Zoo. Zoo. Not Durrell. Zoo. Got thet?

Ah dunno what them sods was thinkin’ when they renamed the place but they’re causin’ all sorts of confusion among those Grockles lookin’ for some animals to stare at.

Only last week we had a coach load of them disembarking in the village and askin’ where to pay; took us close to an hour to persuade them thet they were lost. Just kept starin’ at us through the windows of Spar ’n takin’ pictures ’n thet. Rude.

No, Durrell was a zoo back in 1959 when it opened, it was a zoo when yer main man became extinct in 1995, and it remains The Zoo today.

Not thet it much resembles one anymore. Old Mickey’s sister’s mate’s nephew Little Sam went up there for a squizz the other day but came back in tears; he’d been expectin’ to see elephants twitching sideways ’cross a cage, sea lions juggling balls, monkeys on bikes ’n all thet, but apparently they got none of thet stuff nah. Just animals eatin’ leaves ’n doing creps ’n stuff. How disappointin’.

No wonder they’re losin’ money. Reckon they need to get with the tarms, spruce themselves up a bit lark what they done down at the Waterfront. Set up a branch of JFG (Jersey Fried Gorilla), some animal-themed cocktail bars or a ruddy great cinema showin’ naturalist films like Jaws 3 or that Arachnacacknaphobic one with the spiders. Thet would get ’em in.

Celebrity Dancin’ with Animals. There, ah’ve said it. And wah not? They’re all the rage, them shows. Who yer wouldn’t pay good money to watch ol’ Terry ’n his mates doin’ a conga round the bear pit?

Think it’s tarm somebody aht there had a word with them conversationalists and let them know what they’re doin’ wrong. A letter oughtta do it.
‘Dear The Zoo …’