Wednesday 6 October 2010
Monday 20 September 2010
Whoops there goes the last tiger
A happy scientist announces that he has discovered a group of tigers living at altitude in the Himalayas. This is good news, he tells us, as the Indian tiger is going to be extinct everywhere else shortly and at least they'll be safe up in the Himalayas.
Hmm.
I was going to say "a naive scientist" but somehow feel that would be tautologous.
The BBC make a programme about the most elusive and remote tigers in the world, and announce how great it is that they are remote.
Short of attaching GPS transmitters to the animals and dropping them onto a Chinese roundabout at rush hour, it's hard to think what else they could have done to endanger them. So now, when the last Indian tiger has its nether regions dried to help some Chinese man with - hem hem - mid-life issues, and the price of bits of dried tiger go through the roof, conveniently it will be possible to go and round up the mountain tigers and make the last few really worth a few quid.
It's rather like a travel programme announcing how unspoilt somewhere is, or a naturalist announcing he's found an orchid that only grows on one chalk hillside in the world.
Someone's going to make a killing.
Hmm.
I was going to say "a naive scientist" but somehow feel that would be tautologous.
The BBC make a programme about the most elusive and remote tigers in the world, and announce how great it is that they are remote.
Short of attaching GPS transmitters to the animals and dropping them onto a Chinese roundabout at rush hour, it's hard to think what else they could have done to endanger them. So now, when the last Indian tiger has its nether regions dried to help some Chinese man with - hem hem - mid-life issues, and the price of bits of dried tiger go through the roof, conveniently it will be possible to go and round up the mountain tigers and make the last few really worth a few quid.
It's rather like a travel programme announcing how unspoilt somewhere is, or a naturalist announcing he's found an orchid that only grows on one chalk hillside in the world.
Someone's going to make a killing.
Sunday 19 September 2010
Rabbits and the Rapture
Strange creatures, rabbits. And surprisingly varied in their ecclesiastical behaviour.
Most rabbits have a strongly dualist theology. They believe in Swooping Doom, an evil deity which takes the form of a giant and savage Red Kite, forever hovering over innocent rabbits and awaiting the time to fall from the sky spreading death and disaster for rabbitkind. The fundamentalist Christian idea of a "rapture" is of course a nightmare to rabbits - in the sky is where the Enemy lurks, and in the final reckoning that is where the bad bunnies will end up. Rabbits being creatures that enjoy the depths of the earth, their idea of heaven is again the reverse of humanity's. They believe that good rabbits will be safe forever deep underground in the Great Burrow, the home of Big Bunny. Big Bunny is the eternal enemy of Swooping Doom and it is said that he lurks among groups of grazing rabbits at times, trying to lure birds of prey to their deaths. Being an immortal being of infinitely great strength, if a Red Kite or other flying predator swoops down on Big Bunny it will break its back, while foxes will break their jaws on his infinitely strong hide.
The foxes and kites, of course mostly reckon this is all just a giant rabbit myth designed specifically to encourage them to attack other animals instead...
Meanwhile the more liberal rabbits deny the existence of Swooping Death. They claim that this is a mere personification of evil and the threats that exist to rabbits. In their view, the great Burrow is open to all rabbits and the afterlife is a form of purgatory as all rabbits journey down their individual tunnels, digging their way to their goal.
Other rabbits look around at the world, see foxes, badgers, birds of prey, Ford Mondeos and other natural enemies of bunnykind. They look at the return of myxomatosis to the land and they conclude that, either the Big Bunny does not exist, or he is actually a badger in disguise. They have given up leaving offerings of dandelion leaves and choice bits of tree bark for the Big Bunny. But then they have also stopped breeding, on the grounds that there seems to be no point. Instead they spend their lives dreaming up witty comments they would post on Comment is Free if only they had fingers instead of paws, and accusing the pet rabbits in nearby gardens of having "imaginary owners".
Most rabbits have a strongly dualist theology. They believe in Swooping Doom, an evil deity which takes the form of a giant and savage Red Kite, forever hovering over innocent rabbits and awaiting the time to fall from the sky spreading death and disaster for rabbitkind. The fundamentalist Christian idea of a "rapture" is of course a nightmare to rabbits - in the sky is where the Enemy lurks, and in the final reckoning that is where the bad bunnies will end up. Rabbits being creatures that enjoy the depths of the earth, their idea of heaven is again the reverse of humanity's. They believe that good rabbits will be safe forever deep underground in the Great Burrow, the home of Big Bunny. Big Bunny is the eternal enemy of Swooping Doom and it is said that he lurks among groups of grazing rabbits at times, trying to lure birds of prey to their deaths. Being an immortal being of infinitely great strength, if a Red Kite or other flying predator swoops down on Big Bunny it will break its back, while foxes will break their jaws on his infinitely strong hide.
