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Barat and The Boosh

The trouble with zoos is that people think they understand them. They look simple enough. Pop some animals in a cage, feed them a couple of times a day, bus in the tourists, open an overpriced gift shop. And hey presto, the Bob Fossil idiot's guide to zoo keeping.

But look beneath the surface, and there is a whole universe of delicate power balances and hierarchies. Petty rivalries and desires. Broken dreams, oversexed hedgehogs. All the stuff of life, that makes us deep and sensitive beings. Love. Hatred. Jazz.

Howard Moon is a complex man, and he understands the finer mechanisms of the zoo environment. You see, a zoo operates as a microcosm of wider society...

'Oi, Howard. Are you talking about yourself in the third person again?'

That's Vince Noir, my apprentice. Big nose, pointy face of a witch, strangely charming, dresses like a tart from space. No sense of narrative. Or work ethic. Look at him now: lounging about in the middle of the day, glitter platform boots all over the sofa, doing something obscene to a banana. If he wasn't such a gifted animal whisperer, I really wouldn't put up with him.

'Apprentice? I'm a gifted keeper. Anyway, you keep me around so you can watch me eat bananas.'

Not true. I keep him about in the hopes that some of my intellectual rigour will rub off. And I have to watch the banana eating closely, because I'm scared he might choke or, er, get his hair entangled in the skin and panic.

Where was I? Microcosm of society... Think about it from the animals' perspective. It's not easy living your life with hundreds of ogling faces watching your every move. Imagine every time you have a bite to eat, or pop out of your enclosure for a quick game of Uno with the llamas, your picture is snapped on Instaface or Twittagram before you can say civil liberties.

As a zoo keeper, you become finely tuned to the animals' struggles with fame. Only last week, I had to check two zebra into the Priory with exhaustion. (And a Party Rings addiction, thanks to Vince.) And it cuts both ways. You have to keep a professional distance, if you want to help them. Get too close and the whole structure collapses. I mean, you make one deep spiritual connection with a fox in the mid nineties and ten years later, there are still scurrilous rumours circulating the canteen. I'm too secure in my identity to worry about what those rumours are, but it's the principle-

'They said you were bumming him.'

Did I mention he also seems to have constant access to my internal monologue? One of the many special gifts of Vince Noir.

'Not the point, Vince. I don't care what they were...'

'It was that you were bumming him, Howard, definitely. It was in the zoo newsletter.'

He nods helpfully, nibbling the length of his banana. I look somewhere else.

'Do you mind? I'm trying to do an introduction, for the story. There are important allegorical themes here, Vince, about our voyeuristic society and the nature of privacy and fame.'

'Mm, that sounds electric...’ He smirks, and returns his attention to his magazine. For about five seconds. ‘You know the key to a good story, Howard?'

'Yes. Narrative. Action. Big ideas about the nature of human existence.'

'Sex.'

'Sex? Look, we're not talking about the tawdry tales you read online, Vince. This is proper story telling. I'm a chronicler of our times.'

'Thought you were a zoo keeper?'

'I'm many things, Vince. I've got a lot of strings to my bow. I have big ideas. We don't all just think about Topshop sales and Ziggy Stardust. Can I get back to my introduction now?'

'I wouldn't bother, Howard, I mean it's not Dickens, is it? Just jump straight into the action. Anyway, the thing about Ziggy, right, is the eye make up. Now, a lot of people just go in with one colour of eyeliner and that's the mistake. You need to start with the glitter and-'

* * *

The Action. Zooniverse, the Keeper's Hut.

'I can't right now, Howard, I'm frantic.'

Vince is splayed over the carpet, raven's nest head buried in a glossy magazine. The trail of sweet wrappers suggests he has been here for about an hour. Frantic, obviously.

'Yes, you look it... Are you sure you're quite comfortable there, Vince? Can I get you anything? Another cushion, perhaps? I could rustle you up a quiche?'

He sighs, flicking impatiently through the pages as if he's seeking the cure for a terminal illness.

'This is important, Howard. I'm reading Cheekbone. It goes out of date in 11 minutes, and I'm still an issue behind.'

