(2)Lost at sea in a rowing boat in the middle of a war zone with a just a cage full of penguins and a bucket of fish for company

Since the incident described above I’ve kept regular correspondence with one of the soldiers ordered to kill us, then a 17 year old street urchin turned soldier called Pablo Madonna. From Pablo I now know that the troops, several of whom spoke a bit of American English, heard my garbled explanation about rescuing penguins and refused to kill anyone embarked upon such a noble quest.

Tentatively, the soldiers lowered their rifles, realising with relief that they were acting in unison. Behind them the General swore and shouted, but the soldiers stood their admittedly nervous and shaky ground. Me and the two Johnnies watched the scene unfold with confusion and relief, which turned to joy for Johnny P when he turned and saw me holding the penguin.

The General swore more orders then paused, slowly went through the process of retrieving and lighting a cigar, before walking down the hill towards us, dragging Pablo by the shoulder alongside him as best-available translator. As penguin holder and the only man present with three number one hit singles, I saw myself as our natural leader, and strode forward to lead negotiations. I quickly outlined our mission to Pablo, who translated to the General. The General, mumbled something, turned, and retreated over the hill and off into the distance. We all looked to Pablo for explanation.

“He says we can help you, but that he will come back for us at dawn.”

If you ever doubt the existence of a higher being toying with the lives of his underlings then surely this tale must end your atheism. What other explanation could there be for such a change in our fates if it wasn’t a bunch of gods playing silly buggers. It was as if all the guards on death row had suddenly offered to help the prisoners dig a tunnel. From 27 guns in the face we had suddenly gained command of a crack Argentine penguin-catching unit.

Luckily, given our own incompetence, the Argies displayed an innate ability to trap penguins. Working in teams of three the argies developed a system whereby two soldiers would approach a penguin from either side in a pincer formation, driving it back into the waiting arms of the third soldier.

This technique even worked for us. I stood waiting with a rope net while the two Johnnies stalked the penguin like so many sheepdogs, taking turns to dart left, right, then left again to check the penguin’s run and then forward, until the penguin was thus waddled into my path.

Working this way we captured a grand total of five penguins, a fine achievement, unless you compare it to the performance of the argies, who caught more than a hundred between them. Argie soldiers are legendary as crap fighters, but they are without doubt the best penguin catchers I've ever seen.

We worked for three hours or so, until the first rays of dawn smiled across the horizon, magnified a hundred times by its reflection on the barren snow wasteland around us and off the smiling white teeth of Argentine soldiers, enjoying themselves in this peaceful penguin venture, knowing that their next action and maybe their last would be facing the merciless ping and splang of heroic British bullets.

With dawn came the return of the General, saying nothing but lighting a small cigar with a significant gesture, thus indicating the same ‘come on lads finish up’ message that less subtle creatures like myself would display by tapping impatiently on their watch and shouting “oy”.

The general’s way was more effective than mine and each of the three-man teams, having captured the penguin they were working on, secured it in the cage and finished, lighting their own fags as a symbiotic signal of obedience. However, in this short time we had between us caged up one hundred and eleven penguins, even more than the ambitious target we’d set out with from Southampton.

The Argies didn’t abandon us just yet though. Forming another formation team, this time more akin to huskies than sheepdogs, they loaded the cage onto a sled and dragged the caged Killers across the dawn-rich snow towards our boat.

The cage was crammed with little penguins, some standing on each other’s shoulders, with their faces peeking out puzzled through the bars as they were dragged across the Falklands by the invading army. I wonder what they made of it, did they understand the intricacies of war, punk rock, environmentalism and other powerful forces that had brought them there, or did they just wonder why the fuck they’d been shoved into a cage and dragged away. Did they fear, perhaps, that we were a gang of penguin poachers after their precious beaks and feathers?

I walked alongside Johnny P, who was bursting with glee. “111, Mr Damage, one hundred and eleven penguins. That’s about half the penguins packed onto a single sled.” He paused to reflect on the significance of this. “That cage” he continued, voice now tinged with awe, “contains 50% of the entire Killair Penguin population. The future of the species lies between those bars.”

