Guest Blogger - Aunty Marianne

And so as the velvet curtains part, an unlikely superhero steps forward - ladies, gentlemen and gathered woodland creatures, respect for todays guest speaker, the one, the only Aunty Marianne

Gather round, my children, for in today’s lesson, I would wax lyrical upon the subject of wine. (Wine encourages lyrical waxation, and luxuriation, which is why one waxes, for how can one luxuriate unwaxed?).

Let us start by considering wine in relation to beer. Beer is what the solitary male drinks to drown his loneliness, the fuel of youthful confrontation that turns to riot, and when it sours it is the poison that vandalises things and souls. As it itself turns to belly fat, it turns the sportsman into a mere spectator. It deceives so that the night’s new-found true-found love becomes the morning’s despair. Beer can be made in four days from pillaged grain in a jerrycan strapped to the back of a rebel’s jeep. It is a drink of the transient, a drink of the unrooted, a drink of the unhomed. It is a drink that requires no society either for its making or for its consumption, a drink discovered in the days before civilisation even began.

The grapevine, however, has been bred over centuries to provide the best wines. It must be planted on undisputed land, for it takes six or seven years to start producing sufficient fruit for winemaking. Its fruit must then be trampled and its juice bottled in a joyous work in which the whole village takes part. Then the barrels are left to quietly mature, undisturbed by conflict, and then the village bottles the wine, and then it is laid down to mature again. A wine will tell you, as it crosses your tongue, what aromas and savours it longs to be enjoyed with. And that enjoyment in turn brings families and friends and old adversaries around tables to eat and drink and make merry and forgive, forgive. The Romans used it to clean wounds, it heals and protects from heart disease and cancer, and aids digestion. It is not for drinking alone: wine is the drink a man shares in anticipation with his lover, that he lays down for his childrens’ weddings the day they are born, and in which he warms hands and hearts with old friends when it is the pleasure that remains in the wintry sun of their lives.

And this is why, if we wish for peace in our hearts, peace in our lives, peace in our time, we should all drink as much wine as we like. Amen.

Here endeth the lesson.

*Bows gracefully and offers her a glass of finest bordeaux*

Guest Blogger - Frederic the Fox

Cunning As a Fox

So, as I stealthily weigh up the pros and cons of *looks left and right* approaching the chicks, I've gone a little fuzzy. It's this new 'badger-aroma' shampoo that's playing havoc with my furry bits. It looked ok on the advert on Fox TV, was even endorsed by Sir Michael J of Fox before he went back to the future, past, present - oh, I don't bloody know. He went somewhere with a nutty professor. Anyway, I have to get back to reality and become a little smoother.

Humans are a curious lot *grins in a foxy fashion*. As I spend my time on night patrol, I peer in through the windows and I see the strangest of things. The antics they get up to can at best be described as weird and at worst, well, positively bizarre. They don't seem to have the mating game sorted out at all. Just when you think they're going to get funky, they run away shouting, well panting more, "upstairs - now". I don't know what a stair is but... I mean what's the point of all that nuzzling if they never get round to the best bit? I think they could definitely use some lessons in the finer arts of poking.

At least the toffee nosed twits in the UK have been banned from hunting me now, which is only right - #TA DAAA# *runs for cover out of habit*

*peering round corner whispering* "Is it safe to come out yet?" - eek! must sound like George Michael in a public toilet. Ok, it's safe now. So the point is, I have this cunning behaviour label to live up to. Friends say to me "You're as cunning as a fox" to which I can only reply, "Well, thanks but I am actually a fox". It's difficult to imagine being foxy if you're human I suppose but to me it's first nature. Even the one true human god, El Hendrix did a number called 'Foxy Lady'.

I've taken quite an interest in sports - although I don't really know what the different ones are but, I should announce my affiliation to a team whose name involves foxes or cubs?, that's the correct way? *licks paws while thinking*. That could be any of those teams where they play fetch with the ball instead of the stick - where one human throws a ball, another twats it with a stick and the remaining humans run around in circles. I guess I'll support any suitable team like redskins, cubs, bears, foxes. Do they have Fox Beckham playing for them? I used to get a lot of nice scraps round their place. I miss that little rascal. Don't miss his wife - the twiglet, you can keep - all that Spice Grrrrls salad NO thank you. Do I look like a rabbit? No I bloody well don't, but I do like to eat them. And all that yapping about going to make it big in hollywood, hollywood is just so shallow they just might fall for it.

I used to watch TV whilst dining on those buckets of chicken they used to throw out. There was a lot of the X-Files on, which was nice as there was the ultimate fox, Fox Mulder. Not only did he get to bonk Scully and make her pregnant, he went on to get kidnapped by aliens - got away, taken by death - got away, couldn't act - got away with it. Jeez, the boy was Teflon Man (Non-stick in a greasy world). Oops, perhaps I've blown his cover now. The truth is out there - #widdly widdly woo - da da da da dee da#

Well, logically if Mulder can do it, it must be my turn at the trough of love?!!! It would be nice to have a fox-lette to curl up next to. To share a nice chicken dinner, poach a few eggs, take the piss out of a farmer and run off into the night. Spread a little love and maybe even make a few baby foxes with - hell, I've got a few years left to practice so I'm not getting hitched just yet. *cowers down*


"It's ok dude - only me" *Frederic rises again* "thanks for stopping by and sharing". "No problem Gothic One, it was Horace that wee-mailed me to say what you were doing and I had to participate". "Thankyou kindly young sir, and have a nice day". *Pats his new friend and leaves the room*

Guest Blogger - Seymour Squirrel

Eek - Been Caught Squirrelling

Horace the Hedgehog, my buddy and I might add, Best-Mammal at my wedding, wee-mailed me to say that the Gothic one was hosting guest blogs. At first, I thought I mis-sniffed it and so wee-mailed him back asking what in the trees was a log? When I smelt his reply I thought I would give it a go and try and explain a squirrels point of view.

