May the pest man win

In a previous life, before I went over to the dark side and became a paramedic, I was a decent, hard-working pest controller.

No, really.

Before now, it hasn't occurred to me to document any reminiscences about this period in my life, even though I did it for the best part of a decade, starting off with a van and a wage of nine and a half grand a year, and ending up as a trouble shooting technical manager for a national company.

This seems remiss of me, because in the top ten list of occupations recognised as being able to generate anecdotes, surely being a professional killer is up there with priest and window cleaner. And hippo polisher.

I dealt with a wide assortment of pesty species, from the small and crunchy to the big and furry, from the spiky crawly ones to the feathery squawking types. Whilst prevention was the main aim of our industry, we also used poisons, traps, guns and, occasionally, biological control in the form of a Jack Russel called Bonzo.

Bonzo had a pathological hatred of anything ratty, the killing ability of a great white shark with no boundaries, and the problem solving abilities of a cryptography team. Luckily, he also had the IQ of . . . well, a dog, which was possibly the only thing preventing him taking over the world in a fit of pique.

After a particularly recalcitrant infestation of rats in a posh Manchester hotel, where the managers had consistently failed to realise that dumping your food waste in a side alley was akin to sending out flyers to every rodent in a two-mile radius with "COME AND GET IT!" written in peanut butter flavoured ink, I contacted Bonzo's owner interpreter to ask if he was available.

He passed the message on to Bonzo, who turned up that evening in a blacked out A-Team style van. Possibly. My memory of this is a little hazy. I'm not sure but he may have been wearing shades as well. And a bandanna.

I explained our problem via his interpreter, that we needed a quick reduction in the numbers of beasties infesting this area, so we could then implement a more permanent solution.

Bonzo sighed, nodded (I seem to recall), took off his shades and got out of the van. He cricked his neck a couple of times, took a deep breath and then . . .

What followed was like a dance. A macabre dance. A macabre dance of Death. A macabre dance of Death to the tune of the grim reaper, played on the bagpipes of doom, with a beat made from the wails of the departed and the surprised terminal gasps of Bonzo's victims. It was terrible and it was beautiful, and it was waggly.

Anyway, it was effective, and such a shock that the managers agreed to a new hygiene and waste disposal regime lest we revisit the wrath of Bonzo once more upon them.


Some of the most vivid memories I have are not of the infestations, or the premises, or the methods, but of the people I met.

I was contracted to clear a block of council flats of their German cockroach infestation in North London, a difficult task at the best of times. We had got most of the offending areas clear, much to the joy of the residents and the council, although one tricky area was proving resilient to our poisonous magic. I was convinced that a single flat to which we had not been allowed access to by the resident was a potential source of re-infestation, and contacted the council to ask for admittance. They agreed to see what they could arrange.

I turned up the following week and was met by a tall, very well dressed, perfectly coiffured and bejewelled West Indian lady called Joyce, who explained that she was a social worker. She told me that the flat I was interested in was owned by a "vulnerable and rather difficult chap" in his fifties, who might respond to the gentle persuasions of a trained social worker rather than the brutal shoutings of a pest controller.

Fair point, I thought.

She had arranged to meet him at the bottom of the block, from where we would all go up to his flat.

Whilst we waited, we had a chat, and Joyce told me she couldn't do my job, dealing with all those creepy-crawlies and what not. In fact, she had a pathological fear of bugs, and cockroaches in particular, which had even meant she had not been to see close relatives in Jamaica for fear of the roaches there, which she had been reliably informed were as big as kittens.

I began to wonder at the wisdom of her visiting this apartment.

A smell turned up, followed a few minutes later by it's owner, who was the man we were waiting for. He was dishevelled, unkempt, odorous and very, very pissed. Joyce went to shake his hand, thought better of it and turned it into a gesture indicating the direction of the lift, into which we all got.

After a moment, your nose cuts out bad smells, even the acrid stench of a chap who had put on a tracksuit top in 1983, and found it so much to his liking that he hadn't taken it off since. Still, our eyes watered and I noted that the immaculate Joyce had pressed herself almost up to the back wall in abhorrence at the state of the chap in front of us, facing the doors.

I smiled a little unkindly at her discomfort, wondering what his flat was going to be like, before I noticed something moving at the nape of his neck.



It was a young German cockroach.

My mouth gaped and I straightened up, a stupid grin of quite delighted disbelief on my face. Another one scuttled out of the  his hair and ran down into the shiny haven of his tracksuit.

He had a cockroach infestation. Actually on him!

In the excitement of such a discovery and wishing to share it with the world, I forgot about Joyce's prior declaration of hatred for such things and turned to catch her eye, before pointing at the oblivious chap's hitch hiker and making a comically surprised  face to her.