“It’ll struggle to lie in there” I joked, “they’re crammed in worse than punters in a mosh pit. At least they’re not throwing bottles at us though.”

Johnny didn’t laugh, instead pulling a serious face as he contemplated the fate of the Killer Penguin race. I saw him turn again and again to study the birds’ progress. I know what he was thinking; ‘if anything should happen to that sled then we'd have played a leading role in wiping out the whole species with our over-ambitious scheme.’

Personally I was thinking about more routine realities, namely the realisation that in spite of the arrival of the sun my jumper was now a solid block of ice, and no longer distracted by the fun of a penguin hunt I was suffering a severe bout of the shivers, very much like that I’d experienced the week I gave up the green pills.

After a long cold trudge we arrived at the boat, where we said our goodbyes to the Argentine penguin-saving heroes, who returned to their evil island-stealing ways. We swapped addresses with a few, which is how I’ve kept in touch with Pablo. With the penguins safely on board, the general began barking instructions, which had the men scampering this way and that. The unit shambled into the distance ‘til they were rambling dots on the horizon.

Johnny Falklander, who’d been keeping out of the action lest he be asked any awkward questions, helped us push the boat out into the first over-ankle of the sea, and we were ready to set sail.

Though he’d come across as an unemotional man, there was a tear in his eyes as he looked at the penguins for what he must have feared would be for the final time. “Goodbye,” he said, squeezing our hands so tight that I had to check for broken fingers. “It was good to work with you. Take care of the little ones.”

“Absolutely, that’s why we’re here, Datmuller and Damage – international penguin rescue. Thanks for the help and for the warm bread and cheese – you’ll have to send me the recipe.”

“Well I don’t usually cook when its just me'self, but its always good to have guests. Do come again after the war. Bring the penguins with you mind.”

With a final push of the boat and splash of the paddle we were back at sea.

We sailed off with the cage of penguins in the centre between us so that it didn’t tilt the boat out of balance. The last thing we wanted to do was drown half the world population of Killer Penguins, and we weren’t too keen to drown ourselves for that matter.

As Johnny P steered the boat out of dock and into the widening waters of the Atlantic I press the ‘on’ button of the radio and called for the attention of Johnny Sailor.

“Coo-ee” I shouted “All penguins loaded up and waiting to set off,” but there was no response of any kind. “Must be sleeping on the job,” I moaned to Johnny P, but he was too busy playing with the boat’s controls to care, so I gave it another try. “Haloo, Damage here. We’ve got the penguins Johnny Sailor, so put it away and come and pick us up.” The response was nil, just the crackling hum of radio and the noisy hush of the Atlantic.

We were soon heading into the open waters and leaving the ice-white island behind us. I could see from the perplexed faces of the penguins that they were not used to travelling by motorised boat, some of them looked distinctly seasick, which can’t have been much fun for the other penguins around them, crammed beak to beak as they were.

Eventually Johnny was happy that the boat was on course and scrambled over the cage to show me how the radio worked. “Move aside Mr D, I’ll deal with this. Let’s have a look at you,” he mumbled to the radio as he turned it back on with a hiss and crackle. He spent the next ten minutes playing with the volume, fiddling with the battery, before finally announcing that there was nobody listening.

“Never trust a sailor,” I said with feeling, as I took a swig of life-saver from my rations bottle. Lucking the Scots know all about surviving in lonely artic wastelands and have developed the perfect antidote to cold, in a convenient liquid form.

Of course, the truth, had we but known it, was far worse than Johnny S falling asleep on the job. Johnny and all his sailor chums were fully engrossed in their final sleep of all and already slowly sinking towards their watery graves, victims of unexpectedly bloody Argie resistance. While we were off on our penguin hunt the ship had been hit by a bloody French missile (never trust the froggies) killing virtually everyone on board, including those who’d been so helpful to us. Yes, the Falklands War had begun in earnest and that meant that there was no boat waiting to pick up me, Johnny P and the penguins.

