In a horrifying twist of nature that would make even the most stoic of wombats weep into their Akubras, Australia is currently wrestling with a rodent rampage of biblical proportions. Farmers in New South Wales and Queensland are watching their livelihoods gnawed to dust as mice, driven by a population explosion that would make a rabbit jealous, swarm across the parched plains in waves of furry fury. But fear not, dear readers.
For the cavalry has arrived, and they come bearing scones, a stiff upper lip, and an unstoppable urge to ‘offer assistance.’ That’s right, Britain’s agricultural experts, fresh from the trenches of battling slugs in Surrey, have deployed their finest minds to ‘help’ the colonials deal with a problem that makes their own garden-variety vermin look like a polite afternoon tea party. I can already see the scene: a delegation of men in wax jackets arriving at a dust-choked farmhouse, clutching a copy of ‘Rodent Control for the Complete Idiot’ and a thermos of Earl Grey.
‘We understand you have a spot of bother with the mousies, old boy,’ they’ll say, squinting at a sea of scurrying fur through monocles. ‘We suggest a spot of poisoned oats and a good cat. Or perhaps a ferret?
We knew a chap in the Duchy who swore by ferrets.’ Meanwhile, farmers are unloading truckloads of grain into paddocks in a desperate bid to drown the bastards, but the rodents just swim and feast. It’s a scene from a dystopian nightmare, but with less Brad Pitt and more dust-mite-filled silos.
The UK’s ‘offer of assistance’ is like bringing a water pistol to a bushfire, or offering a straw to a man drowning in the Nile. Yet the British press are lapping it up, calling it ‘a show of Anglo solidarity.’ Solidarity, is it?
More like a pathetic attempt to feel relevant while the Commonwealth crumbles around them. Australia, I implore you, do not accept their ‘help.’ You need not their poisoned oats and quaint advice.
You need napalm. You need a plague of snakes. You need a national holiday called ‘Kill a Mouse Day’ where every citizen is issued a modified tennis racket.
Or better yet, do what any sensible nation would do: import a hoard of feral cats from the desert, let them go wild, and watch the carnage unfold. Nature will balance itself, as it always does, with fangs and claws. So, to the UK ‘experts’ preparing for their mercy mission, I say this: stay home.
Your tweed will be shredded, your tea will be spilt, and your fragile sensibilities will be crushed under the relentless, twitching tide of a million rodent feet. Australia’s mice don’t need your help. They need a miracle, or at the very least, a stronger gin.
