Mr Penguin is Not Happy

Mr Penguin doesn’t look happy.

It’s hard to be sure, as Mr Penguin is made mostly out of rubber.

But from the way he’s staring off down the beach, flippers hanging sadly by his sides, he looks like a penguin lost in a deep, silent hurt of the kind that only chronically unemployed actors in animal costumes can understand.

I squint inside his mouth and find a pair of small, blinking eyes.

“How are you, Mr Penguin?” I ask chirpily.

His reply is muffled by the suit and the blood-curdling shrieks of a long line of kids waiting to beat the living daylights out of him.

“What was that?” I lean a bit closer to the small grill in his neck that lets him breathe.

“I said,” growls Mr Penguin, “I can’t do this any more!”

This is Eastbourne, 2003. I'm trying to make extra money with some odd marketing jobs. After being the back end of a pantomime cow for a new ice cream and eating Weetabix on the Tube for three days, I’m now a roadie, roaming the beaches of England’s south coast to promote a new chocolate-flavoured biscuit for kids.

The concept: Inflate a big paddling pool with two elevated perches. Sit a little kid on one, an actor in an animal suit on the other, give them a pair of stuffed plastic mallets and let combat commence. The loser tumbles into the pool, and the winner skips off down the beach with a packet of biscuits.

Funnily enough, the kids tend to win.

We have three actors in the starring roles: Mr Dolphin, Mr Turtle and Mr Penguin. Straight away, it’s clear the kids have a favourite. Ask them who they want to beat over the head and it’s always: “Mr Penguin!”

At first, this pleases Mr Penguin, a RADA graduate. “Don’t ask why they love me,” he tells Mr Turtle (who once appeared in an episode of The Bill). “It’s a gift.”

Five days later, Mr Penguin is flipping out.

“I can’t do this!” he gasps. “I played Aston in The Caretaker at the 
Orange Tree Theatre in Richmond!”

I understand Mr Penguin’s pain. There is a fine line between playful, childish enthusiasm and out-and-out bloodlust. But the next pint-sized gladiator is already on the perch, giving his mallet a few practice swings.

“Just do this last one and I’ll get Mr Dolphin to take over for a bit,” I say.

Mr Penguin waddles to his perch like a man climbing the gallows. I hand him his mallet, shout, “Ready?” and blow the whistle.

With a single blow, Mr Penguin sends the kid tumbling into the pool.

To a stunned silence, Mr Penguin climbs down, pulls off his flippers and, horrifyingly, his head. One of the kids starts to cry. He grabs some biscuits from the winners’ basket and starts to eat.

Suddenly, Mr Penguin seems very calm. “You know what?” he says, munching. “These biscuits are rubbish.”