Tag Archives: politics

Larval Populism and the collapse of civic habitats

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Bluebottle Faragius fauxpatriotus, the airborne charlatan

Ecologists observing orchard life have found that, no matter how complex or diverse insect communities are, they can only thrive in civic habitats where everyone contributes. Bees run the pollen economy, ants oversee infrastructural corridors, and wasps keep a vigilant eye on law and order. Beetle larvae turn rotting wood into communal mulch – the orchard’s tax base – which ensures nourishment for all. And, of course, everyone contributes their nutrient levies. Earthworms are the quiet municipal engineers, tunnelling unseen to aerate and redistribute nutrients; their work is the invisible groundwork, funded by these contributions. These enduring arrangements have long sustained the orchard’s common wealth.

Yet in recent seasons, a disruptive ideology has wriggled out of the compost heap: larval populism. Glorifying rot while denouncing evolution, it promises power to the soft-bodied masses by rejecting the very metamorphosis that sustains the orchard.

The foremost advocate of this is the grifting Compost MP Faragius fauxpatriotus, a maggot of unimpressive stature. His talent lies not in serving his constituents but in peddling slogans like “The Orchard is Broken” from a pile of decomposing plums. Faragius proclaims larvae to be the native born heirs to the orchard, casting any insect with wings as the enemies of the writhing classes. He denounces the ants as joyless technocrats, the bees as buzzing bureaucrats, and the dragonflies as aerial snobs who “Couldn’t possibly understand the wriggling classes.” “Wriggling is freedom,” he insists, sniggering at their immaturity, while dodging questions about offshore fruit-hoarding and nectar laundering.

Central to Faragius’s rhetoric is the claim that larval voices are being silenced by left-winged elites. He insists that freedom of speech is curtailed by any creature capable of flight, declaring them an existential threat to discourse in the orchard. Every butterfly becomes a symbol of censorship, every drone of a wasp patrol heralds the suppression of maggot opinion, and every shadow of a bird is interpreted as proof of a winged ‘leftie’ plotting against the writhing masses. At the same time, any sign of scrutiny – whether a buzz, chirrup, or tweet – is swiftly silenced. Larvae are urged to wriggle in solidarity, to reject democracy or see their rights as the soil-bound majority – absurdly cast as an oppressed underclass – being squashed.

Meanwhile, as ordinary larvae dutifully pay their compost taxes, Faragius slips his nectar donations through snail-shell companies beyond the reach of orchard auditors. He rails against the bees’ pollen tariffs – the very levies that pollinate the orchard – recasting the simplest civic duty as tyranny. All the while, he fiddles the system, hoarding surplus plums and starving the mulch fund that keeps the soil alive.

A movement of maggots, mistaking decay for destiny

What his anti-wing hyperbole fails to mention is one simple biological fact: larvae are meant to metamorphose. Reform is the very meaning of metamorphosis. Yet larval populism glorifies permanent immaturity. It nurtures extreme nationalism built on simplistic soundbites perpetuated by algorithms, and fake patriotism to a pile of rotting fruit in a biodiverse orchard. By persuading his maggot base to resist change, Faragius denies them the opportunity of social mobility – the chance to spread their wings. In mobilising them to dismantle their own civic habitats, he invites ruin: ant hills will crumble, nectar networks will falter, disorder will spread, and the orchard will collapse in ideological chaos.

The irony is inescapable. Faragius fauxpatriotus will pupate, but not into the butterfly of vision he so desperately dreams of. He will emerge as a common blow fly – buzzing frantically against windows, mistaking invisible barriers for conspiracies, and still dogged by nectar debts and phoney “consulting services”. Reform UK Ltd exposes the absurdity of larval populism: a flag-waving maggot-led mob, blind to how the orchard actually works, doomed to watch its leader’s pitiful metamorphosis into the airborne charlatan he really is.

Housing Minister resigns

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Angela, the red mason bee

Angela, the red mason bee and Housing Minister, has resigned amid allegations of underpaid Pollen Duty. The Member of Pollinators for Ashton-under-Lyne, and Deputy Prime Minister of the Pollination Party, leaves the top tier of government in a move that shakes up the Party’s political hierarchy.

Her career was the stuff of nectar-soaked legend. From a humble mud cavity on the ground floor of a broken bee hotel, Angela had risen through sheer determination and an uncanny gift for diplomacy among the pollinators’ fractious factions. In her years with the Union of Foraging Bees, she forged a reputation for tireless work – visiting every flower patch, brokering every pollen treaty, and standing firm against wasp parasitism. This shadow had long loomed over the Pollination Party.

