The flies are beginning to emerge from the wheelie bin in Lydd. One overly ambitious fungus gnat, named The Truss, is already waiting on the far right of the lid to spout her hate to anyone who happens to be flying by. Those maggots yet to metamorphose continue to feast within the bin, their appetites undeterred by The Truss’s antics. Among the remnants of discarded waste, they have found sustenance in a lettuce, the wilting vegetable that had outlasted her short 49-day tenure as Prime Minister.
Drawing inspiration from her hero, Maggot Thatcher, The Truss meticulously cultivates an image reminiscent of the former Prime Minister, from her demeanour to posing for photographs atop various unsavoury heaps, be it landfill sites or compost bins or the grass verges where people walk their dogs. Though diminutive in stature, her presence exudes an aura of insignificance, a testament to her desperate pursuit of influence.
Beneath this faux facade of power and prestige, The Truss remains an abhorrent figure to the worms entrenched in the compost below. They bear the scars of her past economic policies, which left them destitute when their compost bins were emptied in the name of progress. As she resurfaces with renewed ambition, they squirm angrily, questioning why she wasn’t squashed for the havoc she wreaked upon their livelihoods.
Her aspirations seem limitless as she aims to spread her messages of animosity far and wide. Known for her penchant for posturing and her apparent belief that soundbites could substitute for sound economic policy, The Truss has rebranded herself as a PopCon, taking a swipe at anyone who doesn’t see the world through her very narrow compound eyes. Her delusions of grandeur knew no bounds when she ventured across the pond to hobnob with the likes of Nigel Fraaage and Donald Dump, to complain her tenure as Prime Minister was “sabotaged” by the “administrative state and the deep state,” “wokenomics”, and boldly announcing that environmentalists are the new Communists… On and on she trilled, much to the bewilderment of the moderate observers of the ecosystem who see her as a fly in the ointment for democracy.
As she incessantly flutters about in a frenzy of self-importance, the only ones genuinely captivated are the few insects who inhabit her realm, who will hopefully be swatted into oblivion at the next election.
Once upon a time, in a lush, leafy meadow in the suburbs, lived a little moth caterpillar named Cinnabar. They/them were not your average caterpillar; Cinnabar was a vibrant and flamboyant creature with a flair for fashion that set them apart from their fuzzy companions, and they had dreams of one day transforming into a magnificent butterfly, ready to spread their colourful wings and dazzle the world.
One sunny day, Cinnabar was munching on a ragwort leaf and daydreaming about their future metamorphosis. The air was abuzz with the banter of butterflies nearby, chatting away about the latest trends in wing patterns and regaling each other with tales of their glamorous escapades in the meadow. Cinnabar, being an ambitious caterpillar, joined the conversation to share their excitement about deciding to become a butterfly when they grew up. However, the butterflies didn’t seem to pay much attention. They were too busy flittering about, discussing the most fashionable nectar spots.
Feeling a bit dejected, Cinnabar tried to assert themselves, exclaiming, “I can’t wait to join you all as a stunning butterfly!” The butterflies glanced at the caterpillar with puzzled looks and exchanged hushed whispers, wondering what on earth she was talking about and fumbling over the correct pronoun that put them in danger of being cancelled. One of them finally spoke up, “You must be confused. Butterflies are born with elegance and grace and wings that fold vertically up over our backs. You, on the other hand, will just be a moth“.
Cinnabar was taken aback. They had always believed that they could be anything they wanted to be, and they wanted to become the 60th UK butterfly and take their place in Britain’s Butterflies.
They decided to take their request to the Caterpillar Council. “I want to identify as a butterfly”, they exclaimed, unfurling a wish list of colourful upright wings and a desire to flutter through the meadows during the day – a bold request for a creature still bound to a ragwort plant. The council, outraged, declared “that one does not simply choose what species they want to be. Tradition dictates you will follow the law of pupation”.
