Surreality and the Squirrel…
The adoption by a country of a “national” animal is a strange business indeed. Whilst Australia has plumped for the fairly prevalent kangaroo, and Nepal has the ubiquitous cow, the constituent nations of the United Kingdom have chosen to be a little more adventurous. Wales have opted for the dragon. Not just any old dragon mind you, but the Red Dragon. If you’re going to go mythical, why not be specific. Scotland have gone even further off the scale with the unicorn. Unicorns dont exist. They never have and, barring an exceptional feat of equestrian cosmetic surgery, they never will. So the small Scottish childs request to see her national animal is referred to the picture books. The English animal, however is viewable in a zoo, and as part of a trio upon the shirts of the football faithful: The Lion.
Whilst the Lion may be the official numero uno, it is the red squirrel that takes the ye olde england nostalgia gong. Tis a sad tale. About 100 years ago, England (and indeed the whole of Britain) was home to lots of red squirrels. They squirreled about doing delightful squirrely things and eating lots of nuts. Then somebody imported a load of grey squirrels from the USA and they have been gradually eating the native reds out of tree and bush. Anyway, my point is I’ve never actually seen a red squirrel. And they may be extinct before I ever get around to it. How wonderful it was therefore to see one of their grey cousins entertaining tens of millions of people around the world last night…
I had gone to the Franklin Tavern to meet my friend Henry and watch Arsenal vs Villareal in the European Cup semi-final. Aside from the big picture of him on the outside wall, any references to Benjamin Franklin had been erased in the pubs move to chain-dom. On the whole I hate chain pubs. The decor is bland, the atmosphere shite, and some stupid management directive means that the staff have to remove the drip trays in an effort to save about 30p in spillage over the course of an evening. On the flip side – big TV’s and very cheap beer, especially by Brighton standards.
The game had barely got underway when a 23rd player took took to the pitch…
Players and fans alike stopped to marvel at his speed and off-the-ball style. The ref looked baffled. Should he show this young intruder the red card? Was there a dedicated team of squirrel catchers amongst the Highbury stewards? The squirrel eventually left of his own volition, possibly to hitchhike to Birmingham where a far more exciting match was in progress. But the drama had not yet passed. The Squirrel, seemingly with no tree to climb and no nut to crack, made an encore appearance to the cheers of the crowd. Speculation was rife withing the Franklin’s walls – and, I would suspect, across the globe – as to what would happen if he scored a goal. Would it count? More macabre possibilities involving squashing and posts were also raised, but I shall not lower the tone by discussing them here..
Homeward bound I bounded to seek out a footnote to this delightful tale. My housemates had obliged. Here is my plea to humanity: Let us make a switch. Save the red squirrel, and the grey squirrel, and in fact all animals faced with extinction, eviction and 15 minutes of fame. Instead let us all combine to eradicate this planet of bicarbonate of soda flavoured toothpaste. It is just wrong.
Tags: beer, Brighton, Bucky in Britain, Football
The Dude
Leave a Reply