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 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.
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