Tag Archives: Allie The Aardvark

An Aardvark in South Africa: The Attack of the Vuvuzelas – Part One

The World Is Watching.

Aardvarks don't need passports.

My initial request was greeted by a look of apprehension.  It’s not often a High Aardvark asks for an extended leave of absence. When one does, he is required to attend a face-to-face with the Highest of Highest: the Supreme Concordant – the being who oversees our duties on Earth. I was hoping to catch HOH on a good day. Seeing that it wasn’t a Monday, I reckoned my chances were good of a favourable conclusion. But I still had to put my case forward as well as I could. I was asking for a lot.

“Let me see,” HOH said. “You want to take leave, is that correct?”

“It is, Boss.”

“To go to South Africa.”

“It’s nice at this time of year. Not too warm, not too cold.”

“But you haven’t finished with Jimbo yet. Are you sure he can carry on without you?”

“Jimbo has been busy with other projects, Boss. I think it’s a safe time to leave him be. I have spies keeping an eye on him.”

“Spies?” HOH opened his eye wide. He didn’t know (or at least I hope he didn’t know) that we referred to him as The Great Eyeball whenever he wasn’t around around. “And who would these spies be, Alpha?”

Alpha, that’s me. You know me as Allie – Allie the Aardvark; but when I’m not on duty, when I come back  to The Centre for debriefing, I’m called Alpha. It’s fun being the first. I get the best gigs. But don’t mention Omega if you happen to find your way here. It’s a bit like asking for ketchup in a five star restaurant: you get that look.

“They wouldn’t be spies if I told you who they were, Boss. I’d be giving away their identities.”

“I am the Supreme Concordant, Alpha. You cannot hide anything from me.” He knows how to throw his weight around, does HOH. I was going to have to fudge this somehow.

“I call them the Book of Faces. They are a canny lot. If Jimbo goes offside, he will be poked, liked, walled, friended and tagged until he steps back in line.”

“And what if he doesn’t?”

“The ultimate in torture.”

“Tell me more.”

I sat up in my chair. It was time for endgame. “He will be blocked, hidden and unfriended.”

“That sounds horrible.” I had HOH rattling. Good, I thought. He’s coming around. “And your convinced this will work?”

“Yes, it will.”

He looked down at my list of requests, his eye rapidly blinking. “You wish to be released from the Union Bond. Why is that?”

The Union Bond is shared between High Aardvarks and their clients. It means that only the client can hear what we are saying. To everyone else we are mute. Some Aardvarks, myself included, like to have a little fun with this. As long as we don’t go too far, it’s generally overlooked. Even HOH likes to have a laugh now and again.

“Because I technically won’t be on a mission. It’s my downtime, Boss, and I want to let my hair down.”

“You don’t have any hair, Alpha.”

“I meant that metaphorically. I want to chill the beans, let off some steam, hang loose.”

“You’ve been in Dublin too long, I fear. Maybe you do need a holiday. Your request is granted.” He rubber-stamped my application form.

Bingo!

“What about my other requirements?” I asked.

“Ah yes,” he said. “I can see no problem with granting you the necessary documents. I’ll ask Pi in Acquisitions to send them down to you.”

“You’re very good, Boss.”

“How long will you be gone for?”

“No more than six weeks.”

“For a football match?”

“64 football matches,” I replied.

He sighed. “Thank the Universal Overseer it’s not the Cricket World Cup you’re going to, Alpha. You’d be gone for four years.” He stood up. “I suppose you’ll be heading away soon.”

“Soon enough.”

He rummaged through his waistcoat and pulled out his wallet. He handed me 500 gronags. “Put this on England for me, will you? To win. I reckon they’ve a good chance this time. Rooney’s on fire.”

I took his money “No problem, Boss. Say hello to the good lady for me.”

And that was that. I was off to South Africa to see the World Cup. Who was I going to support? Certainly not France, that’s for sure.

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Plot Outline for Script Frenzy Project, “The Aardvark and The Stone.”

Connor Bellew is the owner of The Irish Tribune, a national daily newspaper with the largest circulation in the country. He is an opinionated misogynist who has friends in very high places — and hates all of them. Bellew is a megalomaniac who wants to bring Ireland to its knees. Out to stop him is…

Robinson Stone, a former banker who has fallen on hard times. He and Bellew were once friends and are now mortal enemies. Bellew is playing Robinson, using their shared history for his own nefarious plans. But Robinson is fighting back, hoping to reclaim his good name and peace of mind. Accompanying him is his unofficial biographer…

Jimbo, a down-on-his-luck journalism student and recovering alcoholic, who hopes to tell — and sell — Robinson’s story and make it to the big time. He may well be out of his depth, but there’s no gain without risk. At least, that’s what Allie says.

Who’s Allie? Allie is an aardvark, and that’s all you need to know right now.

The Aardvark Speaks…

Hi, all, Alistair Reginald Boothroyd IV here. But you can call me Allie. I’m an aardvark, just so you know.