So Cinnabar started a rigorous campaign for the right to self-identification, sparking a whirlwind of debates. “Equality for all Larvae!” chanted a group of progressive caterpillars who believed in the fluidity of the pupal process. “Invertebrate values under attack!” proclaimed the Conservative Cocooners, who maintained that the status quo was the backbone – or the lack of one – of insect society. BuzzFeed and Insectgram were full of hashtags #MothorButterfly and #PupalRights. As Cinnabar’s story went viral, a caterpillar pundit asked, “Is it nature? Is it nurture? Should metamorphosis be a personal journey or a societal structuration?” And an old moth caterpillar suggested: “Wait until you’re an adult before deciding, otherwise all our caterpillars will want to be butterflies, or even sawflies or beetles!””
One day, Cinnabar finally felt a change within themself. Embracing the metamorphic journey, they cocooned themselves in the ground and began the process of transformation. When the moment arrived, Cinnabar emerged with wings painted in the most dazzling array of black and red the meadow had ever seen.
True to form, Cinnabar emerged as a moth… but felt like a butterfly. They hovered excitedly over to join the butterflies perching on a buddleia bush. To their dismay, the butterflies rejected them – they were miffed that such a hairy creature with wings, albeit rather attractive, that folded over their back, along with that graceless flight pattern, could even begin to think they could be a butterfly.
Devastated and deeply confused, Cinnabar retreated to a secluded daisy. They couldn’t understand why they weren’t allowed to identify as a butterfly. After all, they were colourful and flew during the day, whereas the usual perception was that moths were brown and fluttered around at night.
When they were at their lowest ebb, a Burnet moth glided over, looking just as dazzling as Cinnabar, with similar wings of spots instead of stripes. She talked to Cinnabar about the rainbow of anomalies in entomology, the vast spectrum of colours, shapes, and behaviours that defined the insect world. “Each species”, she explained, “has a unique story and purpose, contributing to the intricate web of life. There is no need to feel confused.” “Embrace your uniqueness,” she advised, “You don’t need to fit conventional norms”.
Then, the Burnet moth suggested that Cinnabar didn’t really need to identify as a butterfly as most people already think they are butterflies precisely because they are not brown and fly during the day. Instead, Cinnabar should embrace their true identity – that of a stunning moth. After all, there was already a safe space for them among Britain’s Day-Flying Moths…
In a wheelie bin in Lydd, there lived a rather odd maggot named Nigel Fraaage. Nigel was no ordinary maggot; he had a penchant for wriggling into the most controversial places and stirring up a storm in the garbage heap of politics.
Nigel was born in the compost bin of conservatism, surrounded by the decaying remnants of outdated ideologies. From a young age, he showed an uncanny ability to thrive in the filthiest corners of political discourse. His ambition was as boundless as the landfill he called home.
Nigel had a talent for convincing other maggots that the best way to address their problems was to blame it all on the bluebottles. “Those flies are taking away our opportunities to feast on the rubbish of our choice!” he’d exclaim, his maggoty followers nodding in agreement, utterly oblivious to their own inevitable transformation into flies.
Fraaage’s rise to prominence was fuelled by his ability to tap into the fears and insecurities of his fellow larvae. He promised them a utopia where they could freely devour whatever putrid thoughts they desired without interference from insects in the ‘Woke Brigade’. His rallying cry echoed through the compost bin: “Let’s Make Garbage Great!”
His uncharismatic speeches were not without their share of controversies. He once claimed that the decline in compost quality was due to the influx of earthworms taking up space that rightfully belonged to maggots. He proposed sending the worms back to where they came from, conveniently omitting the fact that worms play a vital role in breaking down the compost and enriching the soil.
As Nigel gained popularity, he attracted a swarm of loyal supporters who hung on to his every wriggle. They proudly donned “Reform the Compost Bin” t-shirts and waved Union Jacks adorned with slogans like “Maggots First.” They pretended not to see him eat a fellow maggot for a vast sum of money on his foray into the jungle on ‘I’m a Celebrity…’, proving just how insincere his feelings towards his supporters really is.