Over the next three days, as we drifted aimlessly across the freezing waters of the Atlantic, the two of us, or more accurately the hundred and thirteen of us, would come to understand the true grim reality of war at sea, a reality never accurately depicted in the movies or the war reports.

Over the next few hours we made frequent attempts to contact Johnny Sailor but to no avail. Johnny P steered the boat towards some co-ordinates that Johnny Sailor had given us as his best guess at where the ship was likely to be, though we both knew this was a flimsy chance at best.

Starting to feel the cold I grabbed a penguin from the cage, which I cuddled to my body for warmth. “Careful with that” Johnny lectured, “we went to a lot of trouble to get those and we don’t want you to let it go walkies.”

He needn’t have worried, the penguin enjoyed the warmth offered by my jumper and soon fell asleep in my lap, and Johnny, realising the thermal benefits Killer Penguins had to offer grabbed one for himself, which he stroked affectionately as we whiled away slow hours waiting for some sign of life from the Naughty Goose.

Of course, it’s a sad fact of life that if things are going to go wrong then they’ll go wrong big time, with brass band playing, a cherry on the top and a telegram from the Queen informing you that things have gone wrong. After a few hours the boat’s engine phutted to an embarrassed halt and we were left adrift. At least with the motor running we had a good chance of running into someone eventually, be it friend or foe. Now we faced the very real prospect of dying slowly of starvation or dehydration. As we’d only planned to dash from the ship and back in a day we’d only brought enough rations to last us that long, let alone flares or anything useful.

Thankfully we 'd at least had the foresight to bring two buckets of fish to feed the penguins, albeit my mouth did start to water at the sight of them as I munched unhappily on yet another dry tasteless biscuit. Thankfully we’d nearly run out, which meant that I wouldn’t be living off the bloody things much longer, the only downside being I’d die shortly afterwards.

“You know Johnny when the biscuits run out we’ll be out of food,” I paused and he looked at me suspiciously. “Well, I’m just saying. Here we are, stranded at sea, possibly weeks from salvation, the only edible things within a hundred mile radius are in the boat with us, two buckets of fish and a hundred and eleven penguins."

Johnny’s jaw dropped in horror. “We can’t eat the penguins Mr D. I’d rather die than eat the penguins. I’d rather eat you, even if you are all bone.”

"Of course I wouldn't eat them, they're the reason we came here, the last Killer Penguins on the planet. It would be a genocide sandwich. Now, if they were King Penguins, that'd be different. Roasted king penguin!"

Johnny P looked at me as if I'd suggested eating his grandmother. "Only joking, you know I don't eat penguins, it's one of the few principles I do have.” Of course, my principles didn’t extend to not eating the penguin’s food, which was where I had been heading conversationally, but Johnny wouldn’t let me near the fish, arguing that if we were going to eat their only food source we might as well kill them and be done with it. Even though I’d just eaten, I couldn’t stop my tummy rumbling miserable.

Having eaten Johnny decided that it was the penguins’ turn to be fed. I picked up the nearest bucket of fish ready to throw into penguins den, but Johnny stopped me.

“No, don’t just lob the fish in the cage, it’ll be mayhem. We’ll take them out of the cage to feed them.”

“Don’t be stupid, if we let them out they’ll leg it back to the Falklands first chance they get. We’d have to go back and start all over again.”

“No Mr D, you misunderstand, I mean take them out of the cage one at a time. It’ll give them a chance to stretch their legs and freshen up a bit. Can’t be much fun for them in there.”

So that’s what we did. Johnny creaked the cage open, stole the first penguin he could get his hands around, and whisked him out. We fed him a fish, gave him a little bath in a bucket of seawater and let him wander around the boat for a couple of minutes. As we went to put him back a flaw to our plan suddenly struck me.

"Hang on, how are we going to know which penguins we’ve fed and which we haven’t. It’ll end up the same ones getting all the fish if we’re not careful."