My main activity is to stash things until the day that I may actually use them. Mrs S actually gets rather pissed off with this behaviour. It's not so much that she minds piles of useless crap littering up the place, more that when she wants to tidy the drey up she says "It's ok if I give this away to the RSPCS (Rural Society for the Prevention of Cluttering Squirrels)?". I get indignant and thus my slightly whingeing reply "But I might need that" - that's what really makes her fur stand on end.

This is quite clearly a most ridiculous statement as my chances of using said item in the near future are right up there in likelihood with my chances of arse-kicking a doberman and living to tell the tale. I'm not even sure where half the stuff I stashed is. I put it in such a safe place, so secure that no one could ever take it away that even I can't find it now - DOH *slaps tiny paw against head*.

Today was another busy day at the orifice, searching for acorns - yes, I know it's a squirrels life but I wish there could be a Squirrelsbury acornmarket and I could nip in and pick up what I needed. It would be quicker but, instead I have to spend my days hopping around, hoping to hit the jackpot.

When I have a surplus, I like to take time off and go 'badger-baiting'. I like 'badger baiting' - it's great fun. If you've never done it, I'll explain the rules. Find a suitable vantage point (trees are best really), ensure you have a sufficient supply of acorns and wait. When a badger appears, take aim and POP - right in the back of the head.

Suddenly confused badger (they're not the most intelligent of creatures) will turn around snarling to find no-one there. Thinking it was their imagination they will continue to forage when POP "Yes - another direct hit". Grrrrrr, still no-one there. Now for the twat-trick. On the third direct hit and the inevitable Grrrr you have to adopt a really deep voice and boom down from the tree "This is the voice of your conscience speaking". At this point the Grrrr should turn into a terrified whimper. "You are an evil badger, the faces of your ancestors will haunt you until you make reparation".

At this point, the badger should scarper with it's tale between it's legs - it really is jolly good fun.

Anyway, after that it's back home to Mrs S and the little ones for a nice piece of acorn roast. Then it's time to tell the little ones some tales, mostly bushy tails, but effective at putting them to sleep. Papa S's adventures in Citysville is always popular (although I do cheat somewhat on the details about take-away food).

I must confess, whilst I am talking openly, that I still get jolly excited when I see a large bushy tail on some sexy young fox in the woods - although I have a preferance for the more exotic red squirrelettes rather than the more common grey squirelettes.

I believe that the grey family came over from a distant place called Merry-Can. I wouldn't have a clue where that is as I'm not much of a traveller. Having said all this, I wouldn't cheat on Mrs S - she has this lovely little squirrel snore when she's contented and sleeping. It's so peaceful it puts me to sleep and I dream of being in a wood full of oak trees where the sun glints off all the fat acorns lying there waiting to be eaten. Before you can say eek, it's morning.

Then it's time for breakfast and the daily banter we share in the morning "don't talk with your mouthful dear" - "ha ha - just because you've got three acorns in there, no need to show off". Then it's time to pack the little ones pouches and take them to Nutwood Academia before I head off for another day at the orifice.

Thanks Seymour and thanks to Horace for wee-mailing this. Any chance you could pass the request on to Bernard, Pattie and Arthur please?

Kind regards and thankyou for your time - El Goth.

Guest Blogger - Horace Hedgehog

All in all, I can't complain about life as a hedgehog. Wandering around, mainly at night as it is far more preferable than during the day, eating out most of the time and sleeping when I feel like it. Granted, if someone tries to poke me, the sharp points come out on display and hopefully, with a pricked ego they piss off like a burst balloon. Although I keep myself in shape with plenty of exercise and trying to eat healthily it's an absolute bugger trying to find something in my size.

The only other thing I can truly complain about is sex. That can be a truly traumatic experience. Pain in the arse doesn't come close - well, that's not entirely true but, when faced with a prickly female, the obvious temptation is to say "bugger this for a game of mammals" and to head off with the lads to have a few 'snifters' instead. I'm not sure exactly what raises females hackles to such an extent but I can be positive about two things. It will be my fault (even if I'm not there - kind of like remote control irritation) and even if, as is sometimes true, it is actually my fault, by the time I realise it, it's too late.

It was so much easier as a youngster rather than the 'full grown pig' I get called now. Back then, us youngters would go out, have fun, roll around in the mud and get chastised when we returned. The main thing to remember was to never give a straight answer - being asked the question, rather obvious I felt anyway, "Oh my nerves - you look like you've gone through a hedge backwards". Silly question really as I was covered in mud and twigs everywhere. No answer was the best answer.

Now in adulthood, getting faced with a similarly silly question like "You've been out all night, where have you been?" cannot be met with a stonewalling silence. Similarly, the older males become very territorial if you are in their prescence with a better head of hair or a better coat. "Piss off out of here you prickless wonder". Amazed, I wonder whether to reply that at least mine is straight but as I quite like the shape of my nose as it is, retreat seems more intelligent. Not as if she was worth it anyway - didn't look like she was up to suckling anyway.

So I carry on my way, checking carefully before attempting to cross the road - as I was brought up. I've seen the dangers that ensue if you don't follow that simple rule. Thanks for the platform Goth Master.

Best Regards,
Guest Hogger

No problemo HH - if you logged in expecting my usual lunacy, I apologise, but I applaud HH's efforts. Normal service will be resumed tomorrow :-)

ps for bible tales, vote now -> Samson & Delilah (A), John the Baptist (B) or Moses (C)