Deep in the Altai Mountains lives a caste of Mongolians who, for thousands of years, have reveled in the sport of yak hurling. because they live so high in the mountains there is almost constant snow, which cushions the hurled yaks against physiological insult or other harms. In years when the snowpack is less than optimum, these sturdy Mongolians, equipped with giant lungs because of the oxygen deficit at these altitudes, gather straw in huge quantities to ensure that the yaks are comfy when hurled.

You know it makes sense. After all, these shaggy pals provide wool for the village's (if one can call it a village, rather than a redoubt) inhabitants, from which they weave elaborate sleeping bags, sometimes big enough for at least three people. Isolation has not dulled their appetite for connubial skylarking of all kinds.

There's more. Yaks can be milked and yak's milk can be turned into yak butter and yak cheese. It gets better, Yak's milk can be fermented until an alcoholic beverage is produced; a beverage which has been known to drive visitors into paroxysms of laughter and other craziness. When the gallimaufry becomes too much ofr, say, visiting Kurt in the yurt, the hospitable Mongolians bind the lad's hands and feet gently, to save him from harm, and put him to bed on a cosy yak blanket and cover him with its brother (or sister, depending on what will pass the censor), and let him have a good snoozy. When he awakes he will havea splitting headache but be grateful tht he wasn't cut into pieces and wolfed down by the dogs which might well have been the case had they ended up in a Siberian prison, well above the 67th latitude. However, I digress!