The result was . . . interesting.

She turned a fascinating grey colour, and appeared to be trying to see if it was possible to pass through the solid wall of the lift by pressing herself backwards into it. Her expression was one you might see on a person who, having eaten a delicious salad, suddenly discovers a boiled cat's head at the bottom of the carton. Sweat beaded on her forehead, and a strange noise not unlike someone repeatedly pressing an asthma inhaler over and over again emanated from her mouth.

I started to worry that, should her eyes get any wider, they might actually fall out.

I reconsidered the wisdom of bringing this to her attention, and mouthed an apology at her, which she didn't see as she was now staring resolutely at the light panels in the ceiling and stubbornly refusing to breathe.

Happily, before she expired from hypoxia, the lift stopped and the walking ecosystem that accompanied us staggered out, fumbling for his keys.

I followed, then turned back to Joyce.

"Did you want to hang around out here?" I asked, "Because of the chemicals maybe?" I held up the completely non-toxic to humans cockroach killing baits I was going to use.

She nodded gratefully, and finally took a breath. 

I left and, taking a deep breath myself, entered the flat, which was exactly as you would imagine it to be.

There's nothing does variety like the human race.

Like Mother Earth, the Goddess Gaia supports an intricate network of life.

Street walker

Off to the pet shop.

Got to get my rabbit some treats because I ran out of tasty snacks and he's not happy. He's stamping like a metal press because he's had his diet restricted to hay, grass, carrots, apples, celery, lettuce, my wife's Crocs, the skirting boards and some books.

You wouldn't think an angry bunny would be capable of waking up an entire house, but they can occasionally find a resonating sweet spot and stamp so hard you'd think you were being raided by the Lagomorph Anti-Deprivation League, smashing their way into your home with a carrot-shaped battering ram and demanding you reinstate yoghurt drops as a staple of your rabbit's diet.

Not wishing to anger the floppy eared extremists (rabbit feet aren't so lucky if they're kicking your head in en masse), off I go to town.

I recently had a discussion with a friend about the decline in some ethereal quality called community spirit, or neighbourliness, because these days people have very little to do with each other where they live. Rather than chat over the garden fence like in the old days (whenever they were), people stay inside and communicate over vast distances.

Apparently, this is seen as a bad thing.

I agreed, at least superficially, but it got me thinking. You're forced to communicate with neighbours because of geographical necessity, whether or not they're Nobel prize winners for surf science or Pitt Bull breeders with mattresses on the lawn. You have no choice. In contrast, technology has enabled us to strike up conversations with people of similar interests to you, all around the world, which must make for more stimulating interactions surely?

I've lived and worked round here for about 12 years now, and am slowly getting to know the eccentricities and stories that are probably typical of small towns up and down the country and beyond. All of human life is here.

Do I know my neighbours?

Almost outside the gate, I see June drive past in her elderly but much loved Golf. We wave at each other. Half my kids outdoor toys, like his sandpit and scooter, were donated by June, and she even re-upholstered a tiny armchair for him as a present. It looks like a professional seamstress has done it and has pride of place in our living room, where my boy practises his lounging.

One house down, I meet Edna, a 78 year-old who lives in our street and appears like a wraith at her gate, usually clad in the longest padded jacket I've ever seen. It's got a huge hood, is brown and goes right down to the ground (the whole coat, not just the hood) like a sleeping bag cut open at the feet so she can walk. It looks like it might have been discarded from the costume department of Star Wars for being too mad.

Pettily, I try to pretend I haven't seen her, but only because she's ever so, ever so dull. I mean, really quite monotonously boring. And she mumbles like she's got a mouth full of Ferrero Rochers and wants to savour them.

Fascinating coat or not, I have no desire to enter into prolonged intercourse with her, and for this I am a little ashamed. The problem is, after I've made the mental effort to translate her strong, mumbly welsh . . er . . . brogue (why do the Irish get a brogue and everyone else just gets an accent) it turns out she hasn't actually said anything interesting. She will talk about a stick of rock she once had for days. I find myself smiling and inserting "Well, nice to see you . . ." into every sentence to facilitate my escape.

Bill rescues me. He's a similar age to Edna and waves his stick at us, crossing the road to say hello.

I say rescue but actually I would rather avoid talking to him as well.

Crivens I sound grumpy.

But everything is a source of complaint to Bill. The weather? "Terrible. Can't wait for summer, but that won't last." His heart? "The doc says it's angina, but I think it''s really about to stop." His family? "My son's moved back in with me. It's very annoying." His car? "A Toyota. Went out on it's own yesterday and never came back."

