Bernard watched his native guide struggle up the hill with his burden. He quietly thought to himself how much more it would suck when it was his turn. Bernard had decided to carry all the heavy bits of his luggage himself to avoid accusations of racism. His grandfather had not suffered such qualms and would often use the natives as material for building rafts. His grandfather had, unfortunately, not been over particular about which way up the natives were lashed together. As a result there were several unflattering carvings cursing his bloodline sprinkled throughout the jungle.
 Bernard felt another burst of itching spring from the moustache he’d grown especially for the expedition. He had never had much in the way of facial hair before, only a goatee for about six months at university. It had been threadbare and contributed greatly to him getting absolutely no women whatsoever. His new moustache had required a series of hair-plugs to be taken from the back of his… well… Bernard didn’t even like to contemplate it. Still, things had to be done properly.
 “We’ve found some tracks” shouted a native in perfect English.
 “Be it heap big cat?” said Bernard, making a pouncing gesture.
 He instantly felt a twinge of shame. His grandfather’s diaries had been full of patronising dialogue between the old man and the natives and as a result it was all rather programmed into him. He’d even been practicing his gestures before he’d left Oxford.
 “Er… yeah” said the man who had, by now, assumed Bernard was slightly mentally retarded. “Kitty” he added to clear matters up and replicated Bernard’s pouncing gesture.
 Bernard girded his loins and began his miserable trudge up the hill.
 “Do you want a hand with that?” asked the guide, watching in quiet horror as Bernard hovered on the brink of an explosive hernia.
 “Maybe… you could just… take… this one…” gasped Bernard and offered the carrier bag that was hooked onto his little finger.
 The guide took the carrier bag full of rolls of toilet paper and wondered why Bernard didn’t ask for help with one of the large mahogany trunks. The guide figured this was some kind of macho bullshit and that Bernard might also be silently accusing him of plotting to steal his possessions. He decided that the idiot could just enjoy his rupture for all he cared.
 
 Bernard had enjoyed a quiet life as an accountant in Oxford. He had spent the majority of his time handling accounts for a company that made elasticated slacks generally sold in the back of newspapers. The company was surprisingly successful considering their product and he had often wondered whether the strange group of surly Russian owners might not qualify for some kind of small business award. Certainly the sums of currency he regularly transferred to overseas accounts seemed to dwarf the annual income of most other clothes retailers. Last month it had dwarfed the annual income of Belgium. He had once asked the men what their secret was and had been treated to a violent beating and threats against the lives of everyone Bernard held dear. This consisted of Mr Puddles, Bernard’s cat.
 It was when he’d decided to treat himself to some free slacks from the warehouse that the trouble had really begun. Apparently the Russians had been having difficulty with other people stealing slacks and had decided to protect their stockpile with automatic weapons. He had only managed to get his hands on one packet of slacks before they had opened fire and he’d been forced to retreat. Due to a distinct and sudden need he had tried to put the new slacks on in the train toilet on the way home. However it had turned out that beneath the cellophane was not a pair of handy white trousers and he had been forced to spend a while using two toilet rolls as an improvised dustpan and brush.
 He had re-wrapped the package and taken it back to the Russians to try to explain that they might have a problem with their manufacturer. He had a long lie worked out about how he had ordered a batch for ‘quality control’. The Russians had taken one look at the package and kindly issued him a refund. Bernard had assumed the suitcase they’d handed him excessive to contain the nineteen pounds and ninety nine pence. He had guessed they’d just used him as a chance to get rid of all their pennies. He had been rather startled when he got home and opened the case.
 After an evening of discussing the moral issues with Mr Puddles he had decided that the Russians probably had known it was his birthday and had kindly given him the fifty thousand pounds as a present. It would be rude to give it back and they seemed to be doing alright for themselves as days after he’d returned the package they’d managed to make an impressive two-hundred and fifty thousand pounds. Bernard had decided to live out his lifelong dream.