However, Nigel’s grand plans to rule the compost bin were thwarted when a group of enlightened woodlice exposed the flaws in his agenda and highlighted the importance of diversity in the ecosystem. The compost bin inhabitants, finally realising that blaming the flies or the worms was not the solution, turned their attention to creating a more inclusive and sustainable environment.
And so Nigel, defeated yet again, wriggled back into the shadows from where he came, leaving behind a cautionary tale about the dangers of following a maggot with a misguided agenda. But beware, as the climate heats up and the mountain of garbage grows ever bigger, the political wriggling will only become more pronounced.
In the ludicrous oil-rich city of Dubai, where the towering skyscrapers touch the smog-filled sky, and the cacophony of honking horns and distant sirens fill the air, a rather unconventional protest is underway. In the midst of the grandiose COP28 conference, where world leaders gather, yet again, to discuss the fate of the planet, a swarm of insects have assembled outside Expo City, armed with tiny picket signs and a buzzing determination.
Led by the global insect union Hexapoda, they have rallied what is left of the invertebrate species from all corners of the globe – bees, flies, wasps, butterflies, beetles, and even a few rebellious crickets have either flown, scuttled or hopped in. Their demands are simple: an end to pesticide use, protection of natural habitats, and recognition of insect rights in international law. Their slogans, chanted in unison, are a high-pitched symphony of discontent.
Inside the conference halls, the atmosphere is filled with well-intentioned speeches and promises, each trying to outdo the other with pompous pledges and commitments. The delegates pay lip service to saving endangered species, and protecting ecosystems, blah, blah, blah, even though in the real world, forests are still being decimated, the urban sprawl is expanding, the air is thick with toxins and the dwindling water supply full of sewage.
Amidst closed-door negotiations, a different dance unfolds – one where haggling and bargaining takes centre stage, often prioritising short-term economic gains at the expense of the planet’s long-term health. Beneath the surface of global cooperation lies the subtle art of greenwashing, as self-interest masquerades as a genuine commitment to sustainable practices.
Hexapoda, fuelled by a mix of desperation and determination, decided to send a brave group of representatives to infiltrate the conference. A team of earwigs, dragonflies, and shield bugs embarked on their mission, crawling through the shadows to the main auditorium and onto the podium.
They begin by chirping their role as unsung heroes, vital to the global ecosystem – pollinators, waste decomposers, soil purifiers, and maintaining the delicate balance of nature – arguing that excluding them from the climate talks spells doom for the planet. But before they could finish, a giant hand swooped down and swatted the insects away. The conference attendees scarcely register the disruption, engrossed in annual discussions about carbon emissions, renewable energy, and cutting oil and gas that seldom materialise into action. The buzzing on the podium is dismissed as a minor annoyance, the insect protest relegated to insignificance. A real cop out.
Undeterred by the dismissive response, the insect delegation regroups outside Expo City. Hexapoda, resilient and united, comprehends the enormity of their uphill battle. The conference halls may have stifled their protests, but the struggle for insect rights and environmental justice persists. As night blankets the city, they press on, their tiny picket signs illuminated by fireflies – a persistent commitment to be seen and heard. The high-pitched humming reverberates through the streets of Dubai, drawing the gaze of curious onlookers and passersby.
In the face of relentless indifference, they hope that their unwavering buzz will one day permeate the corridors of power, sparking substantive change for the planet they call home.
In the bustling anthill of Torytopia, there lives a colony of industrious ants who are known far and wide for their exceptional talent in sycophancy. These are not your ordinary, hardworking ants; these are sycophant ants, experts in the fine art of crawling over each other to please their esteemed leaders.
Yellow meadow (sycoph)ants
At the moment, they are ruled by a small unelected ant, and his lackeys are more than willing to bend over backwards, or forward, or whatever direction he desires, to gain his favour. The colony is a well-oiled machine of adulation, where the highest form of achievement is not measured in the success of tunnel excavations, but in the ability to flatter and fawn over the leader.
