained the man of the expensive cigars and the rather generous 14.5%. 'It's not as though he's in a fit condition to make such a commitment. Flying home to appease them is just out of the question. You do know he has a spiral fracture of the right humerus?'

As it happened, I did know. Rarely has a spiral fracture of the right humerus caused so much discussion in the Madeley household. The framed x-rays on top of the television were evidence of that.

I shoved my hand deep into my pocket and felt the reassuring weight of the six fifty pence pieces I always keep there in case of trouble. We'd once had a chap from the SAS on the morning show and he'd told me that a handful of coins can disable even the most committed pursuer. Since that day, I've rarely gone anywhere without a few large coins with edges I'd filed down myself.

'Look,' I sighed, knowing when a duty calls, 'tell Stephen that I'll pop over and deal with the problem myself. I'm sure they'll see reason when I explain it to them.'

'You'll do that?' asked the agent. 'Oh, Richard. I can't thank you enough. The keys are under the large statue of Oscar Wilde. Stephen also wondered if you might be able to check on his goldfish.' And with that, the agent's voice became a dial tone.

This is how I found myself on my 'day off' driving up to Norfolk with a tub of fish food and a pocket of legally-minted shrapnel. You see, from what I'd been led to believe, Stephen's house was being picketed by protesters firmly of the belief that the tickling of manatees in bathtubs amounts to an insult to that noble creature more commonly known as the 'sea cow'.

To be perfectly honest, I thought it foolish of Stephen to make light of such a brutal practice and to do so in a public forum such as his Podcast had struck me as tantamount to recklessness, quite at odds with his reputation as a thinking man. I may be no great believer in animal rights but the very notion of tickling an animal who can neither laugh nor protest seemed very wrong, even to me, a man who once grabbed Jacqueline Bisset's knee when she least expected it.

And, let me add, the manatee belly is not a Bisset knee.

Such has been the outcry at Stephen's admission, even politicians have begun to question how many celebrities have been allowed to paw the helpless manatee. How many times have a manatee's scream sounded like laughter and encouraged even more brutal assaults in the name of infotainment? Is it any wonder that these normally placid creatures finally cracked and turned into the raging psychotic monsters that so deliberately attacked Stephen beneath the waterline, causing him to fall over and break the arm that has brought pleasure to so many?

That's why, however much as I disagreed with the practise of manatee tickling, I was more concerned with the unlawful protests outside my friend's home. It's also why I'd had the foresight to take a loaded Oddie with me. I really didn't know what to expect from a hostile audience of neophytes to the manatee cause. Bill can always talk to these animal loving freaks and he could act as an interpreter to convey my words to people who think that grass has feelings and turf has rights.

His presence gave me great peace of mind when we arrived at the estate of the Great Man around lunchtime. Given that Stephen owns most of rural Norfolk, there's always somebody able to direct you to his estate. On this occasion, however, the smell of onions and lentils would have been enough to lead me to the small camp of tents pitched outside the large iron gates with the large ornamental 'F' in scroll-work and filigree. Beyond them I could see the drive curving away towards to Stephen's old pile, beckoned me on in the certain knowledge that East Anglia's most extensive wine collection was within the reach of a man who knew just where the keys were hid under the statue of Oscar Wilde.

'Look here,' I said, approaching the lead protester who also looked to be the most frail and elderly, 'what exactly are you doing here?'

'Protect the manatee!' came a cry from a blue tent nearby.

I glared at the little woman who definitely looked up at me. He nose twisted as though broken at every nostril.

'We're here to stop the cruel and barbaric mockery of manatees by celebrities,' she said as though I too were guilty of that terrible crime. 'How would you like it if you were fingered by Stephen Fry?'

'Oh come on,' I laughed, 'it can't be that bad!'

She took a bony knuckle and rapped it against my midriff. 'What you see as the acceptable fondling of a manatees tummy is really the imposition of human values upon wild creatures. To them, it's nothing short of abuse!'

'Stop cruelty to manatees!' came another cry, this time from a green tent.

