“Seamus, how are you? Come on in,” beams David Attenborough.
“David! Green and heavy headed as usual I see,” says Seamus coldly.
“What?” asks a confused Attenborough.
“Never mind. Get me a beer, fucking sweltered in the punishing sun all bloody morning.”
A bewildered but happy David Attenborough skips to the kitchen, for you see Seamus is here. Seamus is here. David has been looking forward to this all week. David hands Seamus a Heineken and brushes his hand lightly off Seamus’s. An electric spark shoots up David’s back.
“Is that all you have? No decent beer. Tsing Tsao or even a fucking Singha?” sneers Seamus, completely unaware that David’s pupils have dilated far beyond what is natural for a man of his age. Seamus knocks back the beer, but sneezes some out his nose onto David’s khaki shirt. Then, he gargles delicately and swipes at a bluebottle that circles around his head,
“Dave, what the fuck is that smell, I can almost HEAR it, Jaysus!?” asks Seamus crabbily, and sidles to the fridge to get more beer.
“Ooh ooh ooh! Lunch is ready. It’s special today,” says a delighted David to Seamus, who ignores him completely and sits out at the patio, swiping butterflies which are attracted to his beer. A dragonfly dive bombs Heaney and splat, Heaney is too quick slapping the dragonfly against his forehead, making him look like some pretentious Irlanda version of former Russian premier Mikhail Gorbachev.
“Any fucking fly spray Dave, I’m getting ate out here?” grumbles Heaney.
David arrives out with an ornate tray with two bowls of soup, some bread and some gooseberry jam on it.
“Y’know you are really starting to piss me off. What the hell is wrong with the soup?” shrieks Heaney.
“Well Seamus, the soup is split green pea and a butter and parmesan foam with some caviar,” explains David.
“Tadpoles” says Heaney.
“Tadpoles?” confused David.
“It’s fucking tadpoles. I’m not touching that.”
A sad David takes the soup away and watches with a tear in his eye as Seamus Heaney, a man whom he has respected for so many years, sits grumpily in his back garden and eats bread and jam. Out of the corner of his eye David sees something that amazes, startles and unnerves him at the same time,
“Aw fuck,” he thinks. “The Bullfrogs. Right down the garden the gross-bellied frogs were cocked
on route to Heaney; their loose necks pulsed like sails. I am damned. I am damned. Master hates them.”
Heaney, realising he is surrounded, goes blood-red and can’t speak he is so angry. Soon he is issuing obscene threats, some of which I cannot repeat as they send my mind into a chaos that no right-thinking man should have to go through.
“You’re a dead man Attenborough! I’m gonna fuck you right up,” a standing Heaney rages.
Heaney stamps on some frogs, their blunt heads farting. David, sickened by this, turned, and ran. He tripped in the manner of Penelope Pitstop or Daphne from Scooby Doo, rendered helpless by a small branch. When he was not so faint, a shadow loomed over him. The last thing famous naturalist David Attenborough ever saw was a wild-eyed grinning poet shoving mashed up bullfrogs into his mouth and up his nose. The last thing he heard was a screaming Heaney issuing a terrifying Mantra.
“Take these great slime Kings and feed the naturalist. Take these great slime Kings and feed the naturalist. Take these great slime Kings and feed the fucking naturalist.”
Not many people know that Seamus Heaney wrote this song.