The foxes and kites, of course mostly reckon this is all just a giant rabbit myth designed specifically to encourage them to attack other animals instead...
Meanwhile the more liberal rabbits deny the existence of Swooping Death. They claim that this is a mere personification of evil and the threats that exist to rabbits. In their view, the great Burrow is open to all rabbits and the afterlife is a form of purgatory as all rabbits journey down their individual tunnels, digging their way to their goal.
Other rabbits look around at the world, see foxes, badgers, birds of prey, Ford Mondeos and other natural enemies of bunnykind. They look at the return of myxomatosis to the land and they conclude that, either the Big Bunny does not exist, or he is actually a badger in disguise. They have given up leaving offerings of dandelion leaves and choice bits of tree bark for the Big Bunny. But then they have also stopped breeding, on the grounds that there seems to be no point. Instead they spend their lives dreaming up witty comments they would post on Comment is Free if only they had fingers instead of paws, and accusing the pet rabbits in nearby gardens of having "imaginary owners".
Saturday 18 September 2010
An appearance
Somebody has thrown a bike frame in the brook.
The rabbits are confused. Mostly they're quite sympathetic towards cyclists. On the principle that the enemy of their enemy is a friend, anyone that has to fear cars and lorries as much as the average cyclist must be in some spiritual way a friend of the rabbits, hedgehogs and pheasants. In the same way that foxes must be friends of lorries - although this is occasionally proven wrong in a blue-on-blue episode of vulpicide.
Bicycles don't pollute. They leave us fresh air. They don't dump heavy metals on the road. They're quiet. So why has a cyclist chosen to pollute the brook? Nobody can understand it. Sure, we're all used to stuff getting thrown in the brook, or otherwise littering the woods. Lager cans, ciger bottles, used prophylactics - all of these can be found laying around the place. Especially the latter, the spinney being in reasonable proximity to civilisation and yet secluded enough for a romantic liaison.
Now if the average human being had a cycle frame to dispose of, it would be a simple matter to shove it in the back of some car and nip round to the local rubbish dump - or, as modern parlance would have it, "recycling centre". To drag it across a field, over a fence, into a dark wood - for presumably one would not do this in daylight - and then to put it in a brook would presumably require greater effort. So why would you bother?
Always seems to be the way with humans. You can do something a way that makes sense, a good way, a way that might make the world better. And yet against all possible sense, you actually go out of your way to make it worse. One might instance the programme "Family Fortunes". It was bad enough with real people. But then somebody thought that wasn't all they could do with it. They called in "All Star Family Fortunes", and invited Brian Blessed onto it. Thus spending good money on making a bad product worse. I guess that's maybe what the Garden of Eden tells us. There's no situation so good that, given a little wit and ingenuity and a bit of effort, a human being can't cock it up.
The rabbits are confused. Mostly they're quite sympathetic towards cyclists. On the principle that the enemy of their enemy is a friend, anyone that has to fear cars and lorries as much as the average cyclist must be in some spiritual way a friend of the rabbits, hedgehogs and pheasants. In the same way that foxes must be friends of lorries - although this is occasionally proven wrong in a blue-on-blue episode of vulpicide.
Bicycles don't pollute. They leave us fresh air. They don't dump heavy metals on the road. They're quiet. So why has a cyclist chosen to pollute the brook? Nobody can understand it. Sure, we're all used to stuff getting thrown in the brook, or otherwise littering the woods. Lager cans, ciger bottles, used prophylactics - all of these can be found laying around the place. Especially the latter, the spinney being in reasonable proximity to civilisation and yet secluded enough for a romantic liaison.
Now if the average human being had a cycle frame to dispose of, it would be a simple matter to shove it in the back of some car and nip round to the local rubbish dump - or, as modern parlance would have it, "recycling centre". To drag it across a field, over a fence, into a dark wood - for presumably one would not do this in daylight - and then to put it in a brook would presumably require greater effort. So why would you bother?
Always seems to be the way with humans. You can do something a way that makes sense, a good way, a way that might make the world better. And yet against all possible sense, you actually go out of your way to make it worse. One might instance the programme "Family Fortunes". It was bad enough with real people. But then somebody thought that wasn't all they could do with it. They called in "All Star Family Fortunes", and invited Brian Blessed onto it. Thus spending good money on making a bad product worse. I guess that's maybe what the Garden of Eden tells us. There's no situation so good that, given a little wit and ingenuity and a bit of effort, a human being can't cock it up.
Not the end of the world
In a story that might have been better in the summer, or when the Pope wasn't visiting, Liam Fox has warned that Solar Flares could Paralyse Britain.
Which is terrible. I'd be lying awake at night worrying about this if it wasn't for my fear that an asteroid would wipe out the earth first. Or that global warming, while making it so hot that Yorkshire would be the centre of the wine business, would mean the population of Peterborough would be clustered in my spinney, trying to keep their feet dry after moving because of rising sea levels.