I waved my hand towards the tents in the hope of silencing them. 'But can't you accept that a poor man has already suffered enough?' I asked. 'And why picket outside an empty house when the owner is thousands of miles away finishing his counter-clockwise tour of America? Couldn't you go and annoy Jamie Oliver instead?'

'Has he ever tickled a manatee?' asked the woman, indignantly.

'He'd probably put a crust on one if you ask him right,' I replied. The woman looked at me with a new found contempt but I had no reason to feel ashamed. I owe Jamie nothing and this was Stephen's home I was defending.

'We are here to send a message to all celebrities who think it right to tickle innocent tummies,' continued the woman.

I told her that I knew of no celebrities currently pawing sea cows except for Lorraine Kelly to whom it's really less of a job and more of a hobby, but, by this time, a few of the other protesters had come and gathered around us. They listened with something less than understanding to my explanation.

'Oh, it's a fine message to send out,' I concluded. 'Who doesn't want to protect the world's endangered animals from the likes of Frank Skinner, Jeremy Kyle or Gloria Hunniford? But I can assure you that we “A” list celebrities are now boycotting the manatee because of what they've done to Stephen. Your protests are really quite futile.'

The crowd looked at me in silence.

'Oh, well, that's typical,' sniffed a tall man stood at the back of the crowd. His eyes shone with the gleam of fanaticism. 'Some defenceless animal defend themselves and you celebrities ostracise them because of it. You're no longer interested in the poor creatures. Not now they've turned on you. Send them to Coventry, you have... or whatever backwater in Brazil would be a Coventry equivalent.'

At this point, Bill Oddie stepped forward and the crowd grew silent. They hold a natural reverence for the little fellow that I can't wholly explain. 'Listen here,' said Bill, 'Richard simply wants you to move on but he isn't explaining himself that well. I can vouch for Stephen and tell you that there's no man in the world who cares more about manatees. Can't we show him some pity? He's got a spiral fracture of the right humerus.'

'If he really cares,' began the old woman with the bent nose, 'why did he laugh when he talked about tickling them?'

'He is naturally jovial man,' I answered. 'He's not unlike myself. I'm always laughing at other people's problems. Some say I'm cruel and heartless but it's just an unhealthy sense of humour. I mean nothing by it. I've been known to laugh myself senseless at a sparrow flying into a window.'

I don't know what I'd said that could have riled them so much but the crowd turned rather nasty at this point. I even reached into my pocket and was ready to hurl lose change there way, damning the consequences, but before I could act, Bill stepped in. He suggested that I go back to the car and leave him to speak to speak to the group. After ten minutes, the angry scene had been replaced by one of pure harmony. The camp was beginning to break up and Bill returned to the car looking quite pleased with himself.

'I think they're happy now I've explained things to them,' he said as he stroked his beard. 'They've agree to leave Stephen alone.'

I told him that it was indeed a miracle given their hardened stance. 'How on earth did you manage it?' I asked. 'What magic words did you whisper in their slightly grubby ears?'

'Oh,' blushed Bill. 'It was quite easy really. They have a natural reverence for me. And once I'd given them your home address, they couldn't wait to get moving.' He nodded towards the road. 'You might want to get a move on. Wouldn't want them to beat you to your house. They might not let you in, plus you might like to break this to Judy before the pickets begin...'

'Pickets?' I cried.

'You know,' he said, a look of fanaticism appearing in his own eyes, 'you really shouldn't have made that joke about sparrows... Some things simply aren't funny.'

On Stephen's Podcast

A sleep has rid these bones of the aches and shivers brought on by two days in a cramped recording studio and other associated duties of a man employed by others for tasks not of his own choosing. Damn it all to hell and back. This is no life for a monkey. Not even a handsome monkey with an artificial mane culled from the heads of Taiwanese virgins.

