"There's only one way to get rid of a mole," said poor, dead Jasper Carrott, "Blow its bloody head off!"I can see where poor, dead Jasper's coming from, for Scaryduck Towers has possession of a rat. A rat that has been sent to seek awful, bloody revenge for my rat-killing excellence earlier this year.
As I sat, smugly, in my kitchen-diner on Boxing Day, looking out through the patio doors whilst putting away biblical quantities of Twiglets, my attention was drawn to a patch of bare garden not six feet away from where I sat.
There, looking equally smug, was a large, brown rat, putting away biblical quantities of turkey fat, poured out the back door not the night before.
It stopped and looked up at me, an air of "screw you" on its face, before diving back into the leftovers.
I did what any manly man would do in the circumstances. I grabbed the poker from the fireplace and sallied forth to give the evil bastard a damn good shoeing.
It did what any ratty rat would do face with a poker-wielding short-arse. It ran away.
There was no way I was going to take such an affront lying down. Fearing something hideous out of a James Herbert novel (only without the scenes of graphic, filthy sex) I was straight down to B&Q for their best budget-price rat trap, and set it up in the garden, cunningly baited with a tempting mixture of turkey fat and strawberry jam.
Seven thirty the next morning – roused from my pit by the sound of the bin lorry – the bait was gone, the trap unsprung.
"Maybe it's not working," the fragrant Mrs Duck ventured.
"Let's see," I replied, prodding it with a toe.
Here's a tip: Don't wear your carpet slippers in the garden. Epic, EPIC FAIL.
Rat 1-0 Duck.
The war: It has BEGUN.
On being an attention whore
Nominations for the 2009 Bloggie Awards are open.
I'm not going to demand that you all go and nominate me for the Best Humour Blog award, but if you don't and Julian Meteor wins, it's going to be YOUR FAULT.
Don't say I didn't warn you.
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