This past week has finally seen the arrival of some sunshine into our lives. The heavens have opened and treated us to some lovely UV rays so that we might enjoy the lighter nights, bask in its warmth and with any luck, catch a bit of a tan. It’s good news all round as I’m looking rather pasty and it also means that those plastic girls can ease up on the fake tan for at least another few months. You know the sort of girls I mean, those slags that aspire to look like Oompa Loompa’s. Fitties.
There’ll inevitably be BBQ’s a plenty and lots of visits to the beers gardens with the warmer days arriving but it also brings about the invasion of my archenemy. Wasps – the most pointless, evil and conniving little bastards to ever grace the Earth since Lucifer himself. In fact, I’m convinced that wasps are the spawn of Satan. They don’t produce delicious honey like bee’s and nor do they have the decency to die after they’ve stung me – at least that way I kind of know they felt it was their last resort, it helps me deal with it. Wasps on the other hand just have a habit of bumming me for no apparent reason. If you’ve never been stung by a wasp, then rest assured as it’s not actually that big a deal. It just hurts a little bit, but more than just hurting you a little bit, it really pisses you off.
Way back when I was in school we used to have regular summer holidays down South as a family. Whilst my friends were jetting off to Disney Land, I was struggling to sleep in the red and yellow Haven branded bed linen that came complimentary when you booked a deluxe caravan in Cornwall. More often than not we’d end up on the beach for the day building sand castles, when inevitably I’d get attacked by a wasp. As we’re all taught to do when we’re children, I froze still when the wasp landed on my leg. My father then thought of an ingenious plan to teach the wasp a lesson. He proceeded to pick up one of the plastic spades we’d been using to dig a moat and began leathering ten bells out of the wasp with it. An incredible plan father, when the wasp is on my leg… you massive stupid dildo!
I’ve been stung countless times and more often than not, it’s when I’ve been standing perfectly still. It’s like they can sense my fear. So, having had enough of standing still I have often been seen running around screaming like a little girl at the mere sight of a wasp. Ordinarily that’s fine but when you’re playing football in the semi final of a cup it tends to get frowned upon. Equally, when you’re having a picnic with a hot girl, they tend to think you’re a bit of a puff when you do a nervous trump every time one buzzes past your head.
Then, when I was eighteen I was faced with my biggest wasp related test to date. I was merely walking to college with my friend Gary when all over a sudden a wasp flew straight into my ridiculous bouffant hair and became officially stuck. It makes me shudder even now just thinking about it. It was rush hour, we were stood at some traffic lights with a long string of cars and I was screaming like a girl at Gary to do something. Gary, who’s equally as scared of wasps, started pulling on some plant foliage at the side of the road in an attempt to get something to waft it away. Unfortunately for me, it would appear that the foliage he was pulling on was the only indestructible plant in the entire town. He kept tugging on the vine but it just wouldn’t snap and the more irate the wasp got trying to escape from my waxed up do, the more I screamed like a sweet sixteen year old girl getting penetrated by her insensitive boyfriend.
There is no explanation for a wasp’s existence, they don’t do anything. Well, anything apart from hunt me down like something out of the Predator movie. Next time you see a grown man running and screaming like he’s been shot, it’ll probably be me trying to evade another wasp bumming. It’s not something I’m proud of, I can’t help it… I’m just scared of wasps. Oh and spades. Thanks Dad.