Now's the time to get out there and kill some slugs. The rains have come and they're on the move. Don't delay. Do your Duty. Your garden needs you. This morning a convoy was moving across my front lawn but I've shown them who's boss. And for those of you worrying about 'All Things Bright and Beautiful', don't worry, our vicar was telling me only the other day of his own method of dispatching them. It reminded me of this excerpt from "The Northern Line to Shropshire."
I'm not a violent man, I've never had a proper fight in all my life. And I love animals.
Slugs however...
Snip, snip, snip, and their entrails spill onto the patio.
Sip, sip, sip, and there they are floating upside-down in a beer trap.
Nibble, nibble, nibble, and there goes the blue poison, flooding their system.
Pinch, pinch, pinch, goes the salt, and there they are shrivelling up like a scrotum in the North Sea.
It's a bloody jungle out there, a killing zone. It's a war and I've got the taste for it. The thousand yard stare of a veteran; the smell of napalm in the morning; some chianti and fava beans. I'm a jack-boot stamping forever and ever.
The horror, the horror.
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