The Ballad of the Drunken Honey Badger

Okay, okay, I give in. The pressure's just too much. Here, in all its glory, is the story of the drunken honey badger.

I should perhaps explain first what a honey badger is, shouldn't I? The name sounds lovely - all cuddly and sweet. Honey badger. You imagine a snuggly, cuddly little furry animal with beetle-black eyes, a sweet disposition and big floppy paws, right? Wrong.

Honey badgers are psychotic with a capital P. More vicious than Mike Tyson on acid, harder than Vinnie Jones with a chainsaw and more irritable than me after I've just found a parking ticket on my car. These chaps mean business. They are, for all their ferocity, relatively small - about a metre long, with big claws and very sharp teeth. And a slightly squished nose. Although don't tell them I said that. They live in the wild bush of Africa, and their staple diet is....you've guessed it, honey. But of course in Africa, eating honey is not all about popping down to your local supermarket and buying a jar. Oh no. These chaps rip open bees nests with their bare paws and scoff down the honey then and there. Whilst being stung. Repeatedly. All over. By millions of bees. Are you beginning to get the picture?

But that's not the only thing they do. Legend tells of honey badgers attacking land cruisers, lions, hyenas and even killing buffalo. Don't ask me how they do it. Suffice to say a bull buffalo has a very tender area dangling between his back legs, and honey badgers have very sharp teeth. Nuff said.

So, when we discovered that we had a resident honey badger at my camp, I have to say I was none too pleased. I think my exact words were "we need more ammunition". I was not happy that he'd moved in. So I named him Herbert. Very anthropomorphic, I know. The other resident animals around camp weren't too happy either. For months beforehand, our camp had entertained the wonderfully dimwitted Henry, our resident hyena. Henry was a sweetie. And I say that even though he used to break into my shower (hosepipe in a tree, to be exact) and steal my soap and toothpaste. We would find the bars of soap outside camp with teethmarks and slobber all over them. At least it would freshen his breath! But Henry was harmless. I think goofy would be a good way to describe him. He'd blunder around in our kitchen scullery area looking for scraps, try to get into the kitchen and occasionally wander off with a coolbox in his mouth. We quite liked having him around.

But all this changed when Herbert moved in. Poor Henry got the shock of his life one evening, when, mooching around the kitchen as was his routine, he came round the corner to find a snarling, growling, spitting honey badger. Now I must add here that Henry was about twice the size of Herbert. And hyenas are known for their incredible bite strength - their jaws can crack elephant bones. So what did Henry do? Draw himself up to his full height and growl back? Start squaring up? Nope. He turned tail and ran, whimpering. Such is the fear engendered when a honey badger is around.

So, having Herbert resident in our camp certainly kept us on our toes. Heading into the back of camp to get more ice, or more glasses, we were all on the alert for that raspy growl that signalled that he was around. More than once he chased me right through camp, growling all the way. He was not popular.

So, onto our story. Camp was a simple affair, with a big wooden bar between the trunks of two trees, and a couple of makeshift shelves for all our bottles of gin, vodka, amarula etc. One night, as usual, Herbert came into camp and started ferreting around in the kitchen area. A few days previously, he'd broken into our storecupboard, ripped open all the packets of sugar and flour, pooed on it and then slept in it. When Frances, our chef, opened the door the next morning, a floured, sugared and pooey honey badger hurtled straight between his legs and off into the bush. Poor Frances was so shocked he had to sit down and have a glass of brandy. Given that Herbert made his escape between Frances' legs, and Frances knew about honey badgers and buffalos, I'm not surprised he was a bit shaky. So when Herbert came back, he found the storecupboard door firmly boarded up.

I can only assume what happened next, but I imagine the following: Herbert, thwarted in his quest to make another Honey Badger Mud Pie, then sauntered down to the bar area. I imagine that he climbed up onto the bar, stood on his hind legs and sniffed at the bottles there. I imagine that the Amarula bottle fell down onto the sand, and that Herbert, with his very strong teeth, chewed through the metal cap.

The evidence the next morning was clear: scratch marks on the storecupboard in the kitchen, footprints leading to the bar, footprints on the bar counter and an empty bottle of Amarula behind. Oh, and, not forgetting the unconscious honey badger, lying on his back in an attitude of utter bliss. And snoring loudly.

This presented us with a dilemma. We had guests in camp, and the world's most irritable creature was about to wake up with the world's worst hangover. Nul points for 'elf and safety. It was decided that he must be moved out into the bush to sleep it all off. And there started the second problem of the day. None of the camp staff wanted to go near him, let alone touch him (honey badgers can be very smelly at times. But again, don't tell them I said that.) I tried bribery. I tried threats. I tried stamping my foot. In the end my wonderfully brave scout offered to help but only if he could be at the foot end. I would have to take the head end, close to those needle-sharp teeth. We took up our positions. I grabbed Herbert's front paws, John grabbed his back paws, and together, puffing and panting, we half-dragged, half-carried him off into the bush. About a few hundred yards out of camp (a safe distance, we figured, although our exhaustion may have played a part in the decision) we dumped him unceremoniously under a large tree and went back.

I have to say, I can be quite sentimental sometimes. For even though Herbert was the bane of my life, and terrified me to my very soul when he chased me around camp, I found myself feeling rather concerned about him. Would he ever wake up? Had he drunk so much that it might kill him? Obviously I didn't want that. How would I explain to the park authorities that I'd poisoned a honey badger with a bottle of Amarula? So I kept just wandering out of camp and checking on him. Our guests came back from their morning walk - he was still slumbering. After brunch, I checked again. Still asleep. I went out just before afternoon tea, and he was still blotto. Finally, as we were clearing away afternoon tea and the guests were heading out on their afternoon walk (in the opposite direction, I might add) he started to stir. We watched from a safe distance.

Having staggered to his feet, he then shook his head a few times and growled. Clearly he had a stonker of a headache. He then attempted a few steps. But ended up walking in circles, as if his left legs were shorter than his right. He sat down hard on his haunches a few times, and then wobbled back to his feet, growling all the time. Finally he managed to take a few steps - and walked headlong into the tree that we'd put him under. He jumped back, growled at the tree trunk, and then unsteadily made his way round the tree and off into the bush. We heard his growls getting fainter. Isaac, our camp barman, swears he heard a hiccup.

Poor Herbert! I did feel rather sorry for him. Having never had a hangover before, how must he have felt after an entire bottle of Amarula! He didn't appear in camp at all for the next week, giving Henry a welcome holiday from being snarled at. I actually started to miss him. But then he came back. And let us know in no uncertain terms how grumpy he was at having been poisoned. When we walked into the (animal-proof, or so we thought) kitchen the next day, it had been well and truly Herbetted. I won't describe the carnage. Suffice it to say, Herbert had got his revenge. Well and truly. And as a final "cherry on the top", he'd left his calling card. Not just anywhere though, as you might think. No. He positioned it very carefully, right on top of our booze store.

That's one honey badger that you could end up seeing at an AA meeting.