Or, worst of all perhaps, a comet might hit the piece of the Canary Islands that's falling off, causing a mega-tsunami that would be worse than Noah's Flood. But at least due to eating too much infected meat everyone would be wandering around unable to notice.
But if they hadn't been eating the beef, and instead had been consuming a diet of junk food alone while playing video games and talking to each other on Facebook, they would be too unfit to run away from the mega-tsunami. Or so itchy they wouldn't be able to concentrate on it. Though at least they would no longer be getting poisoned by their sofas. Or their computers. (And, by the way, is the Toilet Seat the SI standard unit for infection?
And those people whose brains weren't fried and could outrun the tsunami (or who at least live up a hill) would have no teeth to eat the necessarily unprocessed food that they'd have to eat in the new dog-eat-dog world. Which might not mattter, as the fish and water fowl they might need to live on were being wiped out by mink. Not that the mink alone would be the problem, as in hunting the fish and ducks they'd be at risk from Weil's disease from the rats and salmonella from the terrapins. And malaria, of course. If the wolves, wild boar and man-eating foxes didn't get them.
They could try to repopulate the earth (overcoming the gender problems caused by residual chemicals in the waterways). But sadly the population would be without those vital drugs that would stop the entire population dying of various sexual diseases. And for the same reason, the Australians would discover they'd run out of koala bears to eat.
And of course I've not even mentioned the fear of a "dirty bomb" wiping out centres of population. Or the ever-present fear that the Large Hadron Collider could suck us into a black hole, or even change the future.
On the whole, my suggestion to you would be that you come out and live in the woods, if you can find a piece not full of people from Peterborough. You'll die of the cold, but at least it's not the end of the world. Not until 2012, at least.
Which is terrible. I'd be lying awake at night worrying about this if it wasn't for my fear that an asteroid would wipe out the earth first. Or that global warming, while making it so hot that Yorkshire would be the centre of the wine business, would mean the population of Peterborough would be clustered in my spinney, trying to keep their feet dry after moving because of rising sea levels.
Or, worst of all perhaps, a comet might hit the piece of the Canary Islands that's falling off, causing a mega-tsunami that would be worse than Noah's Flood. But at least due to eating too much infected meat everyone would be wandering around unable to notice.
But if they hadn't been eating the beef, and instead had been consuming a diet of junk food alone while playing video games and talking to each other on Facebook, they would be too unfit to run away from the mega-tsunami. Or so itchy they wouldn't be able to concentrate on it. Though at least they would no longer be getting poisoned by their sofas. Or their computers. (And, by the way, is the Toilet Seat the SI standard unit for infection?
And those people whose brains weren't fried and could outrun the tsunami (or who at least live up a hill) would have no teeth to eat the necessarily unprocessed food that they'd have to eat in the new dog-eat-dog world. Which might not mattter, as the fish and water fowl they might need to live on were being wiped out by mink. Not that the mink alone would be the problem, as in hunting the fish and ducks they'd be at risk from Weil's disease from the rats and salmonella from the terrapins. And malaria, of course. If the wolves, wild boar and man-eating foxes didn't get them.
They could try to repopulate the earth (overcoming the gender problems caused by residual chemicals in the waterways). But sadly the population would be without those vital drugs that would stop the entire population dying of various sexual diseases. And for the same reason, the Australians would discover they'd run out of koala bears to eat.
And of course I've not even mentioned the fear of a "dirty bomb" wiping out centres of population. Or the ever-present fear that the Large Hadron Collider could suck us into a black hole, or even change the future.
On the whole, my suggestion to you would be that you come out and live in the woods, if you can find a piece not full of people from Peterborough. You'll die of the cold, but at least it's not the end of the world. Not until 2012, at least.
Friday 17 September 2010
Atheists and Nazis
A surprising conflation of Nazism and 20th century aggressive atheism by the Pope yesterday gives me pause to think. Although, with this current weather, I don't really want to pause anywhere. It's suddenly turning into one of those autumns where you keep moving to keep the cold out. I noticed the woodsmoke creeping from at least a couple of the houses on the estate yesterday as those people that long for it to be Christmas welcomed the cold weather.
But back to Pope Benedict. The Nazis and the 20th century atheist monsters - Stalin, Mao, Michael Foot - have in common only that a British Christian who could still remember whose side they were on during the war could be expected to be against both. It's just as well that Mel Gibson hasn't done a Second World War film, as if he did the Battle of Britain would be the RAF and Luftwaffe fighting against the daring Americans at Pearl Harbour. And since the average American cinematographer has about the same awareness of history as the rabbits in the spinney, to whom the Battle of Britain was 70 generations ago, it's probably only a matter of time till somebody does make that film.
