The Hippopotamus Page #4

Mothers worry.

It's in their job description.

Well, I worry her

more than Simon.

Simon doesn't treat strangers

to nuggets of penile data.

- He's safe.

- Meaning I'm unsafe?

I should bloody well hope so.

I'm not having a godson of mine

running around the place,

being anything other

than wild and dangerous.

Why are people embarrassed

about sexual things?

I'm not.

In my opinion, people are more

embarrassed about love than sex.

What makes you think that?

They never talk about it.

It's all anyone

ever talks about.

Love, love, love.

Love is all you need.

Love makes the world go round.

90 per cent of the world's

poetry is about love.

With swift, slow;

sweet, sour;

adazzle, dim;

He fathers-forth whose beauty

is past change; Praise Him.

Oh, god. Of course.

You like Hopkins.

The greats know that

poetry is how we allow

nature to speak to us.

- Wordsworth?

- No, you chump.

My heart leaps up.

On my couch I lie.

I wandered lonely as a cloud.

He's an egomaniacal onanist.

Wordsworth did not masturbate.

He's a f***ing

tea-towel writer!

Look, young pup,

my heart rejoices that

you want to be a poet,

but I bet you can't name

a profession with less use,

less chance, less point,

less status and fewer prospects.

Sewage engineer.

Ha! Alright.

Scenario one.

All the poets in England,

Scotland, Wales,

and Northern Ireland

go on strike.

Impact, nil.

Misery, nil. 14 years before

anyone even notices.

Scenario two.

All the sewage engineers

in London alone

go on strike.

Impact, turds and tampons

flopping out of your tap.

Scum and ooze

where e'er you walk.

Misery. Hardship.

Newsworthiness high.

You do still believe in poetry?

Its power to change the world.

You do still care?

Oh, Christ.

Not you as well.

[Ducks quack]

Look, of course I do.

It... It's just...

Hard work.

You want gold, you break

your back down a mine.

It doesn't just float from

the sky in gleaming bars.

Alright?

Grand.

All this talk of poetry

has awoken my appetite.

Time for a second stanza

of your mother's cream cake.

[Grunts]

I'll put the kettle on.

Oh...!

Phwah!

[Ducks quack]

F***!

[Anne] Another bath?

My center of gravity has shifted

since my last time

in a coxless pair.

- You found David, then?

- Yes.

And read some of his poetry.

I've got some of it here,

in fact.

He seems,

in his own graceful way,

to have been recording

a wank in the woods.

Well, any good?

What, the poetry or the wank?

Ted.

- You know if he does it much?

- Oh, please.

Look, my love,

you asked me to keep

an eye on him and I have.

And if Wanking's

what he's doing...

Certain things, a mother doesn't

need to know about in full.

I understand,

but I'm not being prurient

just for the pleasure of it.

I've spent most of my life

skipping after women,

like a puppy trying

to please his master.

And the rest, pleasing myself.

And that's fine.

I'm a heartier fellow for it.

But if your son is writing

metaphysical art spunk

and not simply filling

soft fabrics

with human hand cream,

then there is a problem.

Which is?

Mum, I think you should come to

the stables quickly.

Lilac's sick.

Oh, sh*t.

Well, if the horse is sick,

he must do something.

Yeah, well, I'm...

I'm sure he will.

But first we have to find

the little fellow.

[Valerie] Don't you have faith?

Faith's great, but it'd be nice

to have a soupcon of proof.

[Simon] This is a rather drastic

course of action,

don't you think?

- She was fine yesterday.

- It's fast-acting.

She'll have

complete renal failure.

There's no ragwort in her field.

[Nigel] Then do you have

another explanation for

the blood in her stool?

No, but it's not an explanation

for the blood in her spittle.

I'm sorry, Clara.

I think we're going to

have to put Lilac down.

But I didn't even

get to ride her.

Come on. Let's go

back to the house.

[Anne] I'm so sorry, Valerie.

This is just very bad timing.

[Valerie] But there is a chance

that she will recover?

It's a sadness, yes, but Anne

has a lot of experience.

We need time for a miracle.

'Hercule Poirot could

probably take a cursory

glance at this group

'and glean all sorts

of useful ammunition

'for his denouements.

'But if any of this amounts

to any sort of clue,

'it's absolutely wasted on me.'

I think you're being

very premature.

[Horse wheezes]

- Oh, mon Dieu!

- David.

Don't touch her. Don't.

A sick horse

can be very dangerous.

- Come on, come away.

- It's not right.

- What happened?

- I'll explain in a moment.

'What was happening was

the Logans discovering

'they had no stomach for

mercy-killing a sickly horse

'and yet were possessed of

a seemingly limitless capacity

'for procrastination

and indecisiveness.'

Maybe you should

come back tomorrow,

and we'll reassess it and see...

- Yes. Yes, my Lady.

- What she's like then.

Thank you.

Right. Perhaps some drinks

before dinner.

Yes, perhaps several.

[Horse wheezes]

I got the idea

from the playwright.

Met him in Venice

on my last trip.

Is there a point?

Or are you merely recounting

a selection of random events?

Ch, hush.

Now, where was I?

Oh, yes.

Gianni had the most enormous...

Oh, my God.

C-o-c-k.

And he was afraid

he might hurt me.

"Gianni darling", I said.

"Fear not.

"After what I've been through,

"you'll be lucky

if it touches the sides.

"It'll be like pushing a paper

boat up the Grand Canal."

[Others laugh]

This is not language

for when children are present.

Oh, prude la-la. They know.

There's two options.

One, we let Oliver

rattle on home

about his various exploits

and the occasional ear

gets singed.

Or, two,

we let the kids work it out

entirely for themselves.

I just don't understand every

person obsession with sex.

It's not an obsession.

It's the meaning of life.

Well, there is something that

children can learn with help,

and that is good manners.

- David, help with the plates.

- Yes, Mummy.

Clara.

[Crashes]

[Jingles]

Oh, mon Dieu.

[Oliver] Will you tell us

a story, Oliver?

Oh, I thought

you'd never ask, Michael.

Well, the story is about

a down-on-his-luck gigolo

who gets a job playing

alto sax on a cruise ship.

- But what he's really doing...

- Oliver, stop.

- Not a chance.

- Oh.

Not a penny.

Well, if we can't drink to my

play, let's drink to Lilac.

May she have her miracle.

- 'Yes, to Lilac.'

- To Lilac.

'The same toast they'll be

making tomorrow night

at the glue factory,

'as her bones render noxiously

in the background.'

To miracles.

[Glass clinks on table]

Unlike you to forsake a drink.

You don't seriously

expect me to join you

in a wine-soaked prayer

for a miracle?

Is that so ridiculous?

It's fluff.

Miracles are phenomena

that we're too frightened

or, in my case,

too lazy to understand.

But nothing miraculous

ever actually happens,

and certainly no-one

is ever healed.

You don't believe in healing?

You can correct

a mechanical fault,

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