The first crocuses of spring that have stoically battled the inconsistent weather to raise their delicate, seahorse-like heads above the half-frozen ground begin to wilt in the gardens around us as Bill saps their positivity with his complaints. Edna mumbles agreement. Possibly.

I've come to realise that it's not because of an inherent ageism that I don't like talking to this pair, but just that I don't like talking to this pair.

In contrast, 93 year old Les then yomps past us, the only impression that he's nearing his century is a small limp he didn't have last year. He's always immaculately dressed and can be found tipping his trilby to ladies two thirds of a century his junior and making them swoon a bit, my wife included. I see my escape route and say "Oh, Les, I was after a word." and leave Bill and Edna complaining and negating respectively. I imagine they're moaning about having to pretend to take an interest in me.

Les is a local legend. He bought his house round the corner as it was being built in 1939, knows everything about the immediate area, and has even had his memoirs published. I would buy it but I don't want to look like I'm a sycophant or anything. And he's probably made half of it up anyway, because I'm only 38 and can barely remember what day my birthday is, so I'd just get jealous of his recall.

Maybe I ought to write a memoir as well?

Possibly not. It'd be full of half-remembered facts like the time the Dalai Llama phoned to see of I could take out some crack Chinese assassins because I was the most qualified camo ninja for the job, and as a westerner in an eastern country I wouldn't get noticed as much.

And as to whether I succeeded?

Well, the Dalai still Llamas, doesn't he?

Les and I avoid eye contact with Mr Tourette's, the Colourful Alcoholic and his intermittent beard. The beard is either fully hirsute or clean shaven, never any stage in between. Fruity language erupts from him like a foul-mouthed volcano, along with energetic V-signs to passing cars and pedestrians. He doesn't do it so much to me anymore because I growled at him when he swore in front of my son.

This shows some semblance of control, and because I don't think Tourette's is a respecter of self-preservation I don't actually reckon he's got it. He just fucking loves swearing.

Les tells me he expects sponsorship for his next abseil down the Eagle Star building in Cheltenham*. I check the slight limp he has now, work out the odds of him doing another one and heartily agree to a tenner. I would chat more with him, but I can't keep up.

We live in an area which is predominantly inhabited by older people, like Jo, who waves through her window at me. I do my usual miming routine to see if she wants anything from the shops, which involves me moving my arms about randomly and mouthing "Do you want anything from the shops?" She gets the message and shakes her head. I wander off, happy that I'm not going to be loaded down with Ribena and packets of Tena Lady.

Anne is walking heavily into the road, around the corner from the canal. She's only in her early sixties and, last year, lost her husband unexpectedly, leaving her absolutely devastated. They were a couple of few words, but always, always together. Without wanting to give the impression that Anne is not her own person, she seems permanently out of context on her own.

The air of desolation about her makes it seem difficult to talk to her at first, until you realise she's not after words of comfort, because they don't exist, but just words. I have plenty of those. We exchange subdued pleasantries for a few minutes, and walk off in opposite directions.

I get to the end of the road and turn left, across the canal, to get my bunny treats.

Do I know my neighbours?

Impossible not to really.

Blimey, I've only just got out of my road. I'm going to be ages at this rate.




*I haven't made that up. He really did!

Adventures in Blogland

Just over a year ago I started bloggaging, taking my first tentative, shaky steps into the murky, surreal woodland that is the blogoshpere, like Bambi exploring Kenya. This is a woodland that would make Tolkien shudder with the ethereal strangeness that abounds. Where creatures of the night live side by side with rainbow-hued optimists, where hardcore nookie fanatics cross paths with knitting enthusiasts, where rampant daily contributors brush shoulders with occasional nibblers.

The world of the blog is varied. Hot and humid one moment, just a short few steps away and you're in a temperate zone utterly suited to your tastes, and then a quick reconnaissance in another direction and the temperature drops, leaving you unable to decide whether you should stay and explore or scurry back to more comfortable environs.

It was a strange experience in those early, embryonic days.

You make a little camp in that woodland with no maps, no native guide, no bushcraft skills other than your inherent foraging abilities which may or may not be up to the task. You choose a name for your blog. You take about five seconds because you have to put something on the sign, and it's not as though it's going to be a permanent fixture in your life for the foreseeable future is it? You'll probably be deleting it in a day or two anyway.

So, you've named your blog. Job done. You're now ready to get posting! Let the creative juices pour forth!

Er . . .

What to put on it? You try and recall what they taught you about blogging when you were at school in the eighties, but the lessons on blogs must have been boring because you can't remember anything. It's like home economics where you vaguely recall coming home with a chocolate refrigerator cake that one time, but have no actual memory of the lesson. Or the teacher. Or the classroom.

You need ideas.