In government, Angela buzzed confidently in debates, promising “nectar for all” and tirelessly reminding citizens that no bee should go thirsty. Her charisma was matched by her policy acumen: as Housing Minister, an appropriate job for a mason bee, she implemented ambitious plans to build new bee hotels, ensuring cosy cavities for young larvae and safe roosting spots for weary foragers. She also championed employment rights, advocating for fair shifts, equitable pollen distribution, and protections for bees in all sectors, ensuring every worker had their buzz heard.

However, none of this ended her career. It’s paperwork. She was accused of underpaying 40,000 grains of Pollen Duty – a bureaucratic slip on an amount small enough to be lost on a gust of wind. In a world where drone bankers can siphon off whole meadows without consequence, it is apparently the mud-splattered mason bee who must pay the price. Apologies, after all, are a privilege reserved for richer bees.

A well-heeled blue mason bee

One would think this was on purpose. She was hounded out of a job she loved to make way for the well-heeled blue mason bees, with their shimmering suits and family pollen trusts, to take the top chambers of government. For them, ambition is standard; for Angela, it was presumptuous. How dare a solitary bee from the wrong cavity imagine she could build something of her own?

In the end, Angela’s real crime wasn’t underpaying Pollen Duty. It was daring to believe that a working-class bee could ever make a difference.

Richard Lice: The Parliamentary Louse

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A head louse. Not Politicus opportunistus, but one found on many heads © NHS

If one were to peer through a microscope at Politicus opportunistus, one might encounter a particularly well-adapted specimen clinging to the body politic: the louse known as Richard Lice MP.

Once a denizen of Mayfair boardrooms, this particular parasite is distinguished by its curious migration habits. Unlike ordinary lice, which remain close to the scalp, Lice has long preferred to live offshore – Dubai, for instance, a climate perfectly suited for those who enjoy a low-tax habitat. While ordinary citizens are left scratching their heads at rising bills, this desert-dwelling specimen thrives, feasting on tax arrangements as complex as its host is complacent.

In Parliament, he scuttles around the Reform UK Ltd benches, declaring that Britain has been sucked dry – a daft complaint, given his own parasitic relationship with the nation’s tax base. He speaks of national pride while ensuring he feeds off the nation’s purse. And from his sunlit cranium in the Emirates, Lice likes to lecture on sovereignty, patriotism, and “taking back control.” Control, it seems, is easier to take back when one’s wealth is neatly tucked away somewhere the Inland Revenue can’t quite reach.

Most hypocritical of all, for a creature whose very survival depends on clinging, Lice is obsessed with railing against “invasions.” Lice, after all, are notoriously territorial – forever panicked that another insect might colonise the scalp. Our Dubai-dwelling louse demands that Britain “stop the boats” lest another foreign irritant drifts ashore, all the while wagging a moralising antenna as if devotion to a patch of hair were a noble principle rather than the most basic survival instinct. He has even gone so far as to suggest leaving the European Convention on Hirsute Rights.

One might almost admire the consistency: Richard Lice is against immigration unless it’s his own; against parasites unless he is the one feasting; against tax unless someone else is paying it. He is, in short, the perfect political louse: difficult to dislodge, endlessly irritating, and always just out of reach of a comb.

Like all lice, Politicus opportunistus is difficult to shift once it’s attached. Researchers note that the louse’s call is shrill, repetitive, and almost indistinguishable from that of its closest cousin, Faragius brexitus. There is an ongoing debate among entomologists as to whether these lice actually believe the things they say, or whether they simply feed off whatever scalp happens to be nearest. Either way, they remain well adapted to the UK political ecosystem, where parasitism is not merely tolerated but positively rewarded with airtime on the BBC and GB News.

Truss the PopCon gnat

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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.

Political Wriggling

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In a wheelie bin in Lydd, there lives a rather odd maggot named Nigel Fraaage. Nigel is no ordinary maggot; he has 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 is as boundless as the landfill he calls home.

Nigel has a talent for convincing other maggots that the best way to address their problems is to blame it all on the bluebottles. “Those flies are taking away our opportunities to feast on the rubbish of our choice!” he exclaims, his maggoty followers nodding in agreement, utterly oblivious to their own inevitable transformation into flies.

Fraaage’s rise to prominence is fuelled by his ability to tap into the fears and insecurities of his fellow larvae. He promises them a utopia where they can freely devour whatever putrid thoughts they desire without interference from insects in the ‘Woke Brigade’. His rallying cry echos through the compost bin: “Let’s Make Garbage Great!”

His uncharismatic speeches are 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 proposes 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 gains popularity, he attracts a swarm of loyal supporters who hang on to his every wriggle. They proudly don “Reform the Compost Bin” t-shirts and wave 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 are.

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.

As Nigel wriggles back into the spotlight 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.

COPOUT28

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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.

Sycophants

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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.

A political cockroach

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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?