I watch the pages move like a flick-book under his fingers: celebrity perfume, ridiculous shoes, pouting models, blue, green, pink. Vince has been painting his nails with magic markers again. Which would explain why there are never any pens that actually work when it's time for my monthly Keepers' Meeting. You try drawing a how-to-calm-a-llama-down flowchart with only green and a dried out purple.

'The Zoo is important, Vince. And we've got a new arrival today. It's quite a coup - the lesser spotted Barat. The last sighting was in Soho last year, cosying up to a flock of supermodels. We've got the last one in England.'

'Magic, Howard. I'll have a look, later, yeah?'

He doesn’t look up from the page, devoutly scouring an image of diamante cowboy boots.

'Thing is, he's a bit...'

I glance down at the scratches across my arms, where my Zooniverse uniform has been slashed to ribbons. The creature seemed to take against the polyester fabric quite aggressively. Said some very hurtful things about my hair too, as it happens...

'He's a bit unruly. Perhaps you could try your magic touch on him. Come on, little man, you're like Mowgli in flares.'

Vince looks up as if he'd just been slapped.

'Flares? Get stuffed, Howard, it's not 1991. It's all skinny jeans now, I'm Vince Noir, Indie Prince.'

'Indie Ponce, more like. Alright, leave it to the master. Howard Moon has been conquering wild animals since you were in hotpants... King Keeper they call me.'

'Do they really..?' He grins, pink lipgloss smearing against his teeth in a way that is definitely not attractive. I shrug, and decide to make a dignified exit. Vince has produced his igadget from an outfit with seemingly no pockets, and I leave him to poke at the mysterious screen with glittery fingers.

'Oi, hang on! Howard! It says here that Barats are allergic to bootcut jeans - and corduroy might prove fatal! One look at your jazz dalek trousers might finish him off!'

'How dare you, sir? My attire is the robust wardrobe of a man of action. I can't waste time on your fleeting fashion fads, I've got important work to do.'

'Need all your spare time for important stationary village maintenance, do ya?'

'Well, now that you mention it, the highlighters are in disarray... Actually, I've been meaning to have a word with you Vince – have you seen my glitter gel pens..?'

He flaps suddenly to his feet, in a blur of sequins and platform heels and gangly limbs.

'Mm, er, not sure... Ooh, sorry, Howard, better check on this Barat. Got to go – duty calls!'

And then he is gone, in a cloud of hairspray and glitter.

You see? I understand the finer mechanisms of the zoo environment. And Vince's terror of having his glitter confiscated. Howard Moon, King Keeper.

* * *

Zooniverse, the Keeper's Hut. Later that afternoon.

'Vince, do you want some tea?'

'Mmmjgirjtjh.'

'Tea? Vince?'

'Mmbllmmgh.'

I look over. Vince is huddled on the sofa, a book balanced on his lap. Not a banana in sight.

'Are you ill?'

'I'm learning Carlish... it's what they speak, innit, the Barats? Might help if we can actually communicate with him. Find out what's making him so pretty... I mean, er, pouty...'

At times like this, I almost feel proud of him. It's a very special moment when you see all your hours of teaching come to fruition and- Hang on a cotton-picking-minute, did he say pretty?

The thing about Vince is that he's easily led. I left him in charge for one weekend last April (while I went to a folk music/ natural fabrics festival in Norfolk) and when I came back, the monkeys had staged an ape revolution and half the tourists had been fed to Connie the Shark. I wouldn't mind, but Connie was a vegan when I left. Vince was in a cage, covered in body glitter and little else, half deranged on sugar. He practically tackled me to the ground and tried to lick me like a giant candy cane. Even once I had pulled him off, he went about looking twitchy for a week. And every now and then I would catch him looking at me with a worrying glint in his eyes.

Barats are notorious for their charm. They might not look it at first – dark eyed, mumbly, biting things – but when they want to, they can melt the libido of the most steadfast heterosexual and reduce him to a pool of whimpering fanboy. I had to prize two of the delivery men away from his cage. We never did locate Welsh Barry's trousers.

Such cheap tricks don't work on me, of course, a keeper of my years and experience. Leather jacket like a shell, dark fringe tumbling in his eyes, stompy boots and jeans tight enough to do him an injury. Seen one indie wild thing, seen them all. Even if he does have rather fetching eyes, sparkling blue like the ocean on a summer's day. And a mouth as pink and soft as candyfloss that make you want to bite and suck-

In all honesty, there may be a few moments of the induction physical examination that are a bit fuzzy. And I'm almost certain that I was wearing underpants when I went into the cage...