 Bernard had once found his grandfather’s diaries in his parents’ attic. As a child he had spent many happy hours reading about his patronising and tremendously racist adventures in the jungles of Borneo. His grandfather had spent much of the family fortune in pursuit of ‘legendary pussy’. Yet his grandfather never found the jungle cat and instead filled the pages with graphic doodles of exotic women. Bernard suspected this was the only way his grandfather could cope with the pain of failure.
 Bernard suspected that many of his grandfather’s friends laughed at his failure to locate the animal and that their ancestors probably still had a good chuckle about it. He had found some slides that had obviously been used for a lecture to the Royal Society. In his mind Bernard imagined men in top hats heckling his grandfather in much the same way everyone in Bernard’s school had heckled him. He cried himself to sleep at the thought of his brave grandfather repeatedly having his head flushed in a Victorian toilet.
 Bernard would wipe the smiles from their faces and find the legendary animal. He knew this. He had told the local news this. They had not reacted well.
 After two days of uncomfortable travelling Bernard had found himself in Borneo and wearing a freshly eBayed explorer’s hat.
 
 “Where now, noble savage” asked Bernard as he crested the hill.
 The native guide stared at Bernard blankly for a moment before placing his finger on the accountant’s chest and giving a gentle shove. Bernard returned to the base of the hill. The guide flung the bag of toilet paper into the hedge and walked off. He’d had enough.

 Bernard sat in a hastily constructed tree-house and slowly levered the lid from his tin of beans. Instantly he was swamped by ants. He had not been expecting this and thus had not attached any form of safety harness. For the second time that day he found himself rapidly returning to sea level.

 “Hello little fella” Bernard said to the small furry face regarding him over his shoulder.
 He laughed to himself about having a very literal monkey on his back and wished someone was around to take a photograph. Perhaps the Reader’s Digest would publish the photo and he could write in with his winning caption. The monkey let out a loud screech and began tearing through Bernard’s backpack in search of bananas.
 Bernard continued on despite the tiny claws digging into his back. He had managed to find reasonably fresh tracks and was convinced that they would lead him to his goal. In his mind he began thinking of witty Latin names to call the cat before finally deciding on Felix Puddlesicus. Mr Puddles would like that. Bernard liked it when Mr Puddles was happy because he would make a little whooshing noise.

 “This must be its lair” Bernard told the exhausted monkey.
 He was very glad the monkey had come along because otherwise he’d probably have gone insane all alone in the jungle. As it was he and the monkey discussed the works of Proust, which it turned out neither of them had read.
 “Now, we must be very quiet,” said Bernard, readying his Polaroid and making sure it had a fresh flashcube.
 The monkey, despondent from not finding any bananas in Bernard’s pack or under the first four layers of Bernard’s skin, shrugged its shoulders. He had not intended to spend its afternoon attached to an idiot but he had gotten his paw caught in a strap and it didn’t seem to be coming out in a hurry. He figured the pack would come loose once the panther started eating the accountant. Bernard ducked into the lair and began advancing in a series of commando rolls that the monkey did not appreciate.
 “I think I smell something” said Bernard excitedly.
 Bernard didn’t have long enough to discover that what he smelled was the monkey spotting the two glowing eyes in the darkness. Instead he felt his rucksack fly off his back and heard the sound of his simian friend exiting the cave at extremely high speed. With a sudden twinge of horror Bernard realised the pack contained the cleaning cloth for his glasses.
 After a brief introduction of something roaring about an inch from his face Bernard met the panther. After about half a second he decided that he’d spent enough time in the panther’s company and that running, screaming and wetting himself was the best course of action. On some level this quite hurt the panther’s feelings.
 
 “And that is where I found the legendary pussy” said Bernard proudly, gesturing with a long stick to the projected slide displayed before the esteemed members of the Royal Society.
 There was some quiet snickering in the audience as monocles were adjusted in anticipation of a good flushing.