Dozing on a post-bank holiday Tuesday morning and desperate to stay in bed for 5 more minutes, the incessant buzzing of his girlfriend’s phone was driving the man mad.
Eventually, wondering why the buzzing was now near his feet the man was forced to open his eyes. To his horror he discovered, in fact, that the cacophonous buzzing was not a from a phone. No. Instead it was the sound of huge wasp, attempting to find an entrance to the bed, buffeting against the duvet right by his feet.
The man reacted calmly at first, whimpering a manly ‘oh no, no, please go away’, before springing out of bed and searching for a weapon. A DVD case plucked from beneath the television was wafted with sleepy vigour in the vague direction of the wasp, who seemed surprised to find himself under attack.
With the wasp now angered, quickly the attack turned. Sleep still clouding the man’s judgement, aim and general coordination, his wafting had served only as bait. The wasp flew upwards, before plunging down towards his assailant, sting prepared, and narrowly missed the man’s face as he flew past. The flailing DVD made little difference.
Again and again this happened, while the man’s girlfriend continued to doze beneath the duvet, unaware of the raging battle being fought on her behalf.
Eventually, after many passes, the wasp retreated to a safe place, high in the eaves, out of reach of the man and his DVD case. But the man was determined to emerge victorious and his attack redoubled, as he threw socks at the wasp. At length he was knocked from his perch, triggering another bout of dive-bombing. The fight was evenly matched, as the wasp bombed and the man flailed bravely, and still the wasp survived.
Over time, this became too much for the man’s girlfriend, who, from the safety of her duvet, began to laugh at the spectacle before her as the wasp returned to its perch, out of reach. The man, undeterred, and not at all frightened, immediately headed for Sainsbury’s. At 7.01am, he purchased the pesticide that would seal the wasp’s fate.
Returning to the bedroom, clad in his chosen outfit of pyjama shorts, high-top trainers and leather jacket, the man finally gained the upper hand, spraying the wasp for several minutes, foaming fly spray on the floor, and saving his girlfriend from a terrible fate.
What a hero.
In the past few weeks I’ve come across several articles in national newspapers highlighting the terrible plight of female models. Striving to maintain their size zero frames to fit the demands of casting directors and designers, who demand ever skinnier models, it seems many are even resorting to tissue paper to stave off their hunger pangs. Alongside stories of drug and alcohol abuse, it makes for powerful and upsetting reading.
But I feel duty bound to highlight that it isn’t just women who are expected to subject themselves to bizarre and often dangerous practices in order to look good on the pages of magazines.