“It’s all right Mr D, we’ll give them all a nickname as we take them out, that way we’ll remember which ones we’ve fed.”

“You’ve missed my point Johnny. They all look the same, if we can’t tell them apart we’ll end up giving the same penguin a hundred different names and all the fish.”

“How can you say they’re all the same,” Johnny said, passionately stroking the penguin we’d just released. “They all look completely different, there’s the green circle under their eyes for one thing.”

“Yes, they ALL have a green mark under their eyes. If they were different colours it would help, numerical branding would be even better.”

“But they’ve not got the same mark” Johnny protested, “every one's different. Different shades, sizes, angles - there could be 2 million penguins here and they'd all be individual.”

“If there were 2 million bloody penguins we wouldn't be here in the first place shivering our nuts off in a little rowing boat waiting in vain for the bloody British navy to wake up and take us to safety."

Johnny ignored my comments entirely and continued what he was saying, a trait that more and more people have developed, as I’ve grown older. “Look at this one,” he said holding up a penguin in his arms. “The marks under his eyes are really wide and hearty, he has big bright eyes and really fluffy feathers. And did you notice the gleeful little giggle he made when we proffered him food. We’ll call him Mr Chuckles.”

So saying Mr Chuckles was returned to his cage and the next penguin retrieved. The next out was christened Aristotle, because he conveyed a wise and knowledgeable air untypical of his feathered kind. After eating he stood in the middle of the little boat gazing out around the world about him, as if drinking in the meaning of it all. But, typical of philosophers of every species, he was the only one of all hundred and eleven penguins to make a scene when given a bath, flapping his wings in grumpy irritation. We didn’t dare try to wash under his wings.

We slowly went through the cage of birds in this way, taking them out, feeding them, washing them, then choosing a name. It was like a great religious ceremony, with half the Killer Penguin population of the world being giving the Datmuller / Damage blessing. Quite how Johnny managed to find nameable quirks in such a turnover of beasts I'll never know. Some names, such as Frisky, were recognisably appropriate, but how the devil he managed to christen Loner when she was crammed beak to feather with 110 of her Killer kin I'll never devise.

Finally we’d finished. Most of the fish had been gobbled, all the penguins named and put to bed, which was just as well as the sun was starting to set. We enjoyed the unobstructed pleasure of a glorious Atlantic sunset, uninterrupted except for the occasional flustering of penguins and distant booming of bombs.

Before bedding down for the night Johnny toyed with the radio again, but to no avail, Johnny Sailor had made sure we’d never be able to tune it to a frequency any sane person would be listening to. Though we had sleeping bag and blankets, without the warming rays of the sun the night was bitterly cold. Rather than freeze to death I crept into the cage, to enjoy the body warmth of the penguins. Though Johnny P was more suitably dressed than I was I heard the cage door click open in the middle of the night and he pushed me and a dozen penguins aside to make room for himself. Nestled amongst the warming feathers of our endangered friends we felt as warm and snug as its possible to do when adrift in the Atlantic.

Though we awoke covered in penguin shit and stinking like an old hack journalist we were at least still alive, and I could still feel nearly all my toes.

For breakfast we ate half of the remaining biscuits and had a mouthful of water and another of whisky, it was touch and go which would run out first. We tried again to raise help through the radio, but to no avail. Thus passed the day.

Johnny and I talked about penguins, booze and music and what we’d be doing if we hadn’t gone on this stupid venture (mainly drinking booze and playing music, a plan which I'm proud to say we've managed to keep). Around midday we began the process of bathing and exercising the penguins. This time we only had enough for half a fish each, which necessitated the messy process of cutting fish in half with a rusty pen knife, for some reason Johnny had neglected to pack one with a blade. We reminded the penguins of their new names, gave them their meagre rations, and watched them waddle pleasurably around the boat.