The Nazis, a mixture of Catholics and pagan revivalists, have really this in common with the Communist monsters - that they should both have read the Magnificat with fear:
He hath shewed might in his arm: he hath scattered the proud in the conceit of their heart. He hath put down the mighty from their seat, and hath exalted the humble. He hath filled the hungry with good things; and the rich he hath sent empty away.
It is the reminder that human rule does not last forever. Every monster falls. Put up all the statues to yourself that you like, but one day someone will blow the heads off them or pull them down with tractors or cart them off to a museum in Kensington. No matter how high the mighty may be, they die one day. They become one with Great Ozymandias. And when every monster and tyrant and worshipper of self and oppressor of others is dead, God will still be God just as he was before they rose to power. Rabbits will still gnaw the bark off the trees and young men and young women will still fall in love, the sun will still rise and nobody will weep for the tyrants when they are gone.
But back to Pope Benedict. The Nazis and the 20th century atheist monsters - Stalin, Mao, Michael Foot - have in common only that a British Christian who could still remember whose side they were on during the war could be expected to be against both. It's just as well that Mel Gibson hasn't done a Second World War film, as if he did the Battle of Britain would be the RAF and Luftwaffe fighting against the daring Americans at Pearl Harbour. And since the average American cinematographer has about the same awareness of history as the rabbits in the spinney, to whom the Battle of Britain was 70 generations ago, it's probably only a matter of time till somebody does make that film.
The Nazis, a mixture of Catholics and pagan revivalists, have really this in common with the Communist monsters - that they should both have read the Magnificat with fear:
It is the reminder that human rule does not last forever. Every monster falls. Put up all the statues to yourself that you like, but one day someone will blow the heads off them or pull them down with tractors or cart them off to a museum in Kensington. No matter how high the mighty may be, they die one day. They become one with Great Ozymandias. And when every monster and tyrant and worshipper of self and oppressor of others is dead, God will still be God just as he was before they rose to power. Rabbits will still gnaw the bark off the trees and young men and young women will still fall in love, the sun will still rise and nobody will weep for the tyrants when they are gone.
Wednesday 15 September 2010
Autumn
Ah, Autumn.
Season of wasps and mouldy fruitiness.
The apple tree was so promising in the spring, covered in pinky-white blossom so feminine it was almost embarrassing. And then at June the little apples were so perfect, so full of potential.
And now, most of them are all over the floor, half-green and half-mouldy-brown. Not the russet beauty you see in a picture. Not the shiny waxy green of a Tesco Fruit and Veg display, safely tucked away in polythene. A waste and disappointment. Only good for wasps and woodlice.
But the goodness in the leaves is already drawing back into the plant, to drive the roots deeper into the soil through the winter. The buds are already swelling for next year's flowers.
The promise is there. One day, one day it will be right.
One day.
Season of wasps and mouldy fruitiness.
The apple tree was so promising in the spring, covered in pinky-white blossom so feminine it was almost embarrassing. And then at June the little apples were so perfect, so full of potential.
And now, most of them are all over the floor, half-green and half-mouldy-brown. Not the russet beauty you see in a picture. Not the shiny waxy green of a Tesco Fruit and Veg display, safely tucked away in polythene. A waste and disappointment. Only good for wasps and woodlice.
But the goodness in the leaves is already drawing back into the plant, to drive the roots deeper into the soil through the winter. The buds are already swelling for next year's flowers.
The promise is there. One day, one day it will be right.
One day.
Tuesday 14 September 2010
Saint Ereotype's Church
In the spinney on a still Sunday morning, it's always nice to hear the music drifting across the village green from Saint Ereotype's church.
The parish of Saint Ereotype has special dispensation from the diocese. It is allowed to conform to every cliched opinion held about the Church of England by the average person who gets their information from television, or from occasional visits for baptisms or Christmas.
As a result, although the congregation only numbers about thirty adults, the church has a full contingent of clergy, which it doesn't have to share with another parish. The vicar of Saint Ereotype's is a plump, jolly lady in her 40s with a colourful taste in jumpers and poor dress sense in the way of clerical blouses. Meanwhile the curate is a chinless wonder with an effeminate manner and round glasses.
They never hold a communion service, although they have frequent baptisms. And although they have a full-time paid organist and robed choir, the music each week consists of the same hymns: "Morning has broken"; "Lord of the Dance"; "One more step along the world I go" and "Give me Oil in my Lamp". For evensong, they replace "Morning has broken" with "Abide with me".
The vicar actually lives in the church. She lives in constant fear of the Archdeacon, who comes to see her on a weekly basis. Apart from Sunday services, baptism services and the weekly PCC meeting, the vicar does no work. So she can spend her time exchanging jovial but insubstantial chat in the pub, and roaring around on her motor-bike. The PCC doubles with the local civil parish council, to which nobody is ever elected as all are life-members.
