Malcolm didn’t want to come on holiday with us, but he didn’t like the idea of us unduly enjoying ourselves without him either, so he snuck into Alex’s hand luggage before we left. We discovered his subterfuge when Alex got stopped by security to explain the 16-inch machete and savage fully-grown polar bear in his backpack.
We warned Malcolm on the plane that they don’t take kindly to visiting polar bears in Iceland – they shoot them on sight – but he didn’t appear too worried as he gnawed at our ankles and ordered everything on the in-flight menu. It was his first time on an aeroplane so he was in high spirits. The flight attendants loved him, they even cooed when, high on a cocktail of low oxygen, whiskey and crack cocaine, he charged into the cockpit and savaged the pilot.
On the first day we took Malcolm to see the geysers. As Strokkur’s steaming water erupted twenty feet into the air a few feet away from us, Malcolm was busy in the cafe down the road calling his drug dealer to arrange a special overseas delivery. He spent quite a lot of the holiday on Alex’s phone to his drug dealer, he’s going through a rough time apparently. Can’t imagine why with clientèle like Malcolm.
Next we went to see Gullfoss, the dramatic two-tier waterfall. It was cloudy so there was no sign of the famous golden spray and rainbows, much to Malcolm’s delight. He hates beautiful views, and water, and bit me savagely through the rucksack until we got back to the car, where he asked repeatedly when we were going home for the duration of the three hour drive to Vik.
He started getting edgy about all the time spent in the rucksack. We re-explained about it being for his own protection – the Icelandic folk shoot and kill polar bears on sight as they tend to arrive from Greenland on icebergs, starving hungry and ready to maul. Malcolm said he didn’t care and we weren’t his real parents anyway, which is one of his favourite stock answers.
As we drove to Jökulsárlón lagoon in a gale, where the icebergs float down from a glacier and land on the beach, the Bardargunda volcano began to erupt north of the glacier. Heard Malcolm chuckling in the backpack, we suspect he might have made a lone detour with his stash of explosives. When we got to Jökulsárlón the bay was teeming with seals, agitated by the weather. Malcolm’s love of murder helped him to overcome his hatred of water and we’d barely reached the water’s edge before his furry malevolent figure could be seen streaking across the lagoon towards the seals. He fed well that evening, which isn’t to say he was any more of a joy to be around.
If you’ve never been camping during a gale with evil in polar bear form, we would advise: don’t bother. Malcolm doesn’t like camping or bad weather or us, and the combination of the three drove him into a frenzy from which we’re still recovering. Alex has several patches of hair missing and I’m down a few fingers. He tore the sleeping bags to shreds and pissed in our shoes so by morning we drifted dazedly out of the tents like small smelly bleeding icebergs.
We went whale watching without him – he found some new friends in the Lebowski Bar and we decided he’d get into less trouble there than on the open water. Came back after three hours of solid seasickness to find him Cossack dancing on the bar surrounded by half-drunk white russians and crying bar staff.
We wrestled him back to the holiday cottage where we were spending our last night, and strapped him into bed while we filled the hot tub. Alex got in first, only to find Malcolm poised behind him wielding a toaster. We must work on his empathy development.
Yesterday we arrived home and Malcolm scuttled under the bed into his den, looking the happiest we’ve seen him in weeks. We both start therapy on Monday. Next time we go on holiday he’s going to the kennels.
Malcolm the polar bear 