The day of the rat

Do you remember those bri-nylon trousers you could buy from catalogues back in the sixties and seventies. Drip dry, stay pressed, always came in beige…or grey, gave you crotch rot apparently.* Yeah them. I mention them because in the UK they’re called « slacks » a word which along with « flesh » makes me shudder with distaste whenever I’m forced to utter it. 

Bizarre. 

Anywhoo. Fortunately in the interests of balance there are two words I really do like, the first being « mellifluous » because it just sounds nice, and the second - which is linked to the subject of this post is « malfeasance » with its suggestion of dark fiscal naughtiness and general wrong doing. 

Yeah I love that word.

In the absence of anything meaningful (wargaming wise) to put on the blog this week I’ve chosen to offer up this semi humorous tale of thwarted ambition and animal cruelty instead. It doesn’t reflect well on me, but it does involve malfeasance (oooh…love it) and it might just give you a chuckle (once again) at my expense. 

We’re going to need to jump in the acme Broomco Timetunnel (pat pend) again for this one. 

Right. Stand over there and keep still for a minute.

(Queue swirling psychedelic lighting effects as we fall deep into the unwinding aeons).

Bollocks that’s a dinosaur - we’ve gone too far. Hold on. We need to go forward a tad.

(Queue more swirling psychedelic lighting effects and for some reason a floating image of Einsteins head).

Ah here we are. Thank goodness. It’s 2013. Remember 2013? A lost halcyon age - a time before you could order a pint of milk to be delivered within ten minutes by a zero hours contract wage slave on a bike, a time when shops had a plentiful supply of exotic goods like groceries on their shelves, that you could afford to actually buy. Honestly; I tell my grandkids and they think I’m making it up.

Okay 2013. At this point I was busy accounting at an art company in the centre of Birmingham, an art company that had just been taken over by a bigger outfit called Castle Galleries. 

They were, (and probably still are) a big concern in the art world and thrusting dynamic me** could smell the sweet smell of opportunity in the air. You see Castle Galleries had a network of outlets all across this septic isle and for some time there had been the hint of fiscal malfeasance (did I mention that I love that word?) around some of them. The talk on the underground grape vine was that they needed a diligent go getter to root out such malpractice, someone with a forensic approach to accounting who could travel the land and descend with righteous fury upon any gallery suspected of cooking the books. I could see it clearly. Me a fiscal cowboy, tough, mysterious, riding into town to meet out my own brand of pecuniary justice on the bad guys. The purchase ledger girls would swoon over me of course but they would know that their love was doomed for I would always be the mysterious stranger who was just passing through. 

Ahem…where was I? 

Oh yes. Fortunately for Castle Galleries I knew just the bloke. Waddya mean who? I’m talking about me, goddamit.

As luck would have it the new groups head honcho, Udi  Shelleg***, was coming to our branch in a whistle stop tour of his new acquisitions. As a provincial nobody (company wise) this visit would probably be my one chance to meet and impress him - an essential step in securing the talked about role.

On the morning of his visit I’d arrived early in my best bib and tucker, only to discover that the auditors who’d been working late the previous evening had left boxes of documents out all over the office. With Udi’s entourage already pulling up outside I pushed some of the boxes under my desk and hurried to carry the reminder downstairs to our big roller shuttered warehouse - where Mick the store man held court. 

Mick was an ageing ex para but that morning I found him in a right old two and eight. He’d somehow managed to trap a big brown rat inside one of the industrial bins at the back of the building but was scared stiff of it and didn’t know what to do. 

The bin men were going to be on their rounds that day so the simple solution was to get the bin outside into the street and make it their problem. Charming eh. What seemed like an easy fix quickly became a nightmare however when we managed to jam the shopping trolley like wheels on the  bottom of the bin and then contrived to tip the damn thing over. As we both backed swiftly away a very large and very angry rat emerged to reclaim his freedom. Seeking cover it ran right over Mick’s feet and straight back into the warehouse. 

Yeah it’s a rat. First rule of blogging - chuck in a picture or two.

Mick was having none of this and refused to re enter the building so duty bound I picked up his knackered old store mans broom in order to chase the buggering thing back out myself. 

The rat was smart and the rat was fast - but he’d awakened the hunter gatherer in me and after a lot of cursing and crashing around to get near him I trapped the bugger in a corner. This was the point at which the rat looked at me and I looked at him…and I realised I’d made a terrible mistake. Only one of us would be leaving the warehouse alive that day.

Backed into a corner and with no way out he hissed, bared his ratty teeth and jumped straight at me. 

I’d like to say that possessing the reactions of a panther I deflected his attack, but in actual fact a panicky but timely swing with the broom caught him in mid air and dashed him against the wall. At which point I’m ashamed to say the red mist descended. 

Now I’m not sure if it’s just me but when the intruders in the Nazi castle clonk a guard on the head and lower his conveniently unconscious form gently to the ground I find myself shouting at the telly. I know that the buggers going to wake up again just after they’ve gone down the corridor and the first thing he’ll do is start shouting « Achtung Englanders! » It’s not bloody cricket chaps, it’s war. Slot him while he’s down. It’s been scientifically proven that when breaking into a Nazi castle you should never ever give a sucker an even break. Oh and while you’re at it for the love of God chuck that crappy pistol and take his ruddy MP40..!

I mention this at length because the mind set of, « when they’re down make sure you finish them » is more or less hard wired into me and it certainly informed the shameful 30 seconds or so that followed.

In the last few nano seconds of sentience before a vinegar like tide of animal rage engulfed me I realised that though the rat didn’t have an MP40 I could take, I still had to make sure that it didn’t wake up and raise the alarm. 

Those of a nervous disposition should probably skip to the last paragraph about now.

Taking no chances I struck the recumbent creature again, and then again, and then some more, until the bristle bit of the broom flew off and I was left with what looked a lot like a broken pool cue.

With the blood smeared end of the broom I picked up the pathetic piece of gore and matted hair that I’d created and with glasses askew I turned to find… most of the buildings admin staff who’d come out of their offices to see what all the commotion was in the warehouse. Pushing his way through the crowd was my line manager and directly behind him an incredulous looking Udi Shelleg.

For some reason I never got the roaming accountant / inquisition role which went to Tracy in Leeds as I recall.

Now I’m aware that my violent reaction to the rat, even in self defence, does not paint me in a particularly good light, but I’d remind you of a certain book that suggests we judge not lest we in turn be judged.

B’sides…it’s not like I punched a dolphin in the ruddy blow hole is it. That’d definitely be wrong.

Toodleooh.

*No me neither.

** translates as opportunistic obnoxious prick

*** Google him. It’s only half of the story I promise you.