Meanwhile the curate is responsible for running the Youth Club, which consists of a group of well-behaved kids who play table tennis before getting together for his "Epilogue". There is one member of the Youth Club who used to be a bit of a wild lad, but he's been so impressed with the vicar's modern ways and Harley Davidson that he's settled right down now.
So all in all it's a good life at Saint Ereotype's. In fact apart from the occasional bitter disagreement that ends with hilarious consequences, the main cloud on the congregation's blue sky is the vicar's sermons. They're well-meaning and thankfully free of any reference to the Gospel, but at 4 minutes and 10 seconds the congregation suspects they may be slightly too long for a genuinely stereotypical sermon. Still, you can't have everything, can you?
The parish of Saint Ereotype has special dispensation from the diocese. It is allowed to conform to every cliched opinion held about the Church of England by the average person who gets their information from television, or from occasional visits for baptisms or Christmas.
As a result, although the congregation only numbers about thirty adults, the church has a full contingent of clergy, which it doesn't have to share with another parish. The vicar of Saint Ereotype's is a plump, jolly lady in her 40s with a colourful taste in jumpers and poor dress sense in the way of clerical blouses. Meanwhile the curate is a chinless wonder with an effeminate manner and round glasses.
They never hold a communion service, although they have frequent baptisms. And although they have a full-time paid organist and robed choir, the music each week consists of the same hymns: "Morning has broken"; "Lord of the Dance"; "One more step along the world I go" and "Give me Oil in my Lamp". For evensong, they replace "Morning has broken" with "Abide with me".
The congregation at Saint Ereotype's holds a collection during the service every week, but the total tends to be about £2.50. This is however not a problem as, being a branch of the Social Services, all the church's outgoings, including the vicar's comfortable stipend, are paid for by the government.
The vicar actually lives in the church. She lives in constant fear of the Archdeacon, who comes to see her on a weekly basis. Apart from Sunday services, baptism services and the weekly PCC meeting, the vicar does no work. So she can spend her time exchanging jovial but insubstantial chat in the pub, and roaring around on her motor-bike. The PCC doubles with the local civil parish council, to which nobody is ever elected as all are life-members.
Meanwhile the curate is responsible for running the Youth Club, which consists of a group of well-behaved kids who play table tennis before getting together for his "Epilogue". There is one member of the Youth Club who used to be a bit of a wild lad, but he's been so impressed with the vicar's modern ways and Harley Davidson that he's settled right down now.
So all in all it's a good life at Saint Ereotype's. In fact apart from the occasional bitter disagreement that ends with hilarious consequences, the main cloud on the congregation's blue sky is the vicar's sermons. They're well-meaning and thankfully free of any reference to the Gospel, but at 4 minutes and 10 seconds the congregation suspects they may be slightly too long for a genuinely stereotypical sermon. Still, you can't have everything, can you?
Monday 13 September 2010
The short and depressive life of a pheasant
Pheasants are funny beggars.
They're more thoughtful than you realise. They know they're bred for shooting at. Just imagine, living your whole life knowing that your reason for existence is to be a target for others. It would be a little like, in the current environment, being the Pope. And with the added similarity that, with pheasants as with the Catholic church, it's the male that gets to wear the brightly-coloured outfits.
So pheasants grow up with a deep sense of paranoia - explaining the habit they have of sharply turning their heads, as they try to work out which direction Life is going to get them.
In order to cheer themselves up, they like to play "chicken". Although the chickens object to this outrageously species-ist name for the game, the pheasants don't care - and point out that at least they get to roam the fields.
So that's why you see pheasants hanging around at the side of country lanes, before suddenly dashing across the road in front of your car. It's not because they're stupid - although they are, of course, having very small cranial capacities - it's because they're paranoid, and they're trying to find some fun in life before they depart. They know that playing chicken may well cause their end to come more swiftly, but they figure that it's worth it if they cheer themselves up in the meantime. And in the meantime they get a sense of competition in who can cross the most busy roads before dying. Old "Buster" (all pheasants are named after movie anti-heroes) is currently up to 86, but he's slowing down so it's only a matter of time.
You have a similar group in your society. Those that, to avoid the ennui and paranoia of their everyday lives, seek risk as a way to give themselves some fulfilment while heading for an early grave. Middle-aged para-glider I guess you'd call them.
They're more thoughtful than you realise. They know they're bred for shooting at. Just imagine, living your whole life knowing that your reason for existence is to be a target for others. It would be a little like, in the current environment, being the Pope. And with the added similarity that, with pheasants as with the Catholic church, it's the male that gets to wear the brightly-coloured outfits.
So pheasants grow up with a deep sense of paranoia - explaining the habit they have of sharply turning their heads, as they try to work out which direction Life is going to get them.
In order to cheer themselves up, they like to play "chicken". Although the chickens object to this outrageously species-ist name for the game, the pheasants don't care - and point out that at least they get to roam the fields.
