My Dearest Margaret,
I’m looking for somewhere to bury my nuts this winter. Somewhere warm and safe from predators. Have you got anywhere that’s warm and a little damp where I can store my nuts? I’m really asking about sex and not a cellar or anything like that.
Nuttily yours, Roderick.
And so one erotically-challenged and misdirected email began my series of exchanges with Roderick who turned out to be the head honcho of Europe’s very own Ultimate Squirrel League Of Friends.
When I first heard of the league my assumption was that they were a bunch of moderately odd furries with a penchant for fighting. Three-eighths of that assumption was indeed correct. However, the multitudinous members of the Ultimate Squirrel League Of Friends were also not of this world, merely trapped on this planet, doomed to live out the remainders of their not inconsiderate lifespans avoiding direct contact with humans (other than Squirrel Sympathisers such as Margaret). Needless to say but when I uncloaked their dark secret they set out to silence me in the only way they knew how: deathly death by death cudgels!
I had anticipated their assault and devised a series of cunning traps – a rope suspended between two trees with a large, spinning board halfway along its length, a feeder suspended from an overhanging branch but tilted at an angle to cause a terrifying wobbling and rotating effect for anything of weight that attached itself to it, and so on – but you don’t get to be an alien species hiding out on the third rock from a yellow dwarf sun far from home in space and time without learning a trick or two and they came to my front door dressed as Jehovah’s Witnesses.
I have a soft spot for Jehovah’s Witnesses – my knuckles (just kidding; my knee) – and so was taken completely by surprise when they whipped out their death-dealing cudgels. I was saved by something we humans came up which never made it all the way to the Ultimate Squirrel Central Dyson Sphere: Basic Instinct. By uncrossing my legs to expose my underwearless genital area I bought myself precious seconds of Revulsion Time; an eternity for a master in the art of running away to create a daring escape.
My escape was thwarted by my arch enemy in all matters: my cat. Atrracted by the scent of Jehovah’s Witness-adorned, humanesque-masked, sentient squirrels from beyond the stars, and coupled with his own nosiness he had padded slowly down the hallway and crouched behind me waiting to pounce upon the very meal he had dreamt of only the night before.
He never got his meal; he got his tail trod upon by his screaming owner attempting to partake in a dramatic getaway. I never extricated myself with dignity from the ambush by the Ultimate Squirrels; I fell in a heap in my hallway, cracking my head upon the potted dragon tree that sits by the doorway to the living room. The Ultimate Squirrel League Of Friends never silenced me; they did delete all but my initial email from Roderick to Margaret. And they removed the centres of all my purple Quality Streets without leaving a mark. And they left me unconscious in the hallway with my underwearless groin area exposed towards the street which has resulted in yet another pending court case.
But I’ll not be silenced. And I’m gunning for you, Ultimate Squirrels.