Rat End

What Ho Proles!

The last few days have I’ve been in something of a holding pattern with regard to life, My Memoirs, my political career, and yes, even this blog. I blame the rats of course, but I’m also suffering the malaise from Christmas. Next week, I hope to be more focussed and return to my normal habits. Updating a blog is difficult while a man’s concerned by rats the size of… Well, better not go there. You probably wouldn’t believe you if I told you... Tractors! Ruddy big pink eared tractors!!!

However, there’s good news on that front. At approximately three o’clock yesterday morning, we were awoken by screams coming from the potting shed. I threw on my dressing gown and grabbed the shotgun. Once Mrs. My Man had given the guard dogs with rubber bands a tune on the old magic whistle, My Man and I proceeded to investigate.

‘You go first,’ I said to him as I shoved him with the barrel. I'm not one to avoid danger but he does enjoy blacking up his face with mud as his army training advises. I could barely stop him creeping on towards the shed and a slightly nauseating sound that resembled a man wearing two buckets of eels on his feet.

His disappeared into the darkness and was gone for all of sixty seconds before I heard another yell. Only this time, it came from My Man who came running towards me followed by a six foot creature covered in heaven knows what. I raised the shotgun and was about to fire when the creature mumbled the words ‘Daisy Dairy’.

Well, I hope you remember my mentioning yesterday that the milkman had gone missing. For this was he: newly emergent from the rats’ nest.

We bundled him to the kitchen where a few glasses of brandy brought the man around and he proceeded to tell us of his subterranean nightmare. Turns out that he’d seen the rats when delivering the milk the previous morning. He’d decided to follow the damn critters based on some odd fascination he’s had with wildlife since taking watching Bill Oddie give advice getting close to our garden friends. He explained how he’s slipped down the rat hole and been knocked unconscious.

Anyway, today, with the milkman’s description of the burrows to aid us, we ventured underground and found the home of the rats. I’ll forgo the description. Simply think of your Jules Verne and ‘Journey to the Centre of the Moon’. My Man soon had the den packed with high explosives and we made out of there as quickly as possible. The explosion was terrific and I believe bits of rat have been spotted nearly eleven miles away.

The bottom line is that the rats are no more and I can face the New Year with a proper degree of optimism. Many thanks for the support during this difficult time. I hope this also means I can get back to the memoirs and give the sonnets a rest.

As we were.