The land down under has become a writhing, squeaking carpet of vermin, and British grain exporters are suddenly discovering a profound appreciation for the flavour of mouse droppings. The Australian mouse plague, a biblical-scale infestation that has transformed the Outback into a furry, twitching apocalypse, is now threatening the sanctity of our beloved British loaves. Villagers in New South Wales report the smell is “like a decaying body,” which is either a remarkably apt metaphor for rural decay or a cry for help from a populace that has been driven mad by the ceaseless scratching in their walls.
This is Biff Thistlethwaite reporting from my fortified bunker in South London, where the only vermin I tolerate are the editors who sacked me. I have seen the footage. Thousands of mice, a tidal wave of rodentia, scurrying across wheat fields with the coordination of a particularly malevolent ballet company. They are not just eating the grain, they are desecrating it. They are turning Australia’s harvest into a massive, stinking buffet of disease and despair.
And now, the spectre of these rodent hordes has cast its shadow over the British grain industry. Our own silos are stockpiling Australian wheat to compensate for domestic shortages caused by Brexit and the general inability of our government to organise a piss-up in a brewery. But the mice, they don't respect borders. They don't care about trade deals. They just want to eat, procreate, and die in your porridge.
The National Farmers’ Union is, predictably, “monitoring the situation closely.” This is bureaucrat-speak for “we have no idea what to do, so we'll form a committee and issue a press release.” The real solution, of course, involves fire, napalm, and perhaps a few thousand feral cats genetically engineered with the voracity of piranhas. But that would be sensible, and therefore unacceptable.
Meanwhile, the Australian government is deploying helicopters to drop poisoned grain. They are turning the land into a toxic buffet, which the mice will gleefully devour before convulsing and expiring in great piles. It's a grim spectacle, but one must applaud the sheer Darwinian audacity. The survivors will be immune to the poison, and they will be the size of labradors.
What does this mean for the British breakfast table? Chaos. Your Corn Flakes will soon be adulterated with rodent faeces. Your toast will carry the faint, musty memory of a plague. The pundits will drone on about supply chains and futures markets. But they miss the point. This is a story about the fundamental absurdity of existence. We are a species that cultivates grain, stores it in giant towers, and then acts surprised when every creature with teeth and a functioning digestive system tries to claim it as their own.
I propose a new approach: embrace the mouse. Fortify our grains with rodent protein. Market it as a sustainable, high-protein alternative to beef. “Mice: The Other White Meat.” Or better yet, train the mice to perform useful tasks. Imagine a thousand mice running on wheels, powering the National Grid. Imagine a mouse army deployed to clear the Houses of Parliament of actual vermin: the politicians.
But no. We will do nothing. We will watch the plague spread, we will issue warnings, and we will eventually import grain that tastes vaguely of dead mouse. And that, dear reader, is the British way. We do not confront problems. We absorb them into our national identity, like a soggy biscuit. So raise a glass of gin, preferably one that hasn't been stored near a wheat field, and salute the mouse. It is more honest than any politician. It wants what it wants, and it will die trying to get it.