You sneak through the woodland and peer at other peoples set-ups through the (sometimes quite literal) bushes. What are they like? Are they interesting? Have they got any advice? Would they share it with you? Some sites are actually designed to help you with blogging, which is lucky. You creep up to them and, when no-one is around, snatch a few nuggets of information and then scurry back into the undergrowth to unpeel the nutty loot you've nicked.

You discover that the subjects covered by blogs can be encompassed in just one simple word, which should make things easy.

Unfortunately that word is 'everything'.

You search some professional sites for more info and they obligingly give it up for your perusal.

You need a topic, apparently. You need to sell stuff. You must categorise your blog, so people know what to expect, so like-minded explorers can find you amongst the chaotic ecosystem that is the blogland. It's all about planning what you do, then doing what you plan. It's dynamic. It's proactive. It's about taking incentivisation out of the box so you can action it to the next level. Their blogs are all stainless steel and black marble and healthy looking plastic plants.

You have no idea what they are talking about, and slink back to your little blog camp, which is made from metaphorical driftwood, some randomly placed moss and a shell.

You come to the conclusion that, to be a successful blogger, you must be incredibly organised with an innate sense of direction and a iron-clad self image.

Bugger.

You search a bit more and, happily, discover that there is a sub-division of blogs which appeals to you.

You shall class yourself as "miscellaneous"!

Now you've got an idea, you set out your stall and hang up some of your wares for other people wandering the trails to have a look at. You try and keep them as fresh as you can, and see what comes blundering past. You smile coquettishly and bat your eyelids in a 'come hither' fashion.

The blogging begins.


Flash forward one year with wavy cinematographic time-travel lines and sound effects that go "scuddly doo scuddly doo scuddly doo!".


Name of blog: Still the same.
Category of blog: Still miscellaneous.
Stuff in blog: Still just your witterings.
Plans for the future: Er . . . carry on regardless.

The other critters in the woodland have turned out to be, not only approachable, but outright friendly and supportive, and there exists, depsite huge variations in form and function, more uniting similarities than differences. I'm not saying there aren't bloggers out there who are beyond liking or even understanding, but if you come in and look around, maybe make a bit of an effort, you will without doubt find someone who shares your interests, or your sense of humour, or your hatred of ginger and fingerless gloves. Or bobble hats. Or the French.

So, here I am, still at it. I was thinking of getting an ID card with "BLOGGER" written on it so that, when I inevitably get caught taking a photo in a public convenience I've got a vague excuse legitimate reason.

Bloggers tell it like it is. Or at least like they think it is, and because history is written by humans and doesn't depend at all on nebulous concepts like "facts" and "truth", this amounts to the same thing.

As Socrates said when he wrote Spiderman, with this great power comes great responsibility. Blogging has an effect on society, very much like walking through a crowded shopping mall whilst wind-milling full nappies at arms length and shouting "LISTEN TO ME!" at the top of your shrill, shrill voice.

It gets noticed.

With this in mind, I manfully shoulder the burden of the blog, and bring important issues to the fore. Things the ordinary man in the basement might not notice.

For instance, I was in Sainsbury's recently and saw that the cafe had one of those wooden shields given out as prizes displayed proudly for all to see. I approached, expecting some sort of Jamie Oliver prize for best carrot and coriander soup, or an award for mopping up aisle three in record time. I snapped a pic:


Turns out it was for the Most Improved Department.

Is it just me or does that simply make you wonder what they were like before they improved? Especially when they seem simply average now?

All the little shields on it were blank as well, and even the fake silver scroll in the middle is bereft of congratulatory wordage, which begs the question of whether or not the shield is simply passed around the various departments in the supermarket in an attempt to boost morale, like giving everyone an "Employee of the Month" certificate at some point regardless of their abilities, even if their productivity is on a par with navel lint and they spell 'customer' with three Zs.

Or maybe it was simply stolen by the cafe supervisor to throw the Environmental Health Officers off the scent.

"Cockroaches? Well, that's impossible because we're the Most Improved Department I'll have you know. Got a shield and everything look. Now, do you want legs in your mulligatawny?"


This post is a celebration of my one percent of a century of blogging, and reflects on the sorts of things I like to incorporate into this digital tome. Such blue-sky thinking is useful because it allows me to non-sequitur another picture I took into it.

One of my favourite topics is the out-of-context drawing from childrens books, which I am subjected to on a regular basis and so must amuse myself in other ways, as they tend to lack plot twists and surprises.

I've done it before, and I'll do it again. From a recent sojourn to our local library with my sprog:

Splat indeed.


You see? Bringing the important issues to life is the essence of the kernel at the heart of blogging.

No need to thank me. It's what I do.

I'm a blogger.