I'm now bound to a different kind of desk; one piled high with good books and assorted manuscripts of my own terribly overactive imagination. To tell you the truth, I'm feeling quite relieved this morning that friends haven't exposed confidences. I've just chuckled my way through the first of Stephen Fry's podcasts. Not that I found his quite obvious pain funny. I was merely relieved that our adventures together had been compressed down to his confession that he 'spent time with friends'. I'd been sent a warning earlier in the week that the podcast would be appearing but my work commitments stopped me writing about it as I normally would. If my first thought was a quite selfish one about exposed confidences, my second was the worry that there would be many more contradictions from the version of the Great Man's story I'd already published. In the end, I think our two narratives join neatly together. Indeed, as neatly as two pieces of bone held together by screws and plates. The only point where our stories diverge is in the moment of the accident. Naturally, Stephen displays Stephen's usual forgiving nature and lays no blame at the hand or flipper of the manatee. I think we all know different and should continue to show our support for the man by continuing our reverse boycott, by buying all goods made from the manatee.

Listening to Stephen has also given me new ambitions. The last two days of hard work pales when one considers Stephen's schedule. I would offer to take some of his duties from him but I fear he's protective of the little niche he's made for himself as the nation's most ubiquitous fitting, suitably for schedules both evening and daytime; bathrooms and kitchens too, I imagine.

All of which has inspired me – if that's the right phrase – to be more productive. There's nothing like a spell of toil to stiffen the resolve. That's why this is a shorter than normal post from me today. I have something much larger I want to work on. You may get to see it in good time. You might not. I might release it anonymously to the underground and let it become a cult classic among bikers and university drop-outs. Do I hear you ask me about a title? Well isn't that obvious?

'This is no life for a monkey.'

A Sunday Morning Manatee

‘Richard.’

‘Richard.’

‘Richard!’

‘Richard.’

‘Richard?’

‘Richard.’

‘Richard…’

‘Riiichaaard!’

‘Richard.’

‘Richard. Richard.’

‘Richardddddd...’

‘Richard.’

‘Dick?’

There was a sudden rustle of duvet and a figure loomed snapping at my side. ‘For God’s sake, Richard! Why don’t you go and see what he wants?’

‘Isn’t it your turn?’ I asked Judy but she just groaned and rolled onto her side. ‘That’s very unfair,’ I added. ‘You know I went last time.’

‘Oh, no,’ she muttered, heading dreamwards. ‘He’s your friend. You go and see to him.’

I gave breath to a sigh. Lying on my back, my eyes open, I’d found myself in a deeply meditative zone and I didn’t want to move. From there, I had begun to make some sense of my life, my career, and my future. It would take something very special to move me…

‘Richard?’ went the voice again, this time with a note of mild distress.

Unquestioning, I slid out of bed and into my slippers. I winced as I stood up. Judy always forces me to wear pyjamas when we have visitors and I have an unnatural habit of getting the cord of my pyjama bottoms wrapped around my tenderest parts.

I hobbled out to the landing and paused at the door to the spare room before I knocked.

‘Richard?’ said a voice on the other side.

I went on in. The room was in semi darkness; the only light coming from a slight chink in the curtain. It was enough to illuminate the man lying on the extra long bed.

‘Yes, Stephen? What do you want this time?’

Stephen Fry peered out from beneath his sleeping hat, his broken arm held up by makeshift rigging that Judy had strung from the ceiling.

‘I’d like a glass of water,’ he said.

‘Water?’

‘Well, I, Fry, would be shamefaced were I to ask you to make me a hot chocolate made with organic goats milk and with a touch of cinnamon sprinkled on the top.’

I looked to the man to whom I owe so much. ‘And I,’ I replied, ‘would be shamefaced if I didn’t make you a hot chocolate made with organic goats milk and with a touch of cinnamon sprinkled on the top.’

I turned for the door.

‘I hope I didn’t wake you,’ he asked.

‘No, not at all,’ I replied. ‘It’s hard to sleep when your intellectual world has been thrown into chaos...’