One day, he decides to implement a new honeydew tax on aphid farmers, who are already struggling to make ends meet. The sycophants, eager to please, hail this decision as a stroke of genius as this will give them more resources to line the corridors of their anthill. They swarm out on to the media merry-go-round mimicking his support for the policy.
As expected, this announcement sends shockwaves through the chambers of the neighbouring anthill, a bustling red ant community that prides itself on progressive policies and an unwavering commitment to ant diversity. They are not about to stand silent as their hardworking aphid farmers are being taxed into oblivion. Antgela, the deputy leader who is always looking to Build a Better Anthill, questions the wisdom of such an oppressive tax regime. She recognises the aphid farmers as the “backbone of our colonies” and goes all out to protect them.
Soon enough, the red ant influencers are rallying support to #SaveOurSap on Antstagram, and sticking socialist posters on all the neighbourhood trees. At the same time, the sycophants are busy painting Redwall as an antnarchist swarm aiming to disrupt the corrupt life of Torytopia. They flood X with slick posts pleading “For a Brighter Future: Squash the Red Ants!” and even start a news network, “Formicidae Broadcasting Corporation” which, unsurprisingly, only broadcasts what Torytopia deems to be the truth.
In the midst of this sycophantic fervour, a lone ant named Antsy dares to question the narrative. Antsy, a free-thinker with a penchant for critical analysis, wonders aloud if maybe Redwall aren’t as bad as they are being led to believe. The sycophants, aghast at such heresy, immediately label Antsy a traitor and banish him from Torytopia. As he crawls away, he can’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of a society so obsessed with flattery that it can’t tolerate even the slightest hint of independent thought.
As for the sycophants, they go back to doing what they do best – crawling over each other to please whoever is in charge.
In the stinking gutters of British politics, Prime Minister Fishi Sunak has embarked on a mission to prove that even the most unwanted pests can find a cosy home in the heart of government. In a move that left many scratching their heads (and some itching their skin), Fishi has demonstrated an unexpected flair for entomology, welcoming Cameron the Cockroach back into the political fold with open antennae, presumably to tap into the former leader’s unparalleled expertise in dodging accountability and surviving political disasters. It seems the phrase “you can’t kill a cockroach” now applies not only to nuclear fallout but also to political fallout.
A dead cockroach swarming with ants
As Lord Dave scuttles back into the limelight, you can’t help but marvel at the sheer audacity of it all. Often called the Teflon-coated Blattodea of British politics, he has proven that no scandal or mishap can keep him away from the intoxicating allure of power. It’s as if he never left: the EU Referendum, austerity, the Greensill scandal, and the infamous pig’s head incident were mere blips on his political career. Are we supposed to feel grateful for the opportunity to witness the second coming of a creature known for its uncanny ability to survive anything and everything, including its own questionable decisions?
But the appointment of Cameron could be seen as a nod to recycling, something that environmentalists might appreciate if only it weren’t applied to politicians. After all, why let a good prime ministerial career go to waste when you can reuse, reduce, and redeploy a Tory relic who has already proven his ability to weather scandals?
As we watch this farce unfold, we can’t help but wonder if it is a masterstroke of leadership or a laughable attempt at reviving a bygone era. In any case, we can rest assured that Dave is back and ready to cruise through another nuclear political winter. After all, who better to guide us through turbulent times than the insect who ineptly navigated the murky waters of the Brexit referendum and promptly abandoned ship?
So, the move to California for our errant honeybee Harry is not going so well. Adjusting to life outside of the Royal Hive has taken its toll. Not content with being a spare to the other males, he is droning on about not getting enough attention or support for his life outside the hive. Unable to make his own honey he has taken to selling his life story instead. He lifts the lid on life in the Hive, exposes all the family secrets and tells of his fights with the firstborn drone. He even claims to killing 25 Asian hornets, though that figure has been disputed as there have only been 23 reported sightings in the country since 2016. And we hear of his anger at the muted response to him falling love with a solitary bee and their planned life together as “world-dominating humanitarian superstars powered by her Hollywood glamour and his royal stature”*.