Still, Vince is a delicate flower. And he gets very attached to the animals. Which is all well and good, but they're not all innocent fluffy creatures. Some of them are dangerous, predatory beasts who would devour Vince for breakfast.

I squint at the boy spread out on the sofa. The black stuff smudged around his eyes looks a bit heavier than usual, making him look even more like a 50s starlet. And it's topped off with flecks of glittery stuff that looks an awful lot like my gel pens.

'Vince! Er, look, little man...' I settle on the arm of the sofa, and gather my words of wisdom. 'I want you to be careful. Look out for that Barat, I know what these indie animals are like. One minute you're listening to their grinding guitar riffs, and the next you're arse up over an amp having the rhythm pounded out on your special button and squealing loud enough for everyone in the next building to hear you. Um. I mean. So I've heard.'

Vince is staring at me. Eyes wide and pupils wide, his glossy lips parted in surprise.

'Oooh, d'you really think so?'

I consider pressing on, but he's got that dreamy look that means he won't take in a single word. He looks flushed and slightly breathless, biting thoughtfully on his pink lips, wrapping a twist of dark hair around one finger. It's exactly the way he looks when he's sleepy, just before he usually dashes off to bed as if he's about to burst with tiredness.

* * *

Zooniverse, the Barat's Cage. The next morning.

'Vince! What are you doing, little man, that's a wild animal! A savage beast! A cold blooded killer! He'll unwrap you like a banana with one swipe of his claws!'

I woke to find all my worst fears had come true. Vince's bed was rumpled and empty, his hair straighteners still plugged in and smoking on the dressing table. Dashing out, fear knotted tightly around my throat like an over-stretched cravat, I knew exactly where to find him.

The Barat's cage. But nothing quite prepared me for the scene that met my eyes.

Vince is happily perched on the bed, the Barat curled in his lap, nuzzling into a pink leopard printed shoulder. His delicate fingers twist in the creature's hair, soothing and stroking. The Barat makes a soft mumbling sound, pressing his head into Vince's hands and squirming against him. The sound reminds me of a kitten's contented purr.

'Nah, it's fine, Howard. We've had a little chat, and he was just a bit depressed about his hair. It'd gone all lank and lifeless but I've squirted some salt spray and it's perked right up!'

I move a little bit closer. Sure enough, there isn't a mark on Vince. No bites, no scratches. But the Barat wraps around him a bit tighter as I approach. Vince shushes him, and he settles for sending me a nasty glare. I deliberately look away from his eyes, glittering like blue marbles in the sunlight.

‘His name’s Carlos. Genius, isn’t it, Howard?’

The creature coils a muscular arm around Vince’s neck, tangling his hand in the precious lion’s mane. I hold my breath and wait for the inevitable tantrum. Vince giggles. Giggles. Tickles, he mumbles, cuddling closer to Carlos.

I have a very bad feeling about this.

* * *

Zooniverse, the Keeper's Hut. That afternoon.

'Thing is, though, Howard, he's dead lonely.'

Vince is playing with his alphabet spaghetti. He has spelt out KISS, LUV and is working on C_R_LOS.

'He's in there, all alone, just writing sad songs and mumbling to himself about the Velvet Underground.'

I make a non-committal noise and focus on my toast. Vince has built his into a small house. It strikes me that I never see him actually eat anything that isn't bright pink or banana shaped.

'He's too pretty to be on his own, it's making me all sad.'

This is the problem with Vince. He's too sensitive. It isn't always a good thing in a keeper to get too close to the animals' problems. He spent three weeks last summer giving the koalas marriage counselling, while I had to feed all the ocelots without getting my hands bitten off.

Creatures like Carlos take advantage of his soft nature. When I left them earlier, Vince was feeding the boy one of his previous bananas, giggling inanely and holding the fruit up to his pink pouting lips.

He was petting the Barat with his free hand, stroking his silky hair. Transfixed in the blue glow of his gaze. Seemingly oblivious to the sinewy hands straying dangerously around the waistband of his trousers. For once I could see the wisdom of Vince’s predilection for impossibly tight jeans.