‘Chaos’ might have been too strong a word for what I’d experienced earlier in the day. ‘Turmoil’ was a better way of describing it. Working as Stephen’s scribe, I’d been introduced to new ideas and shown the way a gifted imagination works. We’d written an opera together, followed by essays, poems, and an intense hour writing out a future Dork Talk article about the exploits of Mozilla browsers. The whole experience had taught me that writers aren’t born but fashioned from tweed and green cape. Writing isn’t a craft. It’s a gift possessed by a few rare intelligences of true and natural genius raised at the twin comedic teats of Cambridge University and the BBC. It was just the sort of thing to make a lowborn man bitter about his more talented friends.

Some might even say that I’d have been justified were I less tolerant of the Great Man’s peculiar demands. But I am, if I’m anything, a patient acolyte of the Priory of Fry. I can’t forget that I owe him many debts. He’s saved me and my friends on so many occasions, he could spend a month with us and I’d bow to his every request. I was more than happy to wander down to the kitchen and put a pan on the hob for the man who had bravely plucked shattered walnut shell from Ronnie Corbett’s groin.

The heat had barely begun to rise from the milk when the kitchen door opened and Stephen wandered in. He was dressed in a bathrobe with the official Fry crest on the pocket; two hippos cavorting around a quill errant.

‘I thought I’d find you here,’ said Stephen, cradling the heavy cast on his broken arm. ‘I was wondering how you’re getting on with the hot chocolate.’

‘It’s warming nicely,’ I replied.

He walked to the breakfast bar and threw a leg over a stool. His arm made heavy contact with the worktop and he winced slightly.

‘I never did ask you how you broke it?’ I said.

‘Ah, now there is a story to be told in the glow of a hob busy boiling goats milk,’ said Stephen. He smiled and slowly brushed his hair from his eyes. There was a definite whir in some mental mechanism as his mind switched modes from observation and to composition. ‘After I, Fry, Scrabble Champion, left you the other day, I took a plane to Brazil.’

‘Brazil?’

‘Indeed. It was going to be a week long jaunt around the nation that brought us the G string and the maraca. I was there to film a new documentary about the animals of South America. My destination was the city of Tefe on the bank of the River Solimões. It was there that I met the BBC crew and the subject of the first programme. A family of manatee.’

‘Manatee?’

‘Sea cows,’ he explained. ‘A strange creature that is best described as having the athleticism of Christopher Biggins and the personality of Jo Brand. Not the world’s most loveable beast and, in truth, Richard, probably harbouring a desire to exterminate mankind. Think of them as the aquatic version of the North Koreans. Fortunately, like the North Koreans – and, for that matter, Christopher Biggins – they lack the equipment to do us any serious harm. Except, that is, when mankind happens to be called Fry. Ah, Richard. I didn’t see it coming. One moment, I was in a pool of water talking to camera and the next and I’m being mauled by a sea cow. It didn’t even have the decency to say “moo”.’

‘It mauled you?’

‘Slowly but it caught unawares.’

‘I see,’ I said.

‘And that’s how I came to be injured. To avoid serious sea cow mauling, I jumped back and tripped over a submerged log. Fortunately, my landing was cushioned by the female manatee. You might say it was a swings and roundabouts situation. My injury would have been much worse if I hadn’t landed on the creature.’

‘Lucky for you.’

‘But, alas, not for Mrs. Manatee. In saving me, she suffered a mortal wound. A very contradictory beast, the manatee. Some are prone to do great violence and others equally great kindnesses.’

‘Oh, Stephen,’ I said, wiping an honest tear from my eye. ‘Don’t tell me any more. You didn’t warn me this story would end so sadly.’

‘Not as sadly as for the family of little manatees. As the ambulance drove me away, I could hear them crying out for their mama. “Mama. Mama. Mama.” A sad sound, indeed. Their mother crushed by a falling Fry and their father condemned as a Fry mauler. The world can be so cruel.’

I turned around just in time to catch the milk before it boiled over. I quickly poured it into a cup, stirred in the chocolate and shook out a bit of cinnamon.

‘Ah, wonderful,’ said Stephen, taking it from my hands. ‘And you had cinnamon. I’ll sleep well after this.’

I smiled but I doubted if I would sleep at all.

The cries of the baby manatee would keep me awake until dawn.