Squashed

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Asian hornet Vespa velutina (photo taken from the BBC website)

Well, she has finally gone. Suella, the Asian hornet, has been unceremoniously squashed and evicted from her throne as Home Secretary. She inspired hate everywhere she flew. Her ability to spread discord was truly remarkable, as if she had a personal vendetta against harmony, whether it was immigration, law enforcement, or lifestyle. Her droning had a way of making insects feel like they were caught in a spider’s web, unable to escape her stinging rhetoric. Her tenure was like a never-ending summer of discontent, marked by controversy and her incessant buzzing as a right-winged provocateur. And let’s not forget, she is also guilty of the mass murder of honey bees.

Suella had a talent for poisoning the reputation of everything she touched. Migrant moths, who fluttered over the Channel to escape the changing climate, were treated like pests; homeless bees, merely pursuing a cleptoparasitic lifestyle, were shamelessly portrayed as freeloaders; insects who needed to metamorphose were vilified and described as ‘woke’; and all the creatures who gathered en masse to protest against insecticide use were classified as hate marchers.

Beewolf Philanthus triangulum with honey bee

But the right-winged drama hasn’t gone away. The ‘patriotic’ Tory beewolves, ironically immigrants themselves, are slowly establishing themselves in the country, digging their nests in amongst the democratic mining bee neighbourhoods and also quietly wiping out the local honey bee population. And the honey bees, who are already swarming with anxiety over the new King bees’ grand plan to trim down the monarchy and have fewer hives, are nervously buzzing about extinction. Suella might have been squashed for this year, but the threat is still there…

At least the dragonflies can celebrate as they wave good riddance to the sewage spiller Thérèse Coffey.

Information about Asian hornets here.

Hopping mad!

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Sand hopper – Talitrus saltator

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.

Electing the next leader

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Beetles candidates 2

Candidates for the leadership

Well that was that. Squashed at the General Election. For the fourth time. The beetles, blinded by their dogmatic approach to intellectual thought and idealism, are wondering why they lost. Could it be that Jeremy, a weevil with a lot of baggage having spent his life voting against the allotment, was utterly useless and had no idea about leadership? Or maybe the strategy was all wrong – the beetles, in their enthusiasm of offering everyone everything for free, were incoherent and had total disregard for the scepticism amongst the other insects who felt their policies were just not credible. And instead of taking responsibility for losing the election they are blaming the wasps’ propaganda machine and ridiculing the bugs and bees for having the audacity to vote for someone else. Admittedly the wasps out-buzzed everyone, being an insect that nests together rather than a bunch of disparate beetles. The weevils had a real chance and blew it, dashing the hopes of half the allotment and consigning it to a dystopian future. So some soul searching and that old trope lessons have to be learned is being rolled out. Yet again.

Now they are scurrying around looking for a new leader. Do they elect another weevil in the image of Jeremy, or a different species? There are plenty of them willing to throw their antennae into the ring. Some suggest the legally competent black-spotted longhorn beetle. He certainly has gravitas but is hinting at a slight move to the centre ground. Others want a ladybird, preferably with a northern reach. Could a media-savvy flower beetle have a chance? Potentially yes, as it is popular with the bees, flies and butterflies sharing the same habitat and these are the voters the beetles need. And many want a dung beetle who has spent a lifetime shovelling shit and has actual experience of what it is like to be working class.

They certainly don’t want the stag beetle who won 3 elections, took the allotment into an illegal war, and is now an endangered species.

In the meantime the allotment will be dug up, sold off and paved over with expensive housing for humans.

For the many…

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Figwort weevil_9917

Figwort weevil (Cionus scrophulariae)

This is Jeremy. He has the weight of the world on his shoulders, on a leaf-edge at the possibility of winning a General Election. He’s a small beetle up against the Tory wasps who feel they have a God-given right to rule the allotment. He was unexpectedly voted in as leader by a committee of momentum beetles who realised this maverick backbench weevil might actually be their ticket to power.

His plans for the allotment are simple: organic planting for the many insects who have suffered for years from the effects of insecticide, public owned plots and free compost for all. He wants state ownership of the old logs and leaves left lying around to rot for the essential mulch munching woodlouse workers, the nationalisation of pollen and a ban on the building of privately-owned insect hotels for the privileged few.

Every insect will be considered in his manifesto. Sustainable aphid farms for ants, higher taxes for corporate honeybee hives, the scrapping of homogeneous flower banks and adequate welfare for winter hibernation. There will be protection of sap-sucking rights for bugs, squatter rights for nomad bees, and the right to self-identify as both a caterpillar and a butterfly.