So that's why you see pheasants hanging around at the side of country lanes, before suddenly dashing across the road in front of your car. It's not because they're stupid - although they are, of course, having very small cranial capacities - it's because they're paranoid, and they're trying to find some fun in life before they depart. They know that playing chicken may well cause their end to come more swiftly, but they figure that it's worth it if they cheer themselves up in the meantime. And in the meantime they get a sense of competition in who can cross the most busy roads before dying. Old "Buster" (all pheasants are named after movie anti-heroes) is currently up to 86, but he's slowing down so it's only a matter of time.
You have a similar group in your society. Those that, to avoid the ennui and paranoia of their everyday lives, seek risk as a way to give themselves some fulfilment while heading for an early grave. Middle-aged para-glider I guess you'd call them.
Sunday 12 September 2010
The Wild World of Apples
To you, it's just an apple core you've thrown out the window.
People do it all the time - apple cores aren't "really" litter, they biodegrade. Wasps and birds eat them. That's the theory.
I'm saying nothing.
But the unintended consequences are amazing.
Drive down most trunk roads, keep your eyes open at this time of year. Apples all the way down the verges.
Not apples you buy in the shops. These are real apples. Wild apples.
No apple pip grows to type. They're a genetic mixture. You plant a pip from an Ashmead's Kernel, you've no way of knowing what you've got. Could be the world's best dessert apple. Could be a perfect cider apple. Could be a crab. Could just be an inferior version of what was thrown out the window. You never know.
There's a lovely cooker near our spinney. I've no idea how it got there. It was thrown out of the window in a core one day, I daresay. And it grew. We never noticed it. At least, I say "we". I never did. It must be twenty years old now. I'm the only one left from the spinney in those days. But it quietly grew on the verge, no fuss - just an inch or two, then a foot, then spreading. Then gradually - for wild apples aren't grafted onto fast-fruiting rootstocks like tame ones - gradually it would have fruited. It's a lovely cooker now. But nobody ever picks them. Apart from that maniac who comes round now and then to grab spare apples for cider.
But the birds eat them. And the wasps. And, when they fall, sometimes the rabbits.
It's a goldmine out there - all the way down the roadsides of the country. The genetically most perfect apples you could ever find is going to be out there somewhere. And nobody ever knows. Nobody ever knows.
Saturday 11 September 2010
God and Hedgehogs
You'd think hedgehogs would be depressed about their lot in life. Their simple habit of running around happily, then getting run over on the bypass, should leave them wondering. Or at least avoiding roads. And yet they don't.
This is down to a deep-lying belief in fate. To a hedgehog, if one of their mates ends up squashed in the road, that's just the way it is. "It was meant to be" is a hedgehog prayer - their reaction to every failed road-crossing or the unwrapping of a friend by a badger. Which means that their equanimity is matched only by their lack of precautionary action.
If we were like hedgehogs then that's the way we'd be. As yet another disaster unfolded we'd shrug. As a friend or colleague or family member headed hellwards we'd just shrug our shoulders and assume that's the way it is.
What I'm saying is, if hedgehogs were humans they'd not be turning the house over to find one coin when they had nine perfectly good ones at home. And they'd just leave the hundredth sheep to wander across the ring-road, quietly confident that, should it collide with one of Mr Stobart's lorries then it was meant to be.
So just hope God's not a hedgehog, that's all I'm saying.
This is down to a deep-lying belief in fate. To a hedgehog, if one of their mates ends up squashed in the road, that's just the way it is. "It was meant to be" is a hedgehog prayer - their reaction to every failed road-crossing or the unwrapping of a friend by a badger. Which means that their equanimity is matched only by their lack of precautionary action.
If we were like hedgehogs then that's the way we'd be. As yet another disaster unfolded we'd shrug. As a friend or colleague or family member headed hellwards we'd just shrug our shoulders and assume that's the way it is.
What I'm saying is, if hedgehogs were humans they'd not be turning the house over to find one coin when they had nine perfectly good ones at home. And they'd just leave the hundredth sheep to wander across the ring-road, quietly confident that, should it collide with one of Mr Stobart's lorries then it was meant to be.
So just hope God's not a hedgehog, that's all I'm saying.
Woods and the World of Work
Being a Saturday, it's a little quieter even now than the mornings of the working week. On Saturday the western world carries on its bustle, but at least it generally leaves it a little later before it all kicks off.
And a dull old day we have of it. It's quite mild, slightly damp, and the spinney bustles with animal life even as the plant life is starting to think of hunkering down. The squirrels are in particularly manic mood as they get their stores in order - and I think of this poor squirrel, and the lack of interest the Police took in it. At least round here there are plenty of acorns for them.
But back to the humans. It's sobering to reflect that round here the average human life is spent, working hard and enduring stress, so as to die having at some stage possessed a decent car. People surge into work and then surge home, never knowing which day will be their last. They get home glazed, and watch the telly, and go to bed, and then one day they die.