Once again the sun dipped down into the nether regions of the universe, darkness descended and we crept into the cage for another night’s kip in the company of our little defacating friends. The next dawn came, and we repeated the process, only this time without any food at all, either for ourselves or the penguins. The world around us was silent and blank; no sign of life bar the odd passing gull. From time to time we would hear a distant bang, though it was hard to associate these noises with the bloody mess of killing. At night, wrapped in my penguin feather boa, the world of bloodshed and hatred was impossible to comprehend. Let’s face it, if I can forgive a blighter for sitting on my head and crapping down my face you’d think that governments could shake hands and cut some slack.

Our fourth day at sea was to prove our last. It began with the first signs of human life we’d encountered since we left Johnny Falklander on shore, the sound of a noisy jet powering overhead. We calculated that it must be one of ours, as all of their's would surely have been shot down by now, and waved frantically, but I guess the jet’s mission was destined elsewhere.

Our hopes having been raised falsely by this vision of life we spent most of the day slumped and depressed. We didn’t either bother trying the radio, we’d accepted our fate. We were already making plans to release the penguins, rather than starve them to death on the boat, when an enormous ship appeared on our horizon. We waved and shouted frantically, seemingly to no avail, as we watched the boat passing from our left all the way towards our far right, when suddenly we heard sirens and whistles, and the boat started to change direction. They were coming to get us.

“Let’s just hope it isn’t Argie” said Johnny pleasantly.

“Tish, the worse the Argies could do is torture and kill us. If we’re really unlucky we’ll find ourselves on the bloody ship with Prince Andrew on it. He might try and make polite chit chat.”

Despite these worse case scenarios our spirits rose as the ship neared. Even the penguins, perhaps sensing our mood, chirped merrily, aware of a shift in fortunes though unsure why. The ship steered itself astern of us and some shipmen, armed with megaphone, hollered a greeting. Thank fuck, they were English, and Prince Andrew wasn’t anywhere in sight.

“Halloa,” I called back, “It’s Brian De Maget from Bloody Stupid Question. I’m lost at sea, can you help?”

I think they heard me clearly, though they look puzzled. They talked amongst themselves for a while. I imagine they were wondering what England's premier punk rocker was doing in a rowing boat in the middle of the Falklands war zone. Eventually, their discussion concluded, they shouted back at me. “What are you doing out here Mr Damage?”

“I’m rescuing penguins. Got over a hundred with me.”

There was a pause, while they talked amongst themselves again. I imagine they were wondering what England's premier punk rocker was doing in the middle of the Falkland's war zone with a boat-load of penguins. Evidently, however, my explanation was good enough for the time being as they dispatched a fleet of rescue boats.

On board we were greeted by a seaman with an armful of stripes and a pristine white uniform that looked like it had come straight from the dry cleaner’s. “Welcome aboard Mr Damage. I’m afraid I’m going to have to take you immediately to see the captain. Suspicious times I’m afraid, though I’m sure you’ve got a perfectly good explanation.”

Having spoken however, he paused to sniff, gave a shifty at our cak infested clothing and announced a change of plan – we’d be allowed to shower and change first. I got the distinct impression that in the navy the term ‘we’ll let you shower first’ is to be regarded as an order, so I braved the scalding heat of communal showers and donned the nearest available sailor suit. Johnny laughed when he saw me, though why I don’t know, as he was wearing identical uniform. I guess we never like to see our idols in military garb.

We were marched to the captain’s cabin by an over-zealous troop of naval types, who obviously had nothing better to do. The captain saluted us as we entered and we did the same back. Who’d have thought I’d have ever saluted a senior naval officer with anything more than two fingers, but when a hundred penguins’ safety lay in his hands I recognised the importance of buttering him up.

“Welcome Mr Damage, Captain Spence, pleased to meet you”. He passed me a box of cigars by way of greeting; I helped myself to a very restrained handful, as he proceeded to business. “I recognise you of course, my son spends all his waking hours playing your damned albums. You haven't brought your band with you though.”

“Fraid not, just my chum Johnny Penguin.”

“Hello Mr Penguin, and what do you do, are you in a band?”

