Friday, April 17, 2009

Will Nobody Rid Me Of These Fucking Moomins?

Modern life heaps indignity upon the common man.

From the moment we open our eyes in the morning until we rest our heads at night, human existence is truly a cosmic sitcom in which Satan gets all the best gags.

I can withstand life's slings and arrows; I can roll with the punches and dodge the blows, but if there's one thing I can't bear a moment longer, it's coming home after work to all these fucking Moomins.

Oh sure, I can imagine what you're all saying to yourselves right now... (Adopts Richard Pryor's uptight-white-guy voice) ...Why, what kind of man doesn't like Moomins? What kind of hateful curmudgeon would be immune to their wistful charms?

Well, all I can say is that you've obviously never had to chase a gaggle of tiny Finnish trolls out of your food cupboards or replace a fuse after one of the little bastards has gnawed through an electric cable. They breed like rabbits, I tell you - one day you find a Moominhouse in the skirting board and the next, you're overrun.

I live in a nice flat in a nice part of town, but everywhere I look?

Fucking Moomins.

I've tried everything. I started with humane traps, but they never showed the slightest interest - I'd get up in the morning and find the trap and the cheese where I'd left them, but the box of cornflakes on top of the fridge would be on its side half-empty, and the counter would be covered in Moomin shit.

They seem to be impervious to poison too, and the most I've ever found in the lethal traps is the odd Moomintail.

My Dad reckons I should get a Womble and set that on 'em; "Sort them out right quick a Womble will, son," he says. I told him, have you ever lived in a house with a serious Womble infestation? At least with Moomins you can invite everyday people over for drinks without having some tiny, impertinent seventies puppet making good use of the things they leave behind.

Yes, I remember well... Forget your wallet one day, and some Womble would be off down the bank machine emptying your account before you could say "Bagpuss", the little sneaks.

Well, I've got a new plan - I'm calling it the "Tony Martin method"... Hide in the pitch dark with an illegal shotgun for five hours until you hear the skitter of little claws, then quick! Flick on the lights and give 'em both barrels.

Then we'll see who's boss.

Think they have the upper paw, do they?

I almost feel sorry for the little suckers - they won't know what hit them.

Almost, mind.

(n.b. Be sure to clean up afterwards, by the way. Small children sometimes find exploded Moomins a little upsetting, but that's a story for another day).

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