I know you humans have to work. I know it pays the bills and puts a roof over your heads and feeds the little ones. But for goodness' sake - when you're angry with the kids because you're stressed from work remember why you went there in the first place. Take the time to learn someone's name. Stop and look at a brook, or a hedgerow, or a tree, and wonder at the beauty that's there. But if the tree's not a hazel and there's a squirrel, please don't phone the police. Turns out they're not interested.
And a dull old day we have of it. It's quite mild, slightly damp, and the spinney bustles with animal life even as the plant life is starting to think of hunkering down. The squirrels are in particularly manic mood as they get their stores in order - and I think of this poor squirrel, and the lack of interest the Police took in it. At least round here there are plenty of acorns for them.
But back to the humans. It's sobering to reflect that round here the average human life is spent, working hard and enduring stress, so as to die having at some stage possessed a decent car. People surge into work and then surge home, never knowing which day will be their last. They get home glazed, and watch the telly, and go to bed, and then one day they die.
I know you humans have to work. I know it pays the bills and puts a roof over your heads and feeds the little ones. But for goodness' sake - when you're angry with the kids because you're stressed from work remember why you went there in the first place. Take the time to learn someone's name. Stop and look at a brook, or a hedgerow, or a tree, and wonder at the beauty that's there. But if the tree's not a hazel and there's a squirrel, please don't phone the police. Turns out they're not interested.
Thursday 9 September 2010
Some kind of sorceress?
Look, I'm the kind of primeval wood-dwelling character that spends his life away from human kind, trying to live a quiet existence in peace.
So I know little of your homo sapiens telly.
But I suspect that if the Revd Terry Jones (namesake of Monty Python's naked organist - but definitely not the same person - and leader of the equally surreal Hicksville Church for Worldwide Hatred) knew that the BBC was showing prime-time sorcery such as shown in the image above, he'd be burning British television sets as well.
Or is it panto season again?
Evensong for Starlings
I've just been listening to starlings coming into roost. And, as often, groaning at their conversation.
You, of course, do not speak starling. You do not know the thoughts that pass through their little feathery brains.
Which is, on the whole, just as well. The inane chatter that goes on between them doesn't bear repeating. You may not realise this, but starlings are obsessive observers of back gardens. Not particularly the important details - are there many worms, where are the cats - no. Although they do talk about these things as well. Not that it affects their behaviour in any way - no matter how detailed their description of a 9lb, orange-and-yellow seven-year-old crossbred domestic short hair, no matter how many comments upon the precise number of minutes the moggy spends under the Ashmead's Kernel, M26-rootstock apple tree showing signs of woolly aphid infestation and where the apples are 26% ripe, 59% just under-ripe and 15% suffering from brown rot or scab - no matter about that, their mates still promptly fly back and get eaten at exactly the time the reporting starling has said the cat has a tendency to lurk in the undergrowth (64% grass, 25% clover, with minor elements of couch grass, cleaver and ground elder),
They just love reporting detail. On and on they go. Sometimes I wish I had the ears of a homo sapiens sapiens - how you must have laughed, at the irony of that Latin tag - instead of the nature-attuned ones of a wild man of the woods.
But of an evening, especially in early autumn, they like to gather together on a roof and take part in a church service.
I say church service. The starling religion actually consists of all the birds getting together, and disagreeing whether they're on the right roof, or whether they're on the same tiles they were yesterday, and discussing whether their services this year are the same as they were last year, when the sparrow ordained to lead such gatherings as this was the late Mr Sparrow. And how it was a great shame that Mr Sparrow was eaten by that large orange and yellow cat (9lb, seven years old, tendency to lurk under the Ashmead's Kernel etc).
So when I say church service, maybe I mean more of a PCC.
You, of course, do not speak starling. You do not know the thoughts that pass through their little feathery brains.
Which is, on the whole, just as well. The inane chatter that goes on between them doesn't bear repeating. You may not realise this, but starlings are obsessive observers of back gardens. Not particularly the important details - are there many worms, where are the cats - no. Although they do talk about these things as well. Not that it affects their behaviour in any way - no matter how detailed their description of a 9lb, orange-and-yellow seven-year-old crossbred domestic short hair, no matter how many comments upon the precise number of minutes the moggy spends under the Ashmead's Kernel, M26-rootstock apple tree showing signs of woolly aphid infestation and where the apples are 26% ripe, 59% just under-ripe and 15% suffering from brown rot or scab - no matter about that, their mates still promptly fly back and get eaten at exactly the time the reporting starling has said the cat has a tendency to lurk in the undergrowth (64% grass, 25% clover, with minor elements of couch grass, cleaver and ground elder),
They just love reporting detail. On and on they go. Sometimes I wish I had the ears of a homo sapiens sapiens - how you must have laughed, at the irony of that Latin tag - instead of the nature-attuned ones of a wild man of the woods.