I know what they're like, these leather clad, fringe-flicking banana gobblers. One smouldering flash of blue and poor Vince is melted sugar in his hands. But I can't stand to see Vince sad. He's a sunshine boy, and sadness just isn't his colour.

'He does have a certain raven haired, pointy charm about him, I suppose... But what else can we do to cheer him up?'

Vince grins.

'Funny you should ask that. I might have an idea.'

He produces a rolled up magazine out of thin air (and at some point, I really must find out how he does that). He flicks to a picture and shoves it in my face.

'What the flaming fondue is that creature?'

'It's a Doherty. They're wild.'

I survey the picture: a feral looking creature, wide eyed and glaring into the camera.

'Wild? He looks livid.'

'Yeah, well someone's just nicked his hat. They're well protective about their accessories...'

'I don't know, Vince, he looks like a bad influence. Next thing you know, all the baboons will be on crack and bumming each other.'

First rule of zoo keeping: once bitten, twice shy, three times terrified. We had a Borrell on loan in my first summer at the zoo. Bedlam. It took months to clean up the pools of melted girl goo, and one of the keepers was blinded when Borrell's white jeans caught the sun at an unfortunate angle.

'Well, we're gonna have to do something, Howard. If we can't cheer up the Barat, Fossil's going to get rid of him. He's depressing all the lions, and he's already sadmumbled three parakeets to death.'

Vince returns to despondently sliding his extra vowels around the edge of his plate.

'Don't worry, little man, I'll think of something.'

* * *

Zooniverse, the Keeper's Hut. That night.

'Howard! Come quick! It's the Barat, he's gone berserk!'

I run faster than an avid Jazz Collector towards a limited edition press of Big Face Biggles. I am expecting blood, guts, a frenzy of torn limbs and screams. What I find is something rather different.

'I've tried everything, Howard, I don't know what to do. I played him some early Lou Reed but he just started pulling his hair out. It was appalling, Howard, it's so shiny! I've had to restrain him.'

The Barat is fastened to the bar of his cage, snarling and writhing against his restraints. Each slender wrist is trapped in a fluffy pink handcuff.

'Um. Are those regulation zoo restraints, Vince?'

'I had to act fast Howard, it was all I had to hand.'

I decide not to venture any further down that avenue. The Barat looks a bit the worse for wear. His dark hair is tangled, eyes flashing, muscles tense and shivering under golden skin. And I'm sure his spray-on jeans weren't straining quite so much earlier. His top seems to have been torn off in the struggle, leaving his bare torso rippling in the light, skin flushed and strangely sticky.

He is mumbling furiously and somehow more incomprehensibly than normal; it takes me a moment to identify the tight leather tie caught between his teeth.

'Was the gag really necessary, Vince?'

He blushes and looks intently at his very high heeled boots.

'He might've been wearing that already.'

Now that I look around, there are quite a few non-regulation items scattered about the cage. Lurid feathers drift in the air, an empty Babysham bottle lies abandoned, what looks like a leather paddle discarded on the bed. A selection of brightly coloured tubes of body paint, promising sensual, sticky delight...

'I was, er, just trying to cheer him up. But I don't think I'm exactly his type.'

Vince sounds apologetic. He certainly looks as if he has tried very hard. His mouth is red and puffy, like his lips have been bitten. A hot red flush adorns his cheeks and neck, trailing down to the gap in his mis-buttoned shirt.

'You know what we have to do, don't you?'

'No, Vince. Not the Doherty. We don't have a big enough hat stand.'

'Aw, come on, Howard. I thought you were King Keeper? Tamer of wild animals, and ferocious beasts?'

I give him my best firm look. Vince sighs, eyelashes fluttering closed in defeat.

'Oh well. Suppose I'll just have to keep trying then... Maybe he likes it a bit rougher...'

'Now, now, let's not be too hasty, little man. I mean, in many ways the Doherty is exactly what this zoo needs...'

I don't get any further because Vince is attached to my neck, hot skin and sugary stickiness plastered against me. Which has nothing at all to do with the phone call I make to a friend at a Thai zoo, who I happen to know have a tall, dark be-hatted creature with a poetry notebook and a taste for skinny guitar players.

