Badgers moved the goalposts
and listening to another writer reading their children's tale of talking animals; not to mention Die Hard and Wind in the Willows...
*****
The Cull
The sight of a group of weasels in suits wandering through
Whitehall might have been expected to draw attention but in truth one group of
shifty, devious looking characters was much the same as another so security
took them for a committee of MPs and let them go on unmolested, no point
risking another ‘Plebgate’ after all.
Fortunately the weasels in question were all supposed to be in
this particular suite of offices. Whilst the prospect of lording it over
humans, and the fantastic pension scheme, normally made the weasels feel as if they
had found the keys to a Bernard Matthews poultry farm at this moment they were
all reconsidering their collective decision to seek employment in the corridors
of power, well in truth given the location of the offices the sewers of power might have been more
accurate. With some trepidation they approached the door of the meeting room
they were looking for and knocked softly; hoping that the party inside wouldn’t
hear and they could scurry away. Their luck wasn’t in and a shrill voice called
out “Come in!”
Waiting inside was another weasel; this one somewhat bigger
in height and girth as well as being attired
in a much more expensive suit. He was sat at one end of a long oak conference
table and he looked even more vicious than weasels usually do. He sat silently
glaring as the others took their seats; each trying to avoid the chairs next to
the head of the table without being too obvious about doing so; paste
experience had taught them that their superior’s bite was far worse than his
bark. Finally the manoeuvring was done with and the unlucky losers took their
place within arm’s reach (and claws and teeth) of their unhappy chief.
When the last sounds of shuffling and creaking chairs had
died down the senior weasel spoke once more, “I take it you have this week’s
badger cull update?”
More nervous glances were exchanged before the weasel at the
far end of the table opened a briefcase and pulled out a sheaf of papers that
were passed paw to paw until they reached the head of the table. Again silence
descended as the head weasel read through them without any sign or reaction. It
was an act of deliberate provocation and finally one of the more junior weasels
lost his nerve, “As you can see sir it’s a big improvement on last week.”
The other weasels around the table leant back to avoid the
heat of the glare the head weasel was focusing on the unfortunate junior,
“An improvement how how exactly?”
Somehow the junior found the nerve to answer, or perhaps he
was more afraid of staying silent, “Well sir the hunters did shoot a badger
this week.”
The head weasel glanced at the papers, “Yes they did and
included in this report is a strongly worded letter from the Natural History
museum and a bill for the display case.”
“But it is sort of an improvement.” The junior weasel
squeaked; too deep in it now to back out, “At least there was no repeat of that
incident with the Newcastle United fans.”
“I am seeing one report of a civilian casualty.” The head
badger tapped one of the pages ominously.
“Well sir he was wandering around Hampstead Heath in a
badger costume at midnight so frankly he was asking for it.”
The head weasel almost asked why the man had been there but
decided there were some things a weasel was better off not knowing, “So besides
those what do we have? More unfortunate zebra crossings filled with potholes by
and a number of the posters of badgers we put up to try and improve results
blasted to shreds. It’s just not good enough gentlemen; questions will be asked
in parliament.”
“We’re still making more progress than HS2.” One of the
mid-level weasels pointed out; and immediately regretted it.
“Everybody is making more progress than HS2.” The head
weasel snapped, “and in the long run the high speed rail link will probably kill
more badgers!”
He was prevented from launching into a full scale tirade by
the door of the meeting room crashing open and a very un-weasel like character
stormed in. The senior weasel looked from the figure to the papers, which
contained one of the recognition posters, and back again just to be sure, “A
badger !” He cried.
The badge drew himself up; he was clad in combat pants and a
vest; his face was streaked with some rather redundant camouflage paint and he
was clutching a pump action shotgun, “So you’re the weasels behind the badger
cull eh?”
The head weasel managed to respond while trying to slide
slowly from his seat and under the table, “How did you find out? How did you
get in here?”
“Let’s just say you really shouldn’t have hired two
individuals called mole and ratty to work for you if you wanted to preserve
your secrets.”
“What are you going to do?” The junior weasel squeaked; trying
to slide under the table and being unable to do so owing to the crowd already
there.
The badger smiled, “let me answer you with an old joke;
what’s black and white and red all over?”
“A sunburnt penguin?” The junior weasel suggested feebly.
“No, a badger with a shotgun.”
The junior weasel looked puzzled, “But you’re not…” were the
last words he spoke before he was drowned out by the repeated boom and click of
the shotgun…
*****
BTW if anyone can think of anywhere else I could submit/post this story I'd love to hear about it...
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