A honeybee caught by a crab spider
As for Meghan, she has been cutting in her remarks about the Royal Hive, not accepting that marrying into the lifestyle of another species was always going to be difficult. She went on television to regale tales of having to bow to the Queen Bee, of the worker bees buzzing around her making her cry, and revealing overheard conversations about speciesism and what her larvae would look like.
The other insects are unsympathetic. They are tired of the bees always hogging the limelight when it comes to saving the world through pollination; that publicity around the countless bee-related projects rarely mentions all the positive benefits of an inclusive, well-rounded insect community. Their demands for Levelling Up, or to at least be included in the literature and on posters, and the replacement of “bee” for “insect” are growing louder.
And what now for our two troubled bees? More books? Spare us! At the very most they will be remembered in history as a small blip in the centuries-old tradition of a bee hive. The late Queen Bee is dead. How the new King is going to rule over a matriarchal society is anyone’s guess, especially as support for hives has begun to wan.
Oh dear, all is not well in Drowning Street. The moderate Conservative sand hopper MPs of Greatstone beach are hopping mad, trying to downplay the embarrassing mess the Prime Minister and his cabal has plunged them into. Swamped with tales of cronyism, corruption, and cover-ups none of this is going down well with the electorate. First it was the billions of pounds of public money wasted on a Track & Trace system that never worked, then the dodgy deals around PPE, followed by the Prime Minister demanding money to pay for the decorating of his ‘tip’ of a buckthorn bush high above the beach – fittingly he always looks like he’s been pulled through a hedge backwards.
The latest controversy are the ‘parties’ held on the strandline during lockdown, when everyone else was tucked away obeying the rules. The government laughingly dismissed them as just ‘Wrack and Brine’ after work. A chance to ‘let their antennae down’, to ‘let off steam’. But now an old seamail has surfaced inviting 100 staff to a BYOB party. And it has exposed the party culture at Drowning Street, with the strandline coming alive at dusk when all the hoppers start jumping around drunk to a DJ in the shingle and leaving a big mess.
Understandably, the other residents of the beach are seething. The cockles had spent months self-isolating in their shells, and the mussels, who usually congregate strung together, did their absolute best to social distance. Even the crabs, curbed by foreign travel restrictions, decided to hunker down this side of the Channel.
Currently the Prime Minister, oblivious to his own lies, is in hiding, flailing about garnering support for ‘Operation Save Big Dog’ and plotting his return by throwing a few colleagues under a boat.
Meanwhile, some of the beachbenchers whose constituencies are high up in the red wall dunes, are beginning to sweat. A safe Conservative seat in faraway North Shropshire was won by the Liberal Democrats in a recent by-election. Some are burying their heads in the sand hoping it will all wash over them. Others fear the tide is turning and they will all be swept away in a tsunami of more sleaze.
As seen in magazine A VOID Vol. 4 for Morbid Books
Mosquito
The mosquitoes of Peckham are feeling really miffed. At the start of the year, much fuss was made about the new COVID-19 vaccines, and a call was made for helpers in the vaccination rollout. The mosquitoes, still in larval form, got wind of this and started congregating in the ponds, pools, and puddles of Peckham. They were excited as by the time they emerged as adults, they were eligible to volunteer. Basically, they had the right equipment – a long proboscis acting as the thinnest of syringes, together with a light touch and the ability to jab you in unlikely places. And they didn’t need PPE or to sanitise their legs or wear masks; they even knew that a large proportion of them would die splattered against a bedroom wall. A real kamikaze attitude.