* * *

Zooniverse. Early morning, two days later.

The Doherty arrives bright and early. And I am ready for it.

Regulation zoo restraints to hand, stun gun strapped to my belt. Wits firmly about me.

Barry makes it with his trousers intact, which I take as a good sign. But he is clutching a page of poetry in his hand when I sign for the crate, and he looks wistfully at the closed box.

'Lovely eyes, he has. All big and dark. Reminds me of chocolate buttons.'

Less of a good sign.

I open the crate tentatively, ready to strike at the first sign of danger.

'Alright, mate,' Doherty smiles in greeting. He tips his hat and resumes strumming on his acoustic guitar.

Throughout the health check and induction, I keep one hand on my stun gun, one eye open for a sudden rush of Camden trendies or an impromptu opium party. But other than persisting in a faltering rendition of There is a light that never goes out, he is no trouble. And I have to admit, he does have lovely eyes.

*

Zooniverse. The Barat's Cage. Two hours later...

'Howaaaaard. I don't think they like each other.'

The Barat fled to the darkest corner of his cage as soon as we released Doherty. He has stayed there, snarling and stamping his biker boots, tossing his dark mane, ever since.

Doherty looked alarmed at first, and then fascinated. He sits cross legged on the floor, gazing in wonderment at the fiery creature in front of him.

'Not so fast, little man. These things take time...'

I have seen this before. When you bring a potential lion mate into an enclosure to meet the lioness, there's no point sticking Lionel Ritchie on the record player and cracking open the champagne. You have to let them warm up. Circle each other, let them weigh up the dangers, get a feel for things.

There is a sudden movement. I feel Vince tense up beside me, and rest a reassuring hand on his hip. (Which, if anything, seems to make him tenser).

Doherty swings his guitar onto his lap and starts strumming away, bashing out some very similar chords to Please, please, please, let me get what I want... We wait, barely breathing. The Barat has fallen silent, calm for the moment, and I wonder if a storm is coming. They have a famously low tolerance for The Smiths.

He moves, slinking across the cage like a big cat towards its prey. Doherty watches him with huge, swooning eyes, but makes no effort to escape.

With a flash of feline movement, the Barat produces a slender electric guitar. (Which is a mystery, because he has even fewer pockets than Vince). Bright, cerulean blue to match his eyes. He starts to play along, winding serpentine, sensuous notes around Doherty's breathy, longing chords.

'Oooh, Howard,' murmurs Vince. For once, I agree with him.

Then, as suddenly as they began, the guitars go flying. Limbs flail and entwine, and the creatures tumble together. Before I can move, the Barat is straddling his new mate, pinning him down with a possessive growl. Doherty makes no move to resist, accepting the ravenous, bruising kisses that assault his mouth and neck with a happy moan. They slide and grind together in a frantic, thrusting rhythm.

A soft whimper from beside me brings me back to reality. Vince. Who has turned a peculiar shade of red and is shifting uncomfortably in his silver skinny jeans.

'Oh my. Right, Vince, let's get those school children out of here...'

He mutters something in Carlish and disappears into the hut, with his sleepy face on. If there is one thing I’ve learned about Vince, it is never interrupt his naptimes, however suddenly they come about.

I usher away the school children and clear the area.

After all, the key to being a good keeper is to know your limits, and understand when to give the animals some privacy. And, of course, always keeping a close eye on the zoo's CCTV monitors.

* * *

Zooniverse. One week later...

I return to the zoo on Monday morning and find it closed. Go to the jazz conference, Howard, said Vince, I’ve got everything in hand. You’d think, after the monkeys’ summer revolt and the lizard putsch of 2013, that I would learn.

Shaking my head, I follow the trail of glitter and party poppers until I reach the Barat’s Cage. Or at least, where I remember the cage being before a giant bouncy castle popped up.

Sprawled amidst a rubble of party streamers, empty bottles and dubious brightly coloured objects is Vince, Acting Head Keeper. Fast asleep, face down on the slowly deflating bouncy castle. Wearing far less than is advisable on a dewy spring morn. I avert my eyes from his skimpy purple undergarments, and try not to notice how inadequately they cover his morning exuberance.

‘Vince?! What's gone on here? It looks like the last days of Rome… with body glitter.’