Johnny mumbled nervously, not used to dealing with authority. “No I'm a penguinoligist.”

“I say, what a jape, a penguinoligist called Mr Penguin, can't wait to tell that one at the officers mess. He paused to laugh at his joke, then continued in more serious tone, “What brings you to the Falklands conflict zone? I understand from my mate that you have with you a cage full of penguins. Do you suffer from some sort of Noah complex Mr Damage? Is this your attempt at an ark?”

I hastily outlined the reasons for our mission and briefly described our adventures, leaving out the detail of the assistance we received from the Argies, lest he see anything suspicious in our association.

“Killer penguins you say, no chance we could use them on our side I suppose?”

“They’re not Killer Penguins” Johnny P explained, “they’re Killair Penguins. Named after Dr Killair, the Scottish Gynacologist who discovered them.”

“ The gynacologist who discovered them?”

“Penguins were his hobby, you see," Johnny P explained. "There wasn’t a lot of money in penguins at the time and we relied on keen amateurs.”

“A bit like you JP” I giggled, “you're a penguinoligist but in your spare time you like nothing more than...”

“Ah, old Binky Killair you mean?” Spence interrupted, “He was my mother's gynaecologist don't you know. And you're right - mad keen on penguins, I remember mother telling me. ‘He looked up my watsit and said ‘I saw a lovely penguin the other day Mrs Spence.’ Makes me feel funny now every time anyone mentions penguins.’ Made me laugh like a mad old goat that did.”

“And what do they laugh like?”

“Ah, that's top secret old chap, let's just say next time you find yourself alone on a mountain take a feather to a goat's sensitive regions and your ears will ring with pleasure.”

I think up to that point the captain had harboured doubts about our tale, but this connection with his mother’s gynaecologist gave our story credence. Our explanation over, he informed us of the sad news of the sinking of Johnny Sailor's boat. I asked after Johnny and the other sailors, but he had no news, which was bad news. He also informed us that we were to placed under arrest, “But not to worry about it, I’ll see it turns out OK, any friend of Dr Killair’s penguins is a friend of mine.”

Such is the corruption that keeps the world turning on its axis, knowing the right people, or in this case the right people’s mother’s gynaecologist's penguins, will get you out of any scrape you can get yourself into.

And we were in a scrape. It wasn’t ‘til a few day’s later, when I saw the headline in the current bun, that I realised that I’d become Britain’s most hated person. ‘Nutty Punk Noah Kills our Boys’.

You see they blamed me for stealing a life raft and claimed that this missing boat was the reason everyone drowned. All nonsense of course, there were another thirty boats on board, the soldiers and sailors simply didn’t have time to get to them. But, even though it’s nonsense, I do sometimes lay away awake at night and wonder if Johnny Sailor and his men might have survived if I hadn’t engaged them on my penguin rescue mission. Had I abused my friendship by asking a favour far bigger than I’d realised.

As The Boy taunted me on my return “I say, don’t mind if I borrow your lifeboat do you, only I want to fetch some penguins? Try not to drown while I’m gone.”

I hadn’t wanted to be a hero, I didn’t expect the Queen to meet me portside and lob medals at me as I brought the penguins into harbour. But I was saddened that a kind deed could cause such hatred and anger in others. Worse of all it meant that I was unable to properly morn the death of my friend Johnny Sailor, whose family banned me from his funeral.

I did get one supportive letter though, from the hairy comic, Bill Oddie. It just said "You’re a goodie.” I sent him a letter back: “You’re bloody stupid.”

I guess I shouldn’t bemoan my fate. I made some great friends from the venture: Pablo Madonna, Captain Spence and Johnny Falklander, who I did go back to visit. And the important thing was that our penguins were safe, Captain Spence ensured that they were all returned home after the war.

As it turned out of course none of the penguins on the island were harmed either, so in a sense our journey was unnecessary. But when I think what could have happened had we just left them to their fate I’m reassured that we took the right course. After all, what sort of person would stay at home when somewhere in the world there was a penguin in danger.