Campaigning hasn’t been easy. The wasps, led by a rather toxic individual, have been very noisy, swarming around the allotment buzzing ‘Get Wexit Done’ and lying about absolutely everything. Their manifesto is based on stinging all the insects and privatising the fruit and vegetable crops so only they can reap the rewards and screw everyone else.

Yet the vote is split amongst the other insects – some view Jeremy as a natural campaigner for those at the bottom of the food chain, others see him as a pest for munching through all the vegetables and upsetting the status quo. The flies quite like the idea of having a share of the fruit with the wasps. The solitary bees, set to benefit from the new proposals, are conflicted as they can get rich on all the pollen in the allotment and are considering setting up a more liberal party and going into coalition with the other key pollinators the hoverflies. Even the beetles, historically loyal to their own kind, are rebelling against a socialist weevil takeover.

But it is winter and most insects are hibernating. It might only be the flies and woodlice at the ballot box. Whatever happens it will be interesting.

 

Boris the brown-tail moth

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Brown-tail moth

Brown-tail moth (Euproctis chrysorrhoea)

This is Boris the brown-tail moth. Don’t be fooled by his buffoonish appearance – his children by many mothers cause havoc by decimating our hedgerows and trees, destroying our public services and dismantling the social fabric of our country.  Found mainly in the conservative southern England constituencies, the oven-ready eggs, laid in batches, hatch into hairy caterpillars who weave webs of lies and deceit, their hairs causing intense irritation and rashes for anyone who comes into contact with them. In urban slang ‘brown tail’ means to have a shit. I fear Boris will brown tail all over us if he gets elected.

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Brown-tail moth caterpillars

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Buggered off

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Its the middle of July and Warwick Gardens is looking a bit worse for wear, reflecting the vibe of the country after voting to leave the EU. The foxes have flattened the foliage; the bindweed, with their delicate white trumpet flowers a foil for the hidden intentions of domination, has spread insidiously over the nettles and brambles suppressing any hope of freedom of growth; and the daisies are looking a bit weary with having to regrow after being constantly mowed down. The yarrow, hoping to host their annual festival of pollen and nectar, have popped up in an empty venue.

Red capsid bug

Red capsid bug creeping around

Last year this place was buzzing. It was noisy and full of life – a showcase of the sheer diversity of invertebrates in the park. But it seems that this year is one festival too many; the insects are preferring a more boutique ‘meadow-style’ festival offering a mélange of flowers and a more discerning flavour of nectar, sown especially to add colour and variety to bland parks. Everything is really quiet. The Roesel’s bush-crickets, normally hired to chirrup up business, chose to leave the park believing it was overrun with migrant species, a cynical lie perpetrated by unscrupulous anti-orthopterists; and the remaining grasshoppers have gone on strike, aghast that the crickets were lied to. The flies, patriotic and always up for a fight, are flitting around making nuisance for the non-natives. A few red capsid bugs are creeping around, anxious not to be mistaken for a Pokémon Go character, but all the while wishing that they could be found and appreciated as a real living thing. Even the mirid bugs got bored waiting for the party to start and just buggered off. And the weather hasn’t helped. A dull wet spring and cool temperatures have exacerbated and confused many residents about when and where to start a family. Its like nobody cares, exhausted at the changes around them.

The mottled shield bugs have had their lilac habitat ripped away by someone ‘wanting a better view of the park’, and having arrived in Peckham only a few years ago feel rather rejected. The hawthorn shield bugs, with their brightly coloured coats of majesty, have had their ancestral home savaged by cuts, the lower branches lopped off to make it cheaper to maintain. And the parent bugs and birch catkin bugs got ousted from their favourite independent tree in the multi-species part of the park, chopped down by someone ‘wanting more light in their garden’. They had to relocate to the big corporate birch trees on the other side of the park. Unfortunately it seems they didn’t ‘fit in’ as they have disappeared, leaving the planthoppers with no one to play with. Or, as this is the main constituency of the rather moderate birch shield bug, maybe the birch catkin bugs, with their left-wing ideals about ‘rights to live on the same tree – we share the same host plant’, were viewed as a threat to the stability of the community, fuelled by pedantic catkin politics, forcing a campaign to stop them taking over.

Common green shield bug nymph

Common green shield bug nymph – the only shield bug in the park

At least the green shield bugs, the hard-working bugs of the park with no obvious affiliation to any plant, are holding on. Those green shield bugs who everyone knows so well that they are prefixed with ‘common’ and generally taken for granted by the conservationists. The bugs who spend their days dutifully sap-supping, impervious to the strange weather we are having, almost neglected until someone prods them too far and they revert to their chav name of ‘stink’bug’. How long before they realise they are the only prey for the bigger enemy – the solitary wasps with a taste for shield bug nymphs on the hunt to stock their nests with the fattest, juiciest specimens to feed their offspring.