–1 –Theniffer APERIODICAL FOXYCOMPENDIUMISSUE NO.FIFTEEN—9DECEMBER 2010 F RO M T HE S NOUT ‘Cocky, I want to stay here. With thebadgers. They listen to me.’So Champion is filing for divorce and I don’t know who’s taking it harder, Cocky or me. I read this line over and over. A split-second of gut butterflies and then gut-punch aftergut-punch. Don’t leave him, Champion. Patch it up. Go to counselling. He’s a narcissist but he can change. He just needs to learn your signals. He’ll be lost without you, Champ. I’ll be lost without you. That apostrophe reeks of hyperbole but it’s not far off the truth. I can’t imagine Cockywithout Champion or Champion without Cocky. Back in the first few fits, we learned of a fox sharing a hutch with a rabbit. It was a weird arrangement, but I didn’t give it much thought. This was the beginning of a novel that could go anywhere. Who would these animals turn out to be? Characters orcaricatures? Aesopean stooges or Orwellian allegorifers? Animen or manimals? Fifteen fits on, I see this interspecies duo as one ofus (or two of me). They are humans with odd habits and odd clothes. I’ve lived and laughed and sniffed and fought by Cocky’s side. I’ve snored and dreamed and babbled and muddled with Champion. All of which explains the empathic wrench. Don’t leave him, Champion. Not for a bunch of moody badgers. The grass is always greener, but this grass isn’t grass. It’s brown, rooty, stinky earth full of worms and badgercack. You’ll miss the hutch. You’ll miss Cocky’s ministrations. He cared for you. Still does. And so do I. H I S M ASTER ’ S C HOICE Each installment ofHis Master’s Choiceconsiders a single album that has graced the gramophone of Cocky’s creator and master, James Parker. On this occasion, we sit in a grubby armchair in a South London bedsit and imperceptibly nod our heads to the lilting agitprog of Pink Floyd’s Animals. Was Battersea Power Station an iconic London landmark before it appeared on the cover ofAnimals? Now it seems almost impossible to see pictures of it and not thinkof Pink Floyd’s allegorical sledgehammer. It starts and ends with the lazy strum of a bedroom stoner and then descends into an extended proggy triptych of angry knife
