An everyday story of badgers, Teesdale Mercury

An everyday story of badgers

May 27, 2008

THE onset of spring has set the hedgerows a-bustling; the rivers and streams are rippling with new life; the flower beds bursting with green shoots. All is developing, opening. Nests are full, blossom is everywhere. Animals have shaken off their sloth and are scurrying about, building homes and seeking mates. It's probably just as well, because there are plenty of maniacs around trying their best to blow them to pieces.

 As I strode out yesterday at 5.30am for my customary eight-mile walk before diving into the Tees for an invigorating swim and thrashing myself with birch twigs, I chanced upon a very rare sight in nature: a talking badger.  

He introduced himself as Darryl - "But you can call me Daz," he added. Somewhat taken aback by his self-assurance, I mumbled a reply.  "Ain't seen yer down these parts before," he confided. "It gets a bit quiet sometimes, so it's nice to have a chat. To tell you the truth, I ain't been feeling too good just lately."  

Then he coughed. "It's this damn TB," he said, gasping. "You might think I get through too many fags, but it ain't that. I caught it off them blasted cows over yonder. Us badgers is a bit cheesed off about these immigrants. They come in here from the Frisian islands with their daft German accents, they take our fields, have too many calves, get the best vet treatment and us locals get nowt.  

"I'm tellin' yer that quite a lot of us is thinking of voting BNP (Badgers National Party) next time.  And as for farmers, well they've let us down big style. We used to nip up to the farmhouse of a night time to have us photos taken nicking stuff out of the dustbins, but now, if we as much as put a paw in the place, KAPOW, you get yer 'ead blown off. 

"The Germans are bad cows, but the Scottish ones are even worse. Them black ones called Angus are the worst. They all hang around after football matches and make trouble.  

"And nobody can tell a word they're saying. I'm telling yer, if it was left to me I'd chuck the lot out, no messing.  Mind you, I tend to see things in black and white, being a badger. I'm a loyal Newcastle supporter, which comes in handy, ‘cos I don't have to buy a team shirt. Most of us badgers is fer the Toon Army. 

"I were talking to Dwayne, the pheasant as lives down by the phone box, and he told me he was a Mackem man. Typical - he's as thick as a brick that one. I always knew pheasants had no brains, but to support Sunderland, well that sort of proves me point, don't yer think?"

 Daz had a good scratch and cough before offering to take me around the fields. I followed him along the footpath and we stopped to chat with Jason, the stoat. Jason felt the country was going to the dogs. 

"Have yer seen the price of mice?" he asked indignantly.  I replied that I thought he would have caught them himself for free. "Nah, can't be done, squire," came his riposte. "I'm on incapacity  - haven't worked fer years. I suffer really bad with me nerves, so I rely on the Meals on Wheels and they keep puttin' the prices up. I mean, look at this week's menu. Braised mouse in slug sauce. 

"I'd gladly have just plain mouse without the gourmet bit if it'd keep prices down."

As we left, Jason said he felt a depression coming on, so we kept our farewells fairly brief.

Reaching the big field, we were confronted by a large Aberdeen Angus beast. "On yir way, ye disease- ridden  Geordie git, or ye'll feel mah hoof up yir kilt," said Hamish, before crumpling up a Tennants lager tin and belching loudly.

Daz was a bit put out. "Teesdale for the Teesdalians. Get back to Scotland."

Hamish snorted a bit then told Daz to watch out, because he'd heard that all the badgers were going to get well and truly sorted out. "Then it'll be just cows as far as the eye can see and no lousy little coughing badgers anywhere, the noo." 

Daz thought for a moment then asked Hamish what he thought his own future might be. "Och, a peaceful old age, surrounded by the family, and nay badgers." 

"Well, actually, you're going to get eaten."

"Dinnae be ridiculous, ye sonsy pintle," said Hamish, quoting Burns. "The farmer is my wee friend. He wouldnay do a thing like that."

"Wanna bet?" asked Daz, before beating a surreptitious retreat. He said he'd walk to the village with me, because he wanted to send off the submission he'd written on behalf of Durham badgers to the European Court of Animal Rights. 

"I'll just nip down the sett and collect it. It's our last hope."  We walked along together and he noticed that I fell quiet.  

"What's up, pal?," he asked. I told him I just couldn't bring myself to say, because I'd taken a real shine to him and didn't want to break his little badgery heart. No, he insisted, he wanted to be told.

"Well,it's just...well....I'm afraid the Post Office closed last week."

"That's the last blasted straw, the one that breaks the badger's back," said Darryl, a large tear falling down his stripey face. He turned and left me, dropping his envelope on the grass. As he shuffled sadly away, he gave a final, despairing cough.

First published in the Mercury, May 21. 2008