‘Howard!’ He opens his eyes and grins at me, dazzling me with sunshine. For a moment I forget whatever it was I’m supposed to be annoyed about. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned Vince’s smile, but it feels like warm honey must do on crumpets. Which is, of course, a useful zoo keeping skill, for… various scenarios that aren’t worth interrupting the narrative for now.

Vince yawns and stretches, testing the stretchy purple thing to its limits. It is, I reflect, a particularly warm morning for this time of year. I am seriously considering taking off my cagoule. Then he looks around him and remembers.

‘Er, yeah, sorry Howard, it all turned into a bit of a party. The cheetah was doing karaoke, I did Jean Jeanie, it was wicked, Howard.’

'You were supposed to be in charge!'

Vince has the decency to look faintly embarrassed. He ruffles his hair and rubs his hand over his smudgy eyes, blinking up at me. I can feel the anger dissipating like a punctured balloon.

'It's Doherty. He looked at me with his big melting chocolate eyes, and next thing I knew, we were all on a bouncy castle, off our tits on cheap vodka and parrot seed...'

‘You see, this is why I shouldn’t leave the zoo. You’re just not strict enough, little man. It’s the ape revolution all over again.’

Vince blushes at the memory, and I have a brief and very vivid flashback to discovering my apprentice in an unusual position, with nothing but glitter to cover his dignity. He coughs and gestures to the Barat cage, behind the bouncy castle.

'Look, on the bright side, the Barat's cheered right up.'

I look. And Vince is right. The Barat is... smiling. It isn’t easy to see at first, as he is tangled around Doherty in a twist of gold and alabaster limbs. They seem to be permanently connected at the mouth, lips smearing together in wet, languid kisses. Soft, incomprehensible murmurs are breathed into each other’s mouths. Their tongues snake together, hips sliding in sync.

Vince watches them intently, biting his lip. He smiles at me, peeking up through his fringe.

'Reckon we might get some little Barat-Dohertys soon if we're lucky. Imagine that. Sex god hair and seven feet tall. I'm going to form an indie band. It'll be genius, Howard.'

I nod, finding myself oddly dry mouthed.

The Barat rolls over suddenly, flipping Doherty onto his front. I wonder if we are about to witness an act of territorial aggression. He slides down the length of his mate, tongue marking out his domain in a long wet stripe, making Doherty shiver and squirm beneath him.

And then he sets about claiming his territory, rather aggressively. Muscles coiling and rolling sinuously under warm, golden skin. Hips swirling and snapping, driving into his mate in a series of squeals and yelps. Teeth sinking into the pale flesh of Doherty’s neck, branding his claim. Although, from the appreciative moans of Carlossss coming from his mate, his dominion goes unchallenged.

‘Been doing a lot of that, have they?’

‘A lot. Really.’ Vince looks at me, wide eyed and serious. ‘Like, alotalot. It’s been like the discovery channel, Howard, only with all the dirty bits in.’

I need a drink, I decide. One of the first rules of zoo keeping: hydration is key. It is an unseasonably dry day. And hot. I realise I am sleepy, suddenly. Very sleepy indeed.

By my side, Vince is hot faced and looks desperate for his bed.

‘You must be exhausted, Vince.’

‘Nah, I’m-’ He looks at me, and his smile stretches across his face. ‘Yeah, I could do with a nap, maybe. How ‘bout you Howard, long trip an’ that?’

I nod. Vigorously.

‘Definitely. A nap. Yes.’

I let Vince grab me by the hand with sticky fingers, and drag me back to the Keepers’ Hut with more energy than he should possibly have. I spend most of the trip trying to keep my eyes turned away from the expanse of bare skin in case I combust, and then decide that breaking my neck with the strain is probably a greater risk.

‘Although, Vince, maybe we should just stop off and, um, check the cameras. Just for, you know, zoo security.’

‘Yeah, yeah, very important that, Howard. Good thinking. That’s why you’re King Keeper.’

You see, that’s the thing about zoos. They are microcosms of wider society. Full of delicate power balances and hierarchies. And, as I spend the next few hours demonstrating to Vince in great detail (without the aid of a white board or any working magic markers), I understand the finer mechanisms of the zoo environment. That is why I’m King Keeper.

* * *