Pretty Girls, Hairy Dogs and Cannibalism

When I was younger, I wanted to work for the Forestry Commission. I could think of nothing better than being off on my own in the middle of nowhere. Of course, I'd occasionally appear from the woods to win the heavyweight boxing title, to ride the winner in the Grand National, and to drive a train a few days each year. Other kids dreamed of being rock stars, actors or spacemen. Maybe my first choice of occupation was a little unusual, but the other parts of the dream were – and still are – common fare.

However, there was one dream that many small boys (and a few small girls, mostly those that went on to become lesbians) held dear back then, which does not feature so heavily in the modern age; to be an explorer. Okay, it doesn't help that most of the earth's surface has already been trampled on by previous generations, but the real issue, the real problem, is that the essence of exploring has been destroyed by an over-pampered breed of phonies. That's right; modern explorers are crap!

Back in the good old days of exploring, three men with old fashioned nicknames - Skipper, Ginger and Bender - would decide to walk to the North Pole whilst carrying anvils. They would set off with an extra jumper, wooly socks and a packet of oatmeal ... and never been seen again. Then another three would go, followed by another trio, and so it would go on until eventually three would get there and get back to tell the tale. They were heroes, as were all the others that died trying.

These men would spend months achieving their goal, predominantly because by day four, the huskies would have been their lovers, and by day six their lovers became their lunch. After that, they'd eat their own feet, or whatever bits of their bodies fell off. A good day at the office involved finding the frozen bodies of those that went before. It was like discovering an abandoned freezer filled with meat.

By day ten they'd hit Bender on the head with an ice pick and decide to say he fell into a ravine. Soon Skipper and Ginger would be watching each other out of the corners of their eyes. Who would make the first move? These men were such heroes that if Ginger knew he was weaker than Skipper, he'd spend the next few days rubbing his body with salt and pepper to give Skipper a head-start when it came to cooking time.

Explorers went where no man (or lesbian) had been before, and very few of them returned to tell the tale. When they did return, they were acclaimed as heroes, they were rewarded handsomely, and all the pretty girls wanted them to stick their penises up their growlers. The explorers that survived were even more sought after by the fairer sex than dentists. However, most explorers died slow and horrible deaths, alone and unsupported. Their loved ones gazed into the mist of uncertainty, hoping, waiting, wondering whether or not to cash in the life policy.

So we move to today. Explorers have web cams, motorised skidoos, suits designed in laboratories, vitamin supplements, mobile phones, satellite tracking devices and back-up helicopters. The weather turns bad, and they get airlifted out, at the fucking tax-payers expense. Then, having fucked up at their job, they write a book and go on breakfast television and get paid to open supermarkets. They end up marrying some airhead weather girl and complaining that they don't get enough recognition for being failures.

Ponces, all of them. Smug piss-poor lazy poncing bastards. Modern day explorers; fuck yourselves!