They applied and were instantly rejected. “Not enough experience”. Not enough experience? the mosquitoes whined in unison. After all, they were experts at spreading diseases – malaria, dengue fever, Zika virus, yellow fever, West Nile virus – why not just load up with the vaccine and inject people? Some even tried to volunteer for the vaccine trials, especially as a lot of their friends had already escaped the swamps and were being reared in sterile white laboratories. Admittedly they were being subjected to genetic modification for other uses, but hey-ho, it seemed a small sacrifice.
The mosquitoes felt it was time to rebrand themselves as the good guys – how marvellous it would feel to be held up as the heroes of the COVID-19 pandemic rather than one of the most hated insects on the planet. They talked about saving the NHS millions of pounds, calculating if they all pulled together, they could inject a whole country in a week given the right muggy conditions. They even had perverse ideas about how to dupe the anti-vaxxers by convincing them the swollen itchy needle hole in their arm is ‘just a mosquito bite’. Obviously, they would have to get around DDT and other nasty mosquito repellents or flying too close to citronella candles, and those pesky nets are an obstacle. Nevertheless, they were experts at surreptitiously crawling up inside someone’s trousers or under a t-shirt, though they would have to quell their annoying whiny buzzing so as not to be squashed. But in their tiny minds, it could be done…
Its early October and the insects of Warwick Gardens are so excited – it’s time for the annual Autumn Fete. The grasshoppers are fat and fully grown and the mottled shield bugs are finally adults after several moults, whilst the Roesel’s bush-crickets, whose love songs kept up the spirits of Summer, can barely wheeze after weeks of wooing. The long grass is faded and falling over and the blackberries have been picked. Thankfully the green alkanet, a Trojan of the plant world, is still opening its blue flowers to everyone. It is time for one last party before the winter sets in. And as usual the Fete will be held at the most popular bar in the park – the Ivy Bush – currently in full flower and offering free nectar and pollen on tap.
This year there is a fashion show for the pollinators and the theme is stripes. There is a real buzz in the bush as the designers step up onto the stage.
Lesser hornet hoverfly – Volucella inanis
First up are Diptera & Gabbana presenting their new ‘Bella Volucella’ plus-sized range. The lesser hornet hoverfly showed off an elegant bodycon frock in light orange and black striped suede with a shiny black and chestnut patterned collar. Everyone loved their creation and applauded the designers for their inclusivity.
German wasp – Vespula germanica
Next up is Vivienne Waspwood waving a placard shouting ‘God Save the Pollinators’. Having spent years dressing the individualistic ichneumon wasps in her retro punk black leather-look catsuits she finally had a chance to bring in some colour and produce a uniform for the social wasps: black and daffodil yellow stripes with a few dots and a scanty black hairy ruff. Everyone cheered except for the tiny flies who flew away in fear of being eaten.
Ivy bee – Colletes hederae
Ivy Saint Laurent chose to dress the ivy bee. A sleek black and beige striped pencil skirt with a massive furry stole in rich caramel. The other insects oohed and aah’d at the sheer beauty of her, as they had only seen her a couple of times since she arrived from France a few years ago. The stylish design was one step up from the honey bee deemed rather dull at last years’ show.
Holly blue – Celastrina argiolus
Then Galliano rocked up with a butterfly. He hadn’t read the brief and presented a holly blue. Not a stripe in sight, but a thin white border around the lustrous blue ombre wings. To the audience this was a breath of fresh air – the stripes were getting confusing and all too similar.
Wasp spider – Argiope bruennichi
Meanwhile down amongst the grasses is the circus of wasp spiders who have been dressed by Gaultier, flamboyant in cream and lemon yellow stripes outlined in black. They have spent the night spinning their famously chaotic webs with its striking zig-zag pattern ready for the classic game of Catch The Grasshopper. As for the grasshoppers they are enjoying outwitting the spiders with spectacular leaps and bounds over the webs, though occasionally one mis-steps and gets quickly pounced on and wrapped up in silk.
It was a day to remember. And now to look forward to spring.
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