I see Attenborough Junior is hefting himself around the media today, promoting his latest little outing into the world of cutesy-pop-naturalism, Madagascar. Seeing the young chump for the first time since "the incident with the cucumber in Waitrose" (more of which at a later date I think, once the wounds are fully healed) put me in mind of the occasion of the little blot's first introduction to the world of 'nature'.
At the time I was thick with Attenborough Senior – not only did we share the same house allegiance at Wyggeston, but, as I recall, we were both pretty hot on the work of the master of comedy , Mr Will Hay. Saturday afternoons would find us in the Leicester Playhouse, simply wetting ourselves at the antics of Hay and his sidekicks in classics such as "Crumpet on the Poop Deck", "Where's My Shovel?" and "Oooh Mrs Mutimer!". Dickie and I were, I believe, fifteen or so, whilst the younger offspring of Ma and Pa Attenborough was a few years younger – due to join us at Wyggeston the next year, as I recall.
On the day in question I had popped round to Attenborough Towers to chew the fat with Dickie and share with him (as we both in those days had an active interest in colonial affairs) a rather interesting article from the Daily Post. The piece, headlined "Ooops Mr Gandhi – Where's Your Trousers?" offered a rather fascinating insight into the emerging Indian Question. Whether Dickie continued with his interest in such things is, I'm afraid, rather lost on me. My arrival was greeted with news that Dickie was 'studying' and was not to be disturbed. 'Studying' was, of course, another recently acquired mutual (although thankfully independently followed) interest of mine and Dickie's. So, deciding to leave the old chap to 'study' in peace, I took a stroll around the grounds where I could not help but notice both a small plume of smoke and a racking cough emanating from behind a shrub. A brief investigation showed that both were being emitted by Attenborough Junior, red in the face and eyes streaming, attempting to puff on a Chesterfield Regular. Compassionate even in my youth, I could not bear to see the young fellow suffer any longer – action was required. With a swiftness of thought and decision that I like to think has not yet deserted me, I pushed the weedy young boil over, shoved his face into a rather handily located rabbit hole, pocketed the fags and, for good luck, gave him a rather firm kick up the backside. As I left, I could hear his muffled voice call out "There's something in here….". So there it was – the start of a lifelong interest in all things 'natural'.
It is as well, I think, that my philanthropic nature demands no thanks for deeds well done as I firmly believe my part in the story of televised natural history has gone largely unnoticed. Such is life, dear reader. Such is life.
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