Jimbo is upstairs at the moment, trying to figure out how to operate his new phone. He’s not getting on well, though. Every time he tries a new button or touches an icon on the screen, various electrical appliances around the flat take on a life of their own. The toaster is around here somewhere. I’ll find it before breakfast, trust the aardvark.

While he fiddles away with Mr. Samsung (no tittering at the back please), I want to take the opportunity to let you guys in on our little secret. Jimbo gets cranky at me when I bring up last year’s NaNoWriMo. I mean seriously cranky. He came up with a cracking idea for a novel, made a brilliant start and got as far as 10,000 words before he, inexplicably, stopped. He reminded me of a horse, leading from the off, only to somehow fall at the first hurdle.

Then he heard about this thing called Script Frenzy from Rik Scott, and after a bit of cajoling from Yours Truly, he decided to give it a go. But we’re going to write it together, he and I. We will put together, over the month of April, a 100 page script that is going to knock your socks off. It will be called The Aardvark and The Stone. For those who know Jimbo and his writing well, this can only mean one thing: a mash-up.

I’ll keep you all informed. In the meantime, I had better tend to matters close at hand. For some reason the lights are turning themselves on and off. That’s technology for you.

While you wait patiently, please enjoy this tune from a Dublin band called…The Script.

Allie and The Day After.

It was the day after St. Patrick’s Day. Allie and I were walking down O’Connell Street. The place looked like a bomb hit it.

“It reminds me of a Roland Emmerich movie,” Allie said.

“At least you don’t look out-of-place,” I replied. “Lots of people are still wearing their green hats.”

For those who don’t know, Allie is an aardvark, a five-foot-two, talking blue aardvark. Except when he talks, only I can hear him. He’s not my pet as such. It would be more appropriate to say that he adopted me (the reason for which, I’m still trying to figure out — just go with it, okay?). He likes wearing hats and is fond of the the Stetson I brought back from Texas last year. But in spirit of all things Irish, Allie decided to wear a green leprechaun hat, with Kiss Me, I’m Irish stamped at the front. It would be cute if it didn’t look ridiculous.

Two ambulances and a Garda squad car ran a red light as we passed by Clery’s. “The morning after the night before,” I sighed. “Between St. Patrick’s Day and Halloween, some folk don’t know how to enjoy themselves properly.”

“I thought you left your soap-box at home, Jimbo.”

“Never mind.”

Allie spotted something on the ground. He sent his snout to investigate. (I call it a snout. I think the proper term is proboscis, but it sounds a bit lah-deh-lad.  So snout it is.) He shivered.

“I’ve never seen the likes of it before,” he said. “What is it?”

“It’s vomit.”

“But it’s green.”

“It’s Irish vomit. Allie. Do you want me to get back on my box again?”

The aardvark shook his head. “Once a day is enough. Let’s grab some breakfast.”

We went to the Kylemore and ate a full Irish: rashers, sausages, scrambled egg, black and white pudding, hash browns, toast and coffee. Allie paid, using his ‘magic’ credit card. (Don’t ask.) As far as I could tell we were the only ones eating. Everyone else was nurturing liquids of some kind, re-hydrating after a hard night’s festivities…okay, I’ll stop pontificating now. Allie is right; once a day is more than enough. Anyway, breakfast is good at Kylemore.

“So what do you know about St. Patrick?” Allie asked.

“Only what I was taught in school,” I said, munching on a sausage. “He was brought to Ireland by Vikings — from Wales, I think — and began converting us pagans to Christianity. He had a think about snakes, didn’t like them at all, so he got rid of them. He should have done the same with lawyers and bankers, but I don’t think there were too many of them around in the 5th century.”

Allie sucked up the last of the egg. “Wrong,” he said.

“I thought it might be,” I replied. “What’s the real deal?” I have become used to Allie rewriting history. He says he’s ageless and has “been around a bit.” Take from that what you will. He’s my aardvark, not yours. (Or I’m his Jimbo…one or the other.)

“St. Patrick was but the first of many to come from Wales to Ireland. It was not to convert the people to a new religion, though. It was for something else entirely.” He paused for effect.

“Go on, then. Tell me.”

“It was in the name of sport.”

“What?”

“Jimbo, the answer is right in front of you. Every two years, the Welsh, the Scottish, the British, the French, and now the Italians invade this country of yours. They pillage, lay waste to man and beast, and buy silly hats, all for sport.”

The sound I heard was the penny dropping.

“But that’s rugby, Allie. Rugby wasn’t around at the time of St. Patrick.”

“Patrick wasn’t a saint, he was a fly-half for Wales. His drop goals won the first Four Nations Championship in 461AD. Patrick didn’t bring Christianity to Ireland, he brought the Rugby Football Union.”

“They don’t teach you that in Religious Education classes,” I said.

“That’s because the archives have been tampered with.”

I put my fork down and stared at him. He blinked once, made a sucking noise with his snout and then gave his full attention to his hash browns.

“We need more coffee,” he said.