But of an evening, especially in early autumn, they like to gather together on a roof and take part in a church service.
I say church service. The starling religion actually consists of all the birds getting together, and disagreeing whether they're on the right roof, or whether they're on the same tiles they were yesterday, and discussing whether their services this year are the same as they were last year, when the sparrow ordained to lead such gatherings as this was the late Mr Sparrow. And how it was a great shame that Mr Sparrow was eaten by that large orange and yellow cat (9lb, seven years old, tendency to lurk under the Ashmead's Kernel etc).
So when I say church service, maybe I mean more of a PCC.
Wednesday 8 September 2010
Burning the Koran
The hedgehogs are all astounded. It occurs to them that if someone in Florida decides to burn copies of the Koran, then they are putting Christians all around the world at risk. Especially, God bless them, the sort of Christians whose communities have survived for nearly 2 millennia under first Roman and then Muslim rule, keeping their heads down while enduring second-class status or outright persecution - and currently suffering from their worst anxieties for centuries..
Except there is very little risk, probably, in Hicksville, USA, where they are likely to be quite safe. Not least because the sort of people that might want to take revenge would stick out like a sore thumb in Hicksville.
The hedgehogs have come up with the theory that this makes the people of the Dove World Outreach Centre cowards as well as unwise in the extreme. And possibly other words that the hedgehogs wouldn't use, because they are a gentle and rational bunch, apart from in their treatment of slugs and beetles.
It makes me wonder. The hedgehog is a simple creature with a habit of walking round in circles under the influence of pesticides, or getting squashed on the bypass. So if they can see this isn't a great idea, why can't the Dove World Outreach Centre?
Needless to say, the doves are livid. If they had the money and human voices they'd take out a class action.
Except there is very little risk, probably, in Hicksville, USA, where they are likely to be quite safe. Not least because the sort of people that might want to take revenge would stick out like a sore thumb in Hicksville.
The hedgehogs have come up with the theory that this makes the people of the Dove World Outreach Centre cowards as well as unwise in the extreme. And possibly other words that the hedgehogs wouldn't use, because they are a gentle and rational bunch, apart from in their treatment of slugs and beetles.
It makes me wonder. The hedgehog is a simple creature with a habit of walking round in circles under the influence of pesticides, or getting squashed on the bypass. So if they can see this isn't a great idea, why can't the Dove World Outreach Centre?
Needless to say, the doves are livid. If they had the money and human voices they'd take out a class action.
Tuesday 7 September 2010
Going Underground
In a complex ecosystem such as our spinney, there's always bound to be some dispute on matters of current affairs. Take the Tube strike, for example.
The bats can't imagine anything more hideous than being stuck in a tunnel underground. So they think the strike is quite a good idea, liberating people from subterranean entrapment. But the rabbits think the Tube is a great idea - imagine, they say, having a burrow that can transport you across several miles in just a few minutes.
The crows, on the other hand, just think they're getting a bad name.
The bats can't imagine anything more hideous than being stuck in a tunnel underground. So they think the strike is quite a good idea, liberating people from subterranean entrapment. But the rabbits think the Tube is a great idea - imagine, they say, having a burrow that can transport you across several miles in just a few minutes.
The crows, on the other hand, just think they're getting a bad name.
Monday 6 September 2010
Theology of Badgers
I don't know whether it's the colour scheme or what, but badgers are at heart deeply Calvinist. The cubs play a bit, but the sadness of the world soon grinds them down. Grim things, really, with a deep hatred of hedgehogs and Freelanders.
On the whole I try to avoid badgers. They're dull and they've got nasty claws.
On the whole I try to avoid badgers. They're dull and they've got nasty claws.
M-theory
The gray squirrels are really doing some serious thinking over the idea of Professor Hawking's "M-theory".
They've been doing some research into the whole multiple universe thing, and have just about grasped the concept of Quantum Suicide. And on the grounds that they are many, they're just looking for a radioactive source to try it out. They're happy to lay down their little, furry lives for the good of science. Strange creatures, gray squirrels. They can understand the basis of quantum theory, but "thought experiment" is beyond them.
Still, you've got to hand it to the squirrels. They get a bad press, but they're prepared to suffer for their science.
Not like those nervous cage-dwellers the guinea pigs. They just hide behind the name and refuse to leave the garden.
They've been doing some research into the whole multiple universe thing, and have just about grasped the concept of Quantum Suicide. And on the grounds that they are many, they're just looking for a radioactive source to try it out. They're happy to lay down their little, furry lives for the good of science. Strange creatures, gray squirrels. They can understand the basis of quantum theory, but "thought experiment" is beyond them.
Still, you've got to hand it to the squirrels. They get a bad press, but they're prepared to suffer for their science.
Not like those nervous cage-dwellers the guinea pigs. They just hide behind